Beyond the Wall of Time (72 page)

Elamaq is, apparently, in turmoil. They have had the news from the occasional trader claiming to have dared Cape Despair and
made it to Talamaq; and Duon and Arathé have confirmed it. The Omerans rose up against their former masters, seemingly having
freed themselves of their inbred obedience, and the conflict has been a protracted one. Noetos received one letter, a somewhat
cryptic account of Duon and Arathé’s preparation for a voyage to Ilixa Isle in which they mentioned his troubles in Elamaq,
and has heard nothing since.

Sautea loves Noetos’s daughter as if she were his own child. With Mustar, he rescued her from the sack of Fossa and, in a
fearsome, storm-assailed journey, delivered her to her father in Raceme. His great contribution to the War Against the Gods.
She was close to him in the weeks and months after the war, and her absence is one of his life’s chief sadnesses. So the nod
from the Daughter bodes well.

The gods are seated and hood their glamour still further, though everyone is still conscious of them. The alderman rises,
clears his throat a few more times and commences his speech. As far as speeches go, Sautea supposes this one is a good one.
Excellent, in fact. But he doubts anyone hears it. Whispers travel back and forth through the crowd and hands point to the
various people on the platform—including, he notices, some at himself. Huh. Some fools will waste time on any minor celebrity.

The alderman has just finished wiping his face for the third time—the day is warm, but summer is still weeks away—when a shout
comes from the direction of the rebuilt Red Duke Wharf.

“Hoy! Can anyone direct me to the Duke of Roudhos?” calls a bold voice. “We were told in Tochar that the ceremony was tomorrow,
but we’ve lost a day somewhere.”

The crowd draws away from the man and the woman hurrying along Wharf Street, daunted perhaps by his drawn sword. He waves
it from side to side absent-mindedly. He is tall, middle-aged, but brimming with energy. She is also tall—certainly taller
than Sautea remembers—no, she is slimmer than when he last saw her. He is wearing light ceremonial armour, and she is in a
flowing pink dress that rather needs someone to lift its train from the street.

The alderman is knocked to the ground in the rush to greet Duon and Arathé. Sautea’s eyes blur. He should have realised they
would make every effort to see the new Duke of Roudhos confirmed. There are hugs exchanged there in front of thousands of
bemused witnesses: gods embracing humans and vice versa, exchanging greetings like old friends. Then Arathé, bless her, calls
out: “Where is Sautea?”

She leaps onto the platform, ignoring the stairs, makes straight for him, plants herself squarely on his lap and kisses his
forehead. “Oh, Uncle,” she says. “I am glad to see you.”

“Where have you been?” he asks, barely able to get the words out past a tightness in his throat.

“Stuck on Ilixa for years. Oh, what a terrible place! We’ve had such adventures—but I will tell everyone later.”

He is about to ask her another question when his poor old brain catches up to his ears. “Arathé,” he says carefully. “Am I
imagining things, or can I hear you talk?”

She nods, eyes sparkling. “The reason we dared Ilixa,” she says, “was partly to see if I could recover my voice. And it worked,”
she adds unnecessarily, and pokes her tongue out at him.

“Hmm,” Nellas says. “Careful with that old man, girl. Much more happiness and he’ll have to lie down for a week.”

After the dramatic entrances, the rest of the ceremony goes off hitchless, though rather anti-climactically. Anomer, looking
every bit the Duke, accepts the sceptre from his father, along with a curious stone in the shape of a woman’s head set on
a block of wood. He and Moralye are sworn in as the Duke and Duchess of Roudhos and make the necessary promises. The crowd
cheers, but is clearly somewhat distracted by the personnel on the platform.

Sautea’s heart burns in his chest.

Music is played, songs are sung, and there is dancing in the streets, but Sautea has retired his dancing feet and contents
himself with tapping them on the wooden platform. When the music is over and the last speech is made, they repair to the Summer
Palace and the meal and fellowship waiting for them.

And as dusk falls and a single star rises from the horizon, the gods’ apprentice leads them to the balcony above the city.
There he cries, in a loud voice: “Let us take a moment to honour she who triumphed in the War Against the Gods. Rise with
me and bow your heads to the one to whom we all owe our lives. Stella Pellwen.”

Kannwar bows his head, and Sautea observes that the gods can indeed weep.

I’m a very lucky man. I get to make my hobby into my occupation, I get to entertain people (or perhaps frustrate or anger
them) and to work on projects I’m proud of.

These books bearing my name are by no means all my own work. I have received valuable assistance from readers, editors and
artists. In particular I wish to thank Dorinda and Iain for reading early drafts, Phillip Berrie for eagle-eyed continuity
work, and Nicola O’Shea for outstanding editorial assistance. Nicola gets what I’m trying to do, and she works to a level
of detail that puts a real shine on the manuscript. The bits that don’t work for you are probably the bits where I ignored
her advice.

I’ve been fortunate to have superb cover art. You can judge these books by their covers, as they are faithful to the feel
and detail of the story. My thanks to Greg Bridges and the design team. Less visible but no less important are the hundreds
of enthusiastic booksellers who put these books in your hands.

I continue to owe a great debt to Stephanie Smith, my HarperCollins editor. She is patient and perceptive, and ensures I produce
my best work. Thanks to all at HarperCollins Voyager Australia and New Zealand for their professionalism.

Russell Kirkpatrick’s love of literature and a chance encounter with fantasy novels as a teenager opened up a vast number
of possibilities to him. The idea that he could marry storytelling and mapmaking (his other passion) into one project grabbed
him and wouldn’t let go. He lives in New Zealand with his wife and two children. Find out more about Russell Kirkpatrick at
www.russellkirkpatrick.com.

If you enjoyed
BEYOND THE WALL OF TIME
,
look out for

ORCS

by Stan Nicholls

“Look at me. Look at the orc.

“There is fear and hatred in your eyes. To you I am a monster, a skulker in the shadows, a fiend to scare your children with.
A creature to be hunted down and slaughtered like a beast in the fields.

“It’s time you pay heed to the beast. And see the beast in yourself. I have your fear. But I have earned your respect.

“Hear my story. Feel the flow of blood and be thankful. Thankful that it was me, not you, who bore the sword. Thankful to
the orcs; born to fight, destined to win peace for all.”

Stryke couldn’t see the ground for corpses.

He was deafened by screams and clashing steel. Despite the cold, sweat stung his eyes. His muscles burned and his body ached.
Blood, mud and splashed brains flecked his jerkin. And now two more of the loathsome, soft pink creatures were moving in on
him with murder in their eyes.

He savoured the joy.

His footing unsure, he stumbled and almost fell, pure instinct bringing up his sword to meet the first swinging blade. The
impact jarred but checked the blow. He nimbly retreated a pace, dropped into a half crouch and lunged forward again, below
his opponent’s guard. The sword rammed into the enemy’s stomach. Stryke quickly raked it upward, deep and hard, until it struck
a rib, tumbling guts. The creature went down, a stupefied expression on its face.

There was no time to relish the kill. The second attacker was on him, clutching a two-handed broadsword, its glinting tip
just beyond the limit of Stryke’s reach. Mindful of its fellow’s fate, this one was more cautious. Stryke went on the offensive,
engaging his assailant’s blade with a rain of aggressive swipes. They parried and thrust, moving in a slow, cumbersome dance,
their boots seeking purchase on bodies of friend and foe alike.

Stryke’s weapon was better suited to fencing. The size and weight of the creature’s broadsword made it awkward to use in close
combat. Designed for hacking, it needed to be swung in a wider arc. After several passes the creature strained with effort,
huffing clouds of icy breath. Stryke kept harrying from a distance, awaiting his chance.

In desperation, the creature lurched toward him, its sword slashing at his face. It missed, but came close enough for him
to feel the displaced air. Momentum carried the stroke on, lifting the creature’s arms high and leaving its chest unprotected.
Stryke’s blade found its heart, triggering a scarlet eruption. The creature spiralled into the trampling mêlée.

Glancing down the hill, Stryke could make out the Wolverines, embroiled in the greater battle on the plain below.

He returned to the slaughter.

Coilla looked up and saw Stryke on the hill above, not far from the walls of the settlement, savagely laying into a group
of defenders.

She cursed his damned impatience.

But for the moment their leader would have to look after himself. The warband had some serious resistance to overcome before
they could get to him.

Here in the boiling cauldron of the main battlefield, bloody conflict stretched out on every side. A crushing mob of fighting
troops and shying mounts churned to pulp what had been fields of crops just hours before. The cacophonous, roaring din was
endless, the tart aroma of death soured the back of her throat.

A thirty-strong flying wedge bristling with steel, the Wolverines kept in tight formation, powering through the struggling
mass like some giant multi-stinged insect. Near the wedge’s spearhead, Coilla helped clear their path, lashing out with her
sword at enemy flesh obstructing the way.

Too fast to properly digest, a succession of hellish tableaux vivants flashed past her. A defender with a hatchet buried in
its shoulder; one of her own side, gore-encrusted hands covering his eyes; another silently shrieking, a red stump in lieu
of an arm; one of theirs staring down at a hole the size of a fist in its chest; a headless body, gushing crimson as it staggered.
A face cut to ribbons by the slashing of her blade.

An infinity later the Wolverines arrived at the foot of the hill and began to climb as they fought.

A brief hiatus in the butchery allowed Stryke to check again the progress of his band. They were cleaving through knots of
defenders about halfway up the hill.

He turned back and surveyed the massive wooden-walled stronghold topping the rise. There was a way to go before they reached
its gates, and several score more of the enemy to overcome. But it seemed to Stryke that their ranks were thinning.

Filling his lungs with frigid air, he felt again the intensity of life that came when death was this close.

Coilla arrived, panting, the rest of the troop close behind.

“Took your time,” he commented drily. “Thought I’d have to storm the place alone.”

She jabbed a thumb at the milling chaos below. “Weren’t keen on letting us through.”

They exchanged smiles that were almost crazed.

Bloodlust’s on her too,
he thought.
Good
.

Alfray, custodian of the Wolverines’ banner, joined them and drove the flag’s spar into the semi-frozen earth. The warband’s
two dozen common soldiers formed a defensive ring around the officers. Noticing one of the grunts had taken a pernicious-looking
head wound, Alfray pulled a field dressing from his hip bag and went to staunch the blood.

Sergeants Haskeer and Jup pushed through the troopers. As usual, the former was sullen, the latter unreadable.

“Enjoy your stroll?” Stryke jibed, his tone sarcastic.

Jup ignored it. “What now, Captain?” he asked gruffly.

“What
think
you, shortarse? A break to pick flowers?” He glared at his diminutive joint second-in-command. “We get up there and do our
job.”

“How?”

Coilla was staring at the leaden sky, a hand cupped over her eyes.

“Frontal assault,” Stryke replied. “You have a better plan?” It was a challenge.

“No. But it’s open ground, uphill. We’ll have casualties.”

“Don’t we always?” He spat copiously, narrowly missing his sergeant’s feet. “But if it makes you feel better we’ll ask our
strategist. Coilla, what’s your opinion?”

“Hmmm?” Her attention remained fixed on the heavy clouds.

“
Wake up,
Corporal! I said—”

“See that?” She pointed skyward.

A black dot was descending through the gloom. No details were obvious from this distance, but they all guessed what it was.

“Could be useful,” Stryke said.