A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1) (33 page)

His veins were filled with molten lead and a spasm shook his body. His head dropped down to rest on Ashurek’s chest, while one arm stretched out rigid into the air behind him, the flesh bleached to snow in the lamplight.

‘How can he carry this thing?’ he thought. And as he knelt there, shaken with horror, he forgot the words of the summoning. Yet in spite of this – as if drawn by the rhythm of Ashurek’s heartbeat – a demon appeared.

Meheg-Ba stood smiling down on the sleeping Prince, the second figure crouched over him like a vampire.

‘Karadrek,’ it said. ‘You called me, through the power of the Egg-Stone and in Meshurek’s name. A clever move, as it means I cannot possess you. What do you want?’

‘I do this for Meshurek,’ gasped Karadrek, paralysed in position. ‘I fear Ashurek will make a fool of himself and of the Gorethrian army.’ He explained the agreement with the Drishian.

‘I see,’ said Meheg-Ba, uttering a hissing laugh. ‘Then let us ensure that only Ashurek is made a fool of, eh?’

Then Karadrek shakily stood up, and he and the silver demon went into the Drishian camp and wreaked their terrible work.

The Drishian leader was brought before Ashurek in the city’s shining main street the next day. He stood as proudly as before, but he rested on crutches and one foot had been replaced by a bandaged, bloody stump. His face was wrought with pain.

‘Your Imperial Highness, all the Drishians are lame, or crippled, or blinded.’

Ashurek heard Karadrek, at his side, draw in a soft, smug breath. Anger flowed through him. ‘What miserable cowards you have proved yourselves – to betray an agreement and maim yourselves sooner than fight? Was not a simple surrender easy enough, or would you have Dasheb do your fighting for you? Get you all gone over the hills – the wretched cowardice of Drish won’t be forgotten.’ He made to turn away, but the man stopped him.

‘Wait, Your Highness – we did not betray the agreement, and we did not maim ourselves.’ Red tears of anger and sorrow flowed from his eyes as he spoke. ‘Demons came among us – there was nothing we could do – demons, and that man there–’ he pointed a shaking hand at Karadrek.

The General was quick with a convincing denial, but not quick enough, for Ashurek had glimpsed the brief unguarded guilt on the face of his second-in-command. And he knew there had been something sinister in his unnaturally heavy sleep the previous night… ‘Return to your camp,’ Ashurek said to the Drishian.

‘Yes, Your Highness. There can be no battle now. But how – how are you ever going to make amends for Gorethria’s evil work?’ He turned and limped away.

‘I did warn you,’ Karadrek said.

Not reacting, Ashurek summoned two soldiers and said, ‘General Karadrek is under arrest. Have him taken to my tent.’

‘My Prince, I don’t understand you,’ Karadrek said, smiling although he was now chained by one hand to the central tent pole. ‘It was my responsibility, I admit, but I was only trying to save Gorethria from humiliation.’

‘So Gorethria may look evil, bloodthirsty, cruel, anything but foolish?’ Ashurek said, fury smouldering in him.

‘Sir, I think you are becoming handicapped by compassion. I did it for the best.’

‘Compassion, eh? So pity has become such a dangerous thing that you must meddle, summon a demon to remove the risk? Of all the appalling things the Egg-Stone has caused, this maiming and torture of people has got to be the worst. By the Serpent, Karadrek, I’ll show you compassion.’

Horrified, Karadrek watched as his High Commander took a sword from the weapon rack. ‘Sir – I only did what the demon told me to–’

‘I know, I know. That is the problem with demons. And I know the grudge you bear me for not stealing the throne from Meshurek. How shall I maim you, Karadrek? How do you maim a power-seeker? Shall it be your foot, like the Drishian?’ He slashed at the General’s ankle. Karadrek danced like a monkey around the tentpole. ‘Or your eyes… or your tongue…’ the blade danced dangerously close to his face, and a sweat of fear ran off his forehead.

‘None of those. I’ll set you free.’ Karadrek wilted with relief, and then the sword came down and severed his chained hand.

‘It has got to stop,’ Ashurek told himself in torment, alone in the tent. The Egg-Stone lay before him on the table; and then he found himself pounding it with the flat of his sword, again and again and again, crushing it to powder.

But when he stopped it still lay there, whole, seeming to mock him. Groaning, he replaced it in its pouch.

‘It has got to stop. It will stop, now,’ he thought. ‘The senseless, bestial cruelty of the Serpent.’

And the invasion of Drish was Ashurek’s last act perpetrated for the Empire, because the next day he left the encampment, and the events that culminated in the murder of his sister and his flight across Tearn took place. But worse was still to come.

He had left his second under arrest, but with the demon’s help Karadrek escaped and took command of the battalion. And then, in one of Gorethria’s most notorious and despised acts, he had the crippled Drishians slaughtered.

Ashurek would have sought revenge; but after this Karadrek disappeared. Some said the demon had taken him, others that even his own men thought he was mad, and had murdered him.

#

‘How can I make amends?’ Ashurek asked himself. It was the following day, and he was leaning on the paddock fence behind Setrel’s cottage, watching Estarinel giving Atrel a ride on Shaell. Medrian had wandered off alone, more morose than ever. ‘Gorethria should burn, be swallowed into hell…’

At least the Empire was weakening, for the royal family had disintegrated, and there was a struggle for leadership. Ashurek was no longer concerned with what happened to his country. Now his only purpose was to fulfil Silvren’s Quest and slay that scourge of the world – the Worm M’gulfn. ‘Yet perhaps I’ve already done too much on its behalf… I brought the Egg-Stone into the world, and banished the Earth’s hope – Miril. Perhaps it’s too late, because of what I’ve done.’

He felt a gentle tugging at his sleeve, and roused himself from his thoughts to find Setrel’s daughter, Seytra, looking shyly up at him.

‘Is it true,’ she said, ‘are you really Prince Ashurek?’

‘Yes, I am,’ he replied. ‘And do you spend much time listening at doors when you should be asleep?’

She lowered her head, cheeks reddening. ‘I heard everything you and my father said. It’s all right, we know all about the war anyway. We learned about Gorethria at school. Is the Empire really like they say, with lots of mysterious countries, and people with blue and black and purple skins, and strange animals?’

‘Yes,’ he answered gravely. ‘It is a weird and colourful continent, more so than Tearn.’

‘And what about the fierce Vardravian warriors bravely struggling against the dark Gorethrian forces?’ She swallowed. ‘That's what the history book said, anyway. I think Tearnians are pathetic, compared to that.’

‘Seytra, Tearnians are not “pathetic”, as you say, only different. There was fighting all the time in the Empire, but there was nothing romantic or exciting in it – just senseless bloodshed. Do you understand?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said hesitantly. ‘You’re different to how I would have expected.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘Well,’ Seytra was almost whispering now. ‘They made you sound like this invincible monster. I thought you’d be fierce and terrifying, swinging a sword everywhere. But you’re really quiet and er… sort of heroic.’

‘Perhaps I seem as you want me to,’ said Ashurek. Seytra shook her head vehemently.

‘I heard all about demons, and sorcery, and that you loved a golden-haired sorceress–’ she glanced up at him, eyes shining. ‘I want to be a sorceress too, but – I’m afraid I’ll never be able to. Can I tell you something that I’ve never told anyone?’

‘Yes,’ Ashurek sighed.

‘When my parents are there, my brother and I dance and sing and pretend nothing is happening. On my own, though, I have nightmares: corpses walk down into the village and kill my parents and us, and then we all go walking, killing our friends–’ she started to tremble, struggling not to cry. ‘I’m frightened. Please, can’t you help us?’

The plea burst from her, and her eyes were a well of hope and desperation. Sadly he placed a hand on her thin shoulder. ‘Seytra, I can’t promise anything.’

‘Everyone here seems so helpless, but you seem stronger. Oh please, there must be something you can do?’

Yes, there must be something, Ashurek thought. He said, ‘Go across and talk to Estarinel, you’ll find him a more cheery companion than me.’

‘All right,’ said Seytra, hanging her head. Then she lifted her chin, determined to make a show of bravery. ‘My brother rides like a sack of turnips. I’ll show him.’

Later that day, Setrel returned from his Long Table council, seeming disheartened. At the meeting had been army leaders and officials from all over the country – the people who formed Excarith’s government.

‘We haven’t long,’ he said to the three guests and to his wife. ‘They’ve received another message in Mardrathern, our capital. It said, “Expect the crows soon. When you see them, you will have two days to prepare. Fight or surrender or hide, it will make no difference. You will all be slain, and you will all become my slaves.”’

Ayla gave a gasp and Setrel said, ‘Sorry, my dear. They’ve only been able to recruit twenty more nemen mercenaries. Twenty! They’ve heard what’s happening here and won’t come.’

‘Come and eat. We’ll need the strength,’ Ayla said with comforting if banal practicality.

‘Yes, and afterwards,’ Setrel said, ‘I would like the three of you to ride down to the river with me. There’s something I wish to show you.’

After a meal, they rode through pleasant countryside. The sun threw down cloud-softened shafts of light, and trees covered the hills in a green and gold mist. They rode through the encampment of the country’s own army; a vast maze of tents. The air was filled with the bitter smoke and flying carbon particles of many fires; the sound of voices, shouting and laughing, the clangour of a steel-smith at work. There were a few pack animals, but Excarith had no war horses.

On the look-out peak of the encampment, they could see for miles northwards. The landscape was streaked with layers of mist, touched with lilac, blue and rose from the sun. The river that curled across the valley floor was shining mercury.

They continued the ride down into the valley until they came to a cluster of cottages and inns that formed a small river port. The natural flat bank of the river formed a quay to serve the small fishing trade.

Setrel reined in his chestnut roan cob at the water’s edge. ‘You told me that you needed to reach Forluin. This river leads out into the Western Ocean, and it is a broad and good waterway.’ He led them at a brisk canter round a bend in the river, to a small bay where two fishing boats and a ship were moored in front of a shipyard that was set back on the bank.

‘See that little ship?’ It was a beautiful vessel indeed, larger than
The Star of Filmoriel
, trim and strongly built, and gilded with designs of red, gold, and blue. ‘If you can find a way, any way, to help us, she is yours, and a crew to sail her, and anything else you ask. I’m afraid this may sound like a bribe, but I mean to show you that you will be repaid. And if the prophecy is hollow, well… you might as well take the ship anyway, who am I to deny you that?’ Setrel sighed, sounding deeply sad. ‘The odds are against us, but we will not surrender. With our own army and the army of nemen we’ll stand till the last of us is felled.’

Ashurek stared at the ship as if gazing straight through it. Then he looked round at the Elder.

‘I know Gastada and I know the Shana, and there is one plan only which may defeat your enemy. It is something that I swore I would never do again; but necromancy is the only force of this Earth by which we may achieve impossible things.’

Setrel felt his own optimistic bravery turning to cold fear as Ashurek went on. ‘It is a dark and terrible plan, but I will do it so that my dead countrymen may lie in peace, and not walk down and murder your children in their beds.’

He spoke shortly, as if bitterly regretting what he said, and when he finished he did not look at them but turned his eyes to the broken grey-and-cream sky.

As they watched, three great black crows sailed over against the clouds.

Skord was sitting up in bed the next morning, his face drawn and pale. Thanks to Setrel’s care his wits had returned, although he was by no means himself yet.

‘Are you feeling better?’ Estarinel asked as he entered the bedroom.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Skord responded. Then he frowned. ‘Why – why did you save me, after all the harm I’ve done? You should have left me to die.’

‘Nonsense,’ Estarinel replied, smiling in an attempt to cheer the boy. ‘You’re dispirited, I know, but rest and food can work wonders.’

‘A girl comes to talk to me – what is her name, Seytra? She reminds me of my sister. She would have been like that, if she’d grown up… I wonder where she is? And my parents… my father had the Plague – my fault – no, his fault – he should have died bravely in battle… but he did, didn’t he? And my mother… I deserted her. Left her alone at the farm. Oh, I must go back – I must go back now, she’ll kill herself!’

The boy’s eyes were full of confusion and fear. Estarinel saw that the memories of his lives in Drish and Belhadra were hopelessly muddled.

‘No, Skord, calm down,’ he said, pushing the boy back against the pillows. ‘It’s all right…’ but he knew nothing was all right, and any comforting words would be a lie.

‘There was a girl I was betrothed to… we were to be married when we were twenty-one – what happened to her? Ye gods – I killed her! You saw me – you watched, you didn’t try to stop me!’ Skord’s face hung with horror and he leaned back, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘I’ve lived two separate lives and now I can’t tell them apart. I don’t know who I am.’

Estarinel could almost have wept to see him. It had been easy to despise the boy when he had been the arrogant and callous messenger of the Serpent. Now Estarinel felt responsible for transforming Skord into its tragic victim.

‘You must not blame yourself,’ Setrel had said the night before when he had explained Skord’s troubles in more depth. ‘Perhaps Skord can never come to terms with his past – but without his memory, he was no better off. The price of his freedom from pain was to be without conscience… forever trying to avenge a wrong he could not remember and did not understand. Perhaps, in the end, you will have helped him.’

At this, Ashurek had stood up and walked out of the room. Estarinel had stared after him, then remembered Gorethria’s involvement in Drish. Estarinel had been so preoccupied that he had, unbelievably, put it from his mind.

‘Ashurek feels far deeper guilt than you,’ Setrel had continued quietly. ‘Yet I sense that he won’t admit it to himself. He thinks he has no conscience, but I believe he has a very high sense of responsibility, so acute that it torments him continually.’

Now, sitting with Skord, Estarinel reflected that the boy’s best chance would be to stay with Setrel. Surely the Elder’s gentle and wise counsel would eventually untangle his diverse miseries – if only Gastada did not win the war.

‘Listen, Skord,’ he said, ‘you’ve been ill, and you’re bound to feel confused. But you’re alive and here now, with a chance to start a new life. Are you going to use it?’

‘What’s the point? That thing waits outside to take me… and if She… if Arlenmia has her way, the Serpent will rule everything. Oh, I don’t want to remember who I am. It’s unbearable.’ After a minute Skord reopened his eyes and said, ‘That’s better – that’s the best. When I was in the forests with my friends, running races, climbing trees…’

Estarinel sighed to himself. Perhaps Skord could find a way to cope, by filtering out only good memories, but would he ever be really well again?

Ashurek entered and looked at Skord and Estarinel.

‘Here’s a cheerful company!’ he said. ‘We’ll be leaving tomorrow, after the start of the battle, to carry out the insane scheme. It has to be done in a dark place, well away from human habitation.’

‘I haven’t got to come with you, have I?’ Skord said, his eyes flying open.

‘I’m afraid you have, lad,’ Ashurek answered gently.

‘I can’t! I won’t set foot outside the door,’ he protested, eyes full of fear. ‘It’s waiting for me out there!’

‘Perhaps it is. But it is part of the plan to save both this country and you, so if you won’t come freely we’ll tie you up and drag you out.’ Ashurek spoke with a dangerous light in his eyes.

‘Ashurek, can’t you see how frightened he is?’ said Estarinel. ‘Let him be – he’s suffered enough.’

‘I should have stayed with Arlenmia.’ Skord shuddered. ‘I betrayed her to you… I didn’t care what I was doing. I loved her, though I always behaved as though I loathed her. I’d follow her anywhere if she only asked me… Everything I love I behave as though I hate – why do I destroy everything I love?’

Estarinel put his arm round the boy’s thin shoulders and shook him gently. ‘Don’t destroy yourself with self-pity. Things are bad for all of us. Try to find some courage.’

‘I daren’t leave the cottage,’ was all Skord would say.

That afternoon, to their surprise, the entire village launched itself into festivities, as if there were to be no dreadful battle the next day.

‘It’s tradition,’ Setrel informed them. ‘Whenever something bad happens we dance and sing, so it can always be said we faced our fate in joy, not sorrow.’

The sun touched the delicate tints of the village and glowed behind the dancing village maidens. Seytra stood out among them, a moth of white and silver. There was a large throng around the village green; women in long, full-skirted tunics of wine-red, green or cream velvet, with neck and arm ornaments of silver; men in war gear of leather and bronze; village officials in robes of state. Children shouted and sang. The festivities lasted into dark, when fires were lit and oxen roasted.

The next day, preparations for the coming battle were in full swing. Ashurek had outlined his plan to Medrian and Estarinel. Although they all had misgivings about, it seemed the only possible course of action.

The fighting did not begin that afternoon, as they had expected, but at dawn the next morning. The waiting, as Gastada must have known, increased their tension and fear a hundredfold. The three saw that, beneath the armour of calm stoicism, the people of Excarith were in deep terror. Darkness was descending upon them.

For Ashurek’s plan to be effective the three could not set off until the Dead Army came forth. The night seemed endless, full of movement and voices as soldiers prepared anxiously to fight. Medrian, Estarinel and Ashurek caparisoned themselves for war, and Setrel made them gifts of leather shields, breastplates, and heavy axes. He also gave them a glass phial filled with a pale gold powder.

‘This was one of my most important discoveries,’ the Elder explained. ‘A powder that can hold some sorcerous energies within it. If in peril, scatter it about you and it will repel evil creatures. This is how I have protected the cottage against Skord’s demon.’

‘Our thanks, Setrel,’ said Ashurek. ‘And if your cottage is so protected, your wife and children should remain inside, and lock and bar the doors.’

‘Oh no,’ Seytra broke in. ‘We can’t do that. We’re all going up to the army camp, to help the wounded men.’

‘She’s right, we have to do what we can, not cower inside,’ Ayla said with a smile. Her voice fell. ‘For every life we save… one less enemy.’

Skord appeared, also dressed and armed, looking very white.

‘You won’t have to tie me up and drag me after all,’ he said. ‘I have rallied. Are you surprised?’ There was a hint of his old mockery in the words, but not in the flat tone of his voice.

‘No, very pleased,’ said Estarinel. ‘Setrel has kindly said he’ll lend you a cob to ride out with us.’

Skord did not ask where they were going. Perhaps wisely, he preferred not to know.

Estarinel must have checked Shaell ten times, feeling down the strong, sinewy legs of the stallion, lifting his feet, checking girth and buckles over and over again. Ashurek seemed filled with impatient fiery energy, while Medrian was as emotionless as ever.

At last, as a silver net of light broke over the village, Setrel came to them and said, ‘The Dead Army is advancing. Are you ready?’

They took their leave of Ayla and the two children, who watched with quiet courage in their faces as they rode away. Seytra held her younger brother’s hand, inwardly hoping that Ashurek had taken note of her plea.

Setrel rode with them to the army encampment. As they trotted between the smoking embers of camp fires on one side and tents on the other, they saw a wounded soldier being carried to a tent.

‘When the battle is over,’ he was sobbing, ‘we have to go out and hack all the dead to pieces – hack our dead friends and brothers to pieces to stop them standing up and fighting the next day…’ he was carried out of sight under the tent flap.

‘I’ll leave you here,’ Setrel said. ‘I have much business to attend to. I must thank you for coming to me and for agreeing to help, and apologise for involving you in our sad affairs.’ He pulled at his long, silky beard. ‘I wish you every success in your mission. Of course, I hope to see you again tonight, and we shall give Skord a home while you continue your journey. And I must thank you for allowing me to record the details of your Quest.’ The previous day, they had told him who they were, and all that had befallen them. ‘Though it is not complete, it means the world shall remember what truly happened, and not create foolish myths. Yesterday I buried the document, and all my other books, so that they won’t be destroyed by Gastada. Tonight I hope I’ll be able to unearth my own books, but your record shall remain secret, until the Quest is over, for good or ill.’ Setrel’s face was grave, but a smile sparkled in his grey eyes. ‘Again, my warmest thanks, and fare you well.’

They all shook hands with him and parted, saluting.

At the lookout peak, the four riders studied the vast, flat, softly-coloured valley. They looked at the river Retherny and thought of the small ship that perhaps that very evening would be carrying them towards the sea.

About two miles north of the encampment, over several square miles of field and wood, armies manoeuvred and forayed. The fighting was patchy, and laborious and violent, due to the necessity of cutting each enemy to pieces. Over the past year the armies of men and nemen had been so pressed and disciplined by fighting against the Dead Army that against a normal army, Ashurek reflected, they would have been invincible.

Ashurek unfurled and studied the map Setrel had given him. Then they began to ride down to the yew forests that Ashurek had chosen for his plan, cutting through copses, fording streams and keeping to small, sheltered valleys. They managed to avoid the battle completely for some time.

When they had cantered steadily for about half an hour, they heard the clash of weapons and battle cries burst suddenly from a clump of trees near them.

‘Too close,’ said Ashurek. Vixata began to high-step, nostrils flaring. They drew battle axes from their belts and rode cautiously on, heading for trees ahead. For a few minutes the air quivered, soft and still, and the only sound was the thud of horses’ hooves on grass. Then the battle sounds broke out again, further away but ahead of them now.

Immediately, at this threat of danger, Medrian seemed to relax out of the cold tension that gripped her, and began to exchange a few words with Ashurek. Estarinel was quiet, brooding on the realisation that had come to him over the past few weeks.

Forluin had suffered a dreadful attack, but other countries were suffering too, in different but equally terrible ways. And perhaps it was not just Belhadra and Excarith, but every country in Tearn, and the Empire too. A half-year’s light only, before the Serpent swallows the world.

They trotted into the trees, following paths through the brown and green tangle of bushes and sun-dappled trunks. There was movement ahead and, suddenly, behind and to one side of them. They had ridden straight into a corner of the battle.

A few yards ahead they saw a dead Gorethrian plunge a sword through a neman’s belly. The neman collapsed, choking. Three more warriors came scouting through the trees, set upon the Gorethrian, and felled it, only for more of the walking corpses to appear from the trees and engage them.

From the riders’ right, a group of about ten men and corpses moved across, fighting furiously. The battle seemed to be moving into the trees, and as the riders took off for a gap in the foray, they became caught up in it.

Vixata gave a sudden leap that almost caught Ashurek off balance. She shot out her hind legs at a corpse just behind her, twisting as he regained control of her. Facing the corpse, he dodged and took its sword blows on his shield until he managed to hack off its arms. He saw Estarinel turn in his saddle to strike at two of the corpses. By manoeuvreing Shaell to push at them, he felled one, but the other dealt him a deep cut on the arm. Blood welled.

Ashurek tried to get nearer to Skord, who had not yet been assailed. The boy, still weak and ill, would stand no chance in such a fight.

Another corpse came at Ashurek. A huge bearded man of Excarith followed and, with a mighty axe blow, severed it clean through the trunk.

Ashurek reached Skord, turned Vixata to strike at one corpse, and hacked the arms from another. There was no joy in this battle. He felt only loathing at the fight.

‘Chop off their hands!’ he yelled at Skord. It seemed useless to attempt a fighting lesson in the heat of battle, but the boy seemed to hear and began making an attempt to defend himself. Medrian was having a hard time with the palfrey Taery. Although an exceptional steed, it was no war-horse. It took her all her time to control a nervous untrained animal, besides using a weapon to which she was unused. She preferred the sword, but axes were of more use against the Dead.