The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (83 page)

‘You have good reason to feel that way,’ the witch said, laying a hand on his arm. ‘There were powers planning your birth long in advance. The seeds were planted during the Great War.’ Her anger had subsided; a lifetime of control was not so easily lost, and Isak’s face showed true contrition. He hadn’t been brought up to understand responsibility, the witch reminded herself. This had been thrust upon him, less than a year ago, and now the entire Land looked to him with both expectation and apprehension.

‘Seeds?’

‘The noble warriors you have as your aides might not have mentioned it, but most wars resolve little, and the Great War was no exception. The hatred does not die, and the original causes are often refuelled by the pain and suffering inflicted on both sides. The enmities endure, and all look to the day their chance comes again.’

The witch reached out to take Isak’s white hand in her own. ‘Before your final rest you will walk many paths of the dead. The aftermath of such conflicts requires this, for there is no easy way to lay those ghosts to rest. Our lives are like paths in a forest, choices made at each fork, and sometimes they will lead you to clearings bathed in sunlight, sometimes into shadow. Your path has been walked before, by all those whose mistakes and failures set the course of your life, whose weaknesses have unbalanced the Land.’

‘The paths of the dead.’ Isak nodded to himself, lost in his own thoughts, still gripping Xeliath tightly by the hand. ‘It has felt that way sometimes, as though I can feel the footprints below me and the ghosts alongside.’

‘They are there, never forget that, but they do not own you; not Aryn Bwr, not this shadow Azaer, not even the Gods. You cannot change the past, Isak, but perhaps you can free the future of its shackles. In a land under shadow, you can give the hope of dawn.’

Isak looked humbled by her words. This was a hard thing to lay on someone so young, she knew that all too well, yet there was no other course: she had to trust him, and hope he was strong enough to bear the strain. The choices were ultimately his alone. For all her wisdom, she couldn’t make them for him.

She looked from the hulking lord to the girl intended as his queen. Xeliath had been quiet throughout their exchange, perhaps feeling an echo of Isak’s pain.

‘I hope to see you in Scree, and show you that you will not have to do this all alone. There are those who care, those who will make sacrifices when it becomes necessary. And now-‘ she raised an eyebrow in Xeliath’s direction, ‘now I should leave you two alone.’

Count Vesna looked out through the trees at the scrappy tufts of grass that were briefly bathed in sunlight as a break appeared in the cloud. Behind him a horse whickered softly. He saw his own horse’s ears twitch, but a reassuring pat on the neck was enough to keep the borrowed animal steady. He shifted his feet slightly, wincing as he accidentally pressed down on his damaged toe, the product of a lucky escape two days past. The little horse turned and inspected the count, nostrils flaring, questing towards his hand in case a treat was on offer. He forced a smile and rubbed its nose affectionately, then sighed and returned to his vigil.

The only sounds came from the river ahead and the small stream to his left that ran into that river. He could hear nothing from the men positioned on the other side of this small wood, something he’d have considered a blessing at any other time this last week. The war had dragged on a long time in Tor Milist and now most of the duke’s soldiers were little more than irregular troops, some no more than bandits enjoying the protection of a banner.

Their commanders exerted no control - indeed, many were worse than their troops - and rape and pillage were more common features of the war than actual battle. It had been a blessing to get away from the drunken louts who were his temporary allies, but Vesna couldn’t shake the feeling that they might have slipped away instead of sticking to the battle plan.

‘You look like a man who’s thinking too hard.’ The speaker, his rough Lomin accent harsh to Vesna’s ears, was a bearded veteran he’d promoted to sergeant-at-arms as soon as he’d met the man. Sergeant Tael was a dour forester in the employ of the Duke of Lomin, whoever Isak decided that was now to be, and one of the few old bands in his regiment. ‘Men who think too hard before a battle don’t come back.’

‘I know that,’ Vesna replied, ‘but I’ve no intention of dying here.’

‘Do any of us?’

Vesna forced a wry smile. ‘You’re a tight-mouthed bastard, Tael. I don’t pretend to know what you intend.’

The comment provoked a snort from the sergeant. ‘Aye, well, it ain’t to die here. I’ve a grandchile on the way and I’m looking forrard to bouncing a rabble of little’uns on m’knee before I go.’

Tael squinted at Vesna, then gave the count a calculating look. ‘From your face, I’d say you’re thinking about your own.’

‘Remember your place, Sergeant,’ Vesna warned, more out of habit than anger.

‘Aye sir, but I don’t want to see a hero die in such a Gods-forsaken place either. Might lose m’faith if that happened. More important, it’ll be one damn sight harder for me t’get home in one piece if you’re dead.’ He waved a dismissive hand towards the horsemen behind. ‘These gutless shites won’t hold if they see you go down.’

‘They’re not all bad.’

‘Not all, but enough. The men we got from Saroc are fine troops, but neither captain is worth much. One’s new, other’s too well-bred for his own good.’

‘Enough!’ Vesna snapped. ‘They’re your superiors, and it is not your place to rate officers, only follow their orders. Clear?’

Aye, sir,’ he drawled. From the set of the sergeant’s face, Vesna could see it wasn’t the first dressing-down the man had had for voicing his opinions. There were scars on his face that he wore proudly - one very obviously an infantryman’s spear-cut - but there were probably scars on the man’s back that he was less proud of.

Vesna surveyed the rest of his men. Four regiments in total: the two from Lomin and Tildek he’d fought against all too recently, one from Saroc and another from Nerlos - now with a complement of little more than three hundred men. They had all undergone the general training that was their liege’s most vital duty, but few had real battle experience. The regiments Duke Certinse had provided contained some veterans, but most had been too young for the patrol rotation of those parts, where most Lomin men gained their experience. Unfortunately for the Farlan, it was the current set that had been wiped out before the battle of Chirr Plain, so Certinse had chosen on the basis of the commander’s loyalty.

‘They’re cowed, no more than that,’ Vesna muttered to himself.

‘There’s little to be proud of in these parts, and a soldier needs that.’

The men were hidden in a gentle dip in the ground. The trees, mostly elms, stretched past the stream for another few hundred yards, beyond which, Vesna devoutly hoped, his allies still waited. They were the dregs of six regiments, now fewer than three hundred in number, led by a man with a scar around his neck that was clearly a noose burn. The troops paid lip service to Duke Vrerr’s battle orders. They killed the enemy whenever they had the advantage, and terrorised the region in between sorties. A soldier found pride where he could. Only wide-eyed boys thought there was much praiseworthy to be found in war itself, but even the old hands among the Farlan were sickened by some of the things they’d seen here.

Nothing had been prohibited by the duke, and the mercenaries employed by the White Circle were just as bad. Vesna had heard from his new allies that part of the legion they had been tracking were savages recently come from the Waste, bringing with them a host of evil magics and rituals. They’d heard rumours of small battles being fought in the deepest part of the Waste; of a so-called king of the Waste who was fighting all and sundry - the Elves, the Siblis, even the Menin, if the more fanciful tales were to be believed. Vesna believed little of this, but he had to admit it was worrying that they heard anything from the Waste.

The Travellers, the wandering tinkers, provided most of their information about those parts, telling tales of huge fertile plains in the areas less affected by the destruction of the Great War where towns had sprung up. Perhaps a king of the Waste had indeed arisen, and it was Isak’s destiny to defeat the man. It was a depressing thought. Vesna had always feared the Waste. It was irrational and childish, he knew that, not based on anything in particular, but it awakened a nebulous terror, nightmares of his bones slowly decaying inside his armour while his soul wandered a blasted landscape with only the wind for company.

A burst of voices and clattering weapons broke the peace of the day as a flock of starlings leapt from the trees, startled into flight and heading as one over the river ahead. Vesna raised a hand to signal his sergeants. Tael gave a short whistle that was echoed down the line and the troops swung up into their saddles. Vesna did likewise, and stood high in the saddle to check his men. Spears were raised to signal readiness and the men began to drift towards the edge of the wood. Beyond the tree line the noise grew as shouts of alarm came from the thieves and murderers on the other side. The enemy had been sighted.

The heavy beat of hooves began to rumble closer. Vesna saw the first of the duke’s men clear the stream and tear past his position, following the curve of the wood around to the open ground where they were to reform. The stream was small and shallow, no obstacle at all, and the duke’s men had foraged these parts for the last two years. Tael jabbed a finger out towards the horsemen tearing up the soft ground Vesna had been musing over.

‘Look, that red-haired rapist shite is leading them. Bastard’s made sure he’s first away.’

‘The man’s a coward, but he’s not stupid,’ Vesna replied. ‘We need him for the moment. Once we’re off home I might think about an accident befalling him.’

Tael grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth. ‘My Lord, I’d be honoured to join you on that if I could. Got daughters, I have - I’d surely like the chance to explain to him the difference between spoils of war and wickedness.’

‘Then you shall have it,’ Vesna promised as he tightened his grip on his reins.

A handful of stragglers followed the main group, men who’d fallen, or whose horses had shied from the stream. There were always a few. Soon the ground was clear again, though scarred by the regiment’s passage.

The sound of hooves grew louder. Vesna raised a fist in the air and turned to Sergeant Tael. ‘Sounds like they’ve taken the bait.’

‘Aye, sir. Just hope our “allies” remember to stop running.’

‘They will,’ Vesna said with more confidence than he felt. ‘And if they don’t, we’ll do it on our own anyway. Mercenaries don’t have much stomach for a fight when they’re taken unawares.’

And what if they’ve brought some fell magic from the Waste?’

Then you’re buggered, Sergeant.’

‘Me?’

‘You. This armour’s magic’ Vesna gave a bleak chuckle. ‘There’s a good chance any mage will sense that and go straight for me.’

‘And you’re the one wi’ the armour, so it’s hard luck on anyone around you,’ finished Tael.

For a sergeant you’re not so stupid.’ Vesna broke off as the first of the enemy came into view. ‘Here they are. Give the signal on my order.’

Tael nodded and raised a horn to his lips.

‘Think, man!’ Vesna snapped. The sergeant looked back at his commander in surprise, then realisation dawned. Tor Milist troops didn’t use the complex horn commands the Farlan had developed. It wouldn’t be the end of the Land if the Farlan were seen to be involved in the conflict, but they were trying to keep officially distant.

‘Sorry, sir. Old ‘abits.’

Vesna waved a dismissal and drew his sword, raising it up for the nearby troops to see. Tila’s image appeared before his eyes, hands clasped tight together as she’d said goodbye. She was wearing the green dress, his favourite. I must be getting old. Death has been a constant companion and I don’t fear him, only the loss of all I hold dear. ‘Gods, which is worse?’ he said out loud.

‘Sir?’ asked Tael anxiously. Vesna gave a start; he’d not intended anyone to hear him.

‘I was wondering which was worse, having nothing to lose, or having so much to lose you suddenly fear it,’ he admitted in a rare display of weakness - he knew as well as anyone the men following him needed him to be a symbol of certainty and decisiveness, even if the experienced among them suspected it to be illusion. Sometimes illusion was enough.

‘Tsatach’s fiery balls! If you don’t know the answer to that, you ain’t got much to lose - or maybe you just can’t see what’s clear in front of you.’

Vesna reached behind his back to grab his helm and pull it on, pausing to grin at the gnarled sergeant first. ‘Perhaps you’re right there.’ He signalled with his sword and spurred his horse, and the beast leapt towards the open ground ahead, his men roaring and following his lead.

Splattered with blood and mud, Vesna picked a path through the dead and the dying. As he lurched over the churned ground of the battlefield, trying to find solid ground in between the piled corpses, he felt as if the field was trying to pull him down, to claim him as another fallen soldier.

He stumbled for a moment and his enchanted sword sank up to a foot into the ground before catching on a buried stone and stopping dead. The count yanked the weapon out and stomped onwards, his face blank. The battle had been swift and frantic, and now all he could hear were the cries of the wounded, and the screams of those too badly damaged to live being given mercy. Forced into a corner, on ground that hampered their every move, some of the mercenaries had still fought to the last, refusing to surrender even with shields in splinters, javelins spent and axes blunt.

Those who hadn’t been killed in the fight had been run down and trampled as they tried to re-cross the stream. The Tor Milist soldiers had pursued and killed as many again, more confident when presented with the enemy’s back than when faced with the threat of hand-to-hand combat.

Vesna looked grim as he realised this legion of mercenaries had survived the Waste, only to fall victim to the simplest of ambushes.