The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (74 page)

The recruits were part of the cavalry scout groups – most of the infantry were formed up in their companies, ready either to march or assault. For the main it was officers and élites here, those who weren’t bound by orders from dawn to dusk. The Menin contingent was near-silent, far more typical of Menin soldiers than Amber’s own quarrelsome Cheme legions had been.

‘Thank you, Carel,’ Amber said, glancing back. His face was set like stone, the hard lines of a veteran soldier about to fight once more. ‘I’m glad you’re here. There is a distance between my men and me; though they are loyal they fear me. Death omens follow me and my namesake’s defeat lingers in my shadow. If I am to die, it will be in the company of a friend.’

He turned to Daken, the white-eye’s easy grin absent for now. ‘As for you – well, keep your bastard hands off my brandy.’

Before either man could reply, the Chetse soldiers on the far side of the circle parted suddenly, allowing General Dev and a second man through into the circle. A murmur went up on all sides: there could be no doubt that this was Amber’s opponent. Half a head taller than the general he accompanied, the soldier could have easily been mistaken for a wildman from the Waste, but for the fine detailing on his axe and pauldrons.

His long, tangled mass of sandy-brown hair was kept out of his pale blue eyes by red bands, until he put on a shallow bowl-helm. His clothes and mail shirt looked like they had been patched repeatedly; they were festooned with fetishes. From the man’s dark skin Amber could see he was an easterner, probably from the desert clans on the edge of the Waste, where the Chetse fought a near-constant war against the Siblis who lived beneath the desert. Any veteran of those savage skirmishes would doubtless be a dangerous opponent.

‘General Amber, Chosenslayer and last survivor of the Cheme legions, your opponent, Dechem of the Wyvern Clan, champion of the Agoste field.’ General Dev’s voice was loud enough to drown out the whispers racing through the onlookers.

In response to Dechem’s introduction the Chetse soldiers gave a single, sudden shout. Amber didn’t catch the word, but it prompted Dechem to turn and salute those behind him with his long-axe. On his back Dechem wore an oval shield, but looking at the length of his axe, Amber guessed it would be staying there.

Just as Amber decided no man could use the weapon one-handed, Dechem turned around and did just that: he flourished the weapon, using long diagonal strokes, first in one hand, then the other, all performed adeptly before he saluted Amber. The Menin reached back with both hands and Carel put the hilts of his scimitars in them, allowing Amber to draw the weapons and bow in one movement. He rolled each wrist in turn, moving the brutal weapons through slow strokes to loosen his hands with out showing Dechem how fast he could strike, and with that the others retired to the circle’s edge.

Neither fighter moved. Though the duel had officially begun, Amber had been told it was Chetse custom to stand a while and size up an opponent. After titles had been announced, insults thrown or respect offered, all bluster was put aside and it was just two warriors ready to do battle.

Amber was significantly taller than his opponent, but the long-axe lent a greater reach and could both chop and hook. Dechem was a champion of the Agoste field, the Chetse veterans’ forum, but it was likely he’d never have faced twin swords like Amber’s before, which gave the Menin an advantage. Temple training in the Menin homeland required them to face warriors carrying all weapons, and Amber had duelled against the long axe many times before.

Dechem decided the moment had ended. He raised his axe and cautiously advanced, while Amber stood his ground, his swords held out before him. The Chetse made some exploratory passes, circling as he cut, poised to leap backwards should Amber try to rush him.

The Menin kept his own movement to a minimum, edging beyond Dechem’s range when necessary, mostly just watching the axeman move. The strokes were superbly dextrous, neat and swift without unnecessary backswing.

At last Amber advanced, stepping forward and lashing up at Dechem’s knuckles with his left scimitar. The right he readied to chop down with, but the Chetse twirled backwards with a grace that belied his bulk and swung around behind his body as he moved. Amber held back, realising in time he’d be caught in the leg before he could strike a blow of his own, then leaping forward in behind the stroke.

His first blade scraped harmlessly down the Chetse’s shield; the second bit the rim and scored his chainmail. Dechem hammered at Amber’s forearm with the butt of his axe then brought the head around to chop at his head. Amber caught the axe shaft on his scimitar and tried to push it down and away, but the Chetse wrenched his weapon back, quick as a snake, and struck high.

Amber twisted and dodged the cut, slashing up at the shaft. Dechem saw the danger and backed off, instinctively aiming another cut in his wake, but Amber held. When he advanced again he had one sword high, the other at chest height. Dechem responded by probing forward with the long-axe, twisting it one way then the next as he sought to snag something with the head’s hook. He feinted at the lower weapon, then went left suddenly and flicked the axe down at Amber’s knee, even as Amber slashed across his face. Neither weapon scored as Dechem’s movement took him away.

Amber didn’t wait this time, but struck down at the axe and followed it past his knee, all the while slashing at Dechem’s head with his second sword. His scimitar was turned by the Chetse’s helm and pauldron and he took a hurried blow on his shoulder as the powerful warrior heaved his axe back.

Dechem drove Amber a step to the side, but the Menin was able to hook the axe again and chop from left to right down into his opponent’s forearm. The scimitar caught Dechem between wrist and elbow, tearing open the chainmail. A spray of blood leapt up and Dechem lost his grip on the long axe and fell backwards. Amber was already moving in for the killing blow before he realised the fight was won: Dechem’s arm was half-severed, the bone exposed, and blood spurted over his legs.

Amber stayed his thrust half a foot from the downed man’s throat. ‘Yield!’ he commanded. ‘Enough have died – yield!’

Dechem croaked something unintelligible, cradling his ruined arm without a thought to continuing the fight.

Amber looked up and scanned the watching soldiers. ‘Nai, get here!’ He checked the main concentration of Chetse, but none were moving, not even as the former necromancer ran forward to the injured man. Amber discarded one weapon to make his point clear, but still none of them took a step to help.

Bastards probably think his life’s mine to spend as I see fit. Great Gods and little fishes, I’ve had enough of honour. Any more and I’ll choke.

Nai dropped to his knees at Dechem’s side then slid one foot under the man’s shoulder’s to support him. Blood leaked everywhere, running through the soldier’s fingers like it was being poured from a jug. Without speaking Nai jammed his fingers into the wound, and Dechem howled.

The Chetse would have punched Nai in the head had Amber not caught his arm, but just the attempt was enough to pale his face and after a moment of feeble struggle he submitted to Nai’s ministrations. Amber, checking the wound, realised it was too grave to save the arm. He’d seen the results of enough cuts like that, even with a priest of Shotir to hand, and after a quick exploration Nai came to the same conclusion.

He wrapped his blood-slick hands around the cut and closed his eyes. A bright light emanated from between his fingers, flaring red, then fading to pink that burned to white. Dechem roared like a wounded lion and fought against at Amber’s grip, but in the next moment he fell limp and the Menin general released him as the wound began to hiss and crackle. There was no smell of burnt flesh, but Amber backed away all the same. He’d seen enough of surgeon’s work; magical or not it was still enough to turn a sane man’s stomach.

‘Happy now?’ Amber muttered, looking from General Dev to King Emin. ‘Or would you’ve preferred I killed him?’

Of Isak Stormcaller there was no sign, but Amber couldn’t tell whether that meant the scarred white-eye was just as sickened of honour, or that he didn’t care about anything any more. Rumour said that General Lahk had been rejected by Nartis and had all emotion burned out of him. Certainly the man bore lightning scars down his neck, but Amber hadn’t spoken to the man enough to be able to tell. With Isak . . . well, it was hard to tell there too. One moment he wasn’t much different to any other young man, but it took only a heartbeat to switch to either traumatised recluse or blank, empty shell.

I guess the same could be said about me, though,
Amber reflected as Carel approached him, his scabbards and baldrics in hand. They each cleaned and sheathed a scimitar in silence, the weapons sliding home with a whisper before Amber pulled the baldrics on and tightened the straps.

‘Man was good,’ Carel muttered.

‘Aye. Seems like a waste now, doesn’t it?’

Carel caught Amber’s arm. ‘It wasn’t, and you’ve got my thanks. Without that duel we’d have had to threaten and probably fight our way through. I don’t want Isak unleashing that sword’s power any more’n he has to. Little bastard’s never known when to stop.’

‘When to stop?’ Amber said in a hollow voice, looking back at the man he’d spared. ‘Then let’s hope he learns one day.’

He raised his voice, turning to the handful of bearded Menin watching him intently. ‘What are you waiting for? Sound the advance!’

CHAPTER 36

General Lahk slowly unfastened the embossed buckles of his jacket and eased it off. The stink of rancid wool and unwashed skin filled the sleeping half of his tent, but he’d long since grown used to that. His linen undershirt was greasy to the touch and he pulled it up over his head and discarded it on the bed. Slumping down in his campaign chair, he began to unbuckle his greaves and unlace the high cavalry boots before wearily tugging them from his legs.

He sat for a moment with his feet on the edge of the bed, looking up at the peaked roof of the tent. It took him a while, but eventually the white-eye general heaved himself up again and stripped off his leggings so he was naked. It was chilly in there, but even the northern parts of the Chetse lands were far further south than back home, where snow would be coming soon – these plains and valleys had never been covered overnight by a white blanket. Outside was dusty scrubland dotted with patchy clumps of brown grass. What little rain fell vanished almost immediately into the parched ground.

Lahk ran his fingers over his body in his nightly inspection. Once he’d finished checking his body for the ticks and infections that plagued every soldier, he opened the small box beside his chair. Inside was a mirror, several rolled pieces of cloth and a clay pot. He raised the mirror briefly and stared at the face reflected in it: white-eyes, weathered cheeks and uneven eyebrows; the lump of his nose and broad, muscular jawline common to his kind; the scar on his cheek that most white-eyes had in one form or another.

He picked up the candle illuminating the inside of the tent and brought it closer, staring into his own eyes, following the circle of his white irises and the small black dot at its heart.

Not so different to any other man’s eye,
Lahk thought to himself,
and yet it means so much.

He touched the gold ring in his ear, an ornament he’d not cared for until recently. As a white-eye his skin healed quickly and earrings were an annoyance, but despite all that, Lahk had taken to wearing the single ring of rank normally left packed and forgotten in his belongings. It was a reminder of home, of the tribe he’d left behind – though most of those he knew and respected were with him now.

He unclipped the ring and set it on the table, wiping away the slight trace of blood on his earlobe. It would be half healed by the time he woke up, but this was as long as he’d ever been away from the tribe that was his entire life. Lord Bahl had not been one for conquest, and his faithful general had been kept largely within Farlan borders.

He’d been made a marshal for reasons of political etiquette as much as anything, and he felt little affection for the manor or the lands he owned. It was the grey streets of Tirah he missed, the cloud-wreathed spires and besieging forest beyond. He had his orders still, but the cause was a remote one for a man so used to the certainty and strength of Lord Bahl.

He picked up the mirror again and inspected the scars on his neck. The skin was red-raw where his cuirass, dented by a halberd a week back, was rubbing. He was loath to ask the smiths to beat it out again; that it rubbed against his tender scar tissue was not a good enough reason to distract them from their more vital work.

With the mirror he followed the line of jagged scars, running from his neck, branching around his shoulder, then spreading down over his chest and stomach in a long fern pattern. Another scar, two fingers thick, ran down his shoulder and back before it merged again with the other at his hip and ran down the buttock, with more strange fern-spreads, then tapering until it reached his calf, where it ended.

The scar was old, darker than his flesh, with whitened cracks crossing it where the skin was dry. It had been years since Nartis had so savagely rejected him as Lord Bahl’s Krann, but he could still remember the white-hot pain, as if a strip of his skin had been ripped off his body and discarded. And then he’d smelled the burnt flesh . . .

With the patience of many years’ practice, Lahk began to daub wool-grease onto the worst parts, centred on his neck and hip, moving in turn to the other scars on his body, feeling an echo of each one as he reached it: the chunk of flesh gouged from his thigh in the Great Forest beyond Lomin; the small scar on his bicep which was the only trace of an axe blow that had broken his arm and pained him to this day.

The litany of injuries continued: his cheek, pierced by the steel-shod butt of a spear that had broken two teeth. White-eye bones healed – some had been forcibly mended a dozen times or more – but teeth didn’t grow back. Sword-cut to his forearm, here; a knife-wound up his ribs, there, that had notched two of them. The dark circle above his hip was an arrow-wound, innocuous in size, but it had caused terrible damage within and the healers had only just managed to save his life that time. His kneecap, spilt neatly across the middle; his ankle, shattered by a lance; another arrow wound to his thigh . . . Even the fingers he was using to massage in the ointment had suffered. His little fingers had been broken four times between them – the one on the left hand had fared worst and now barely moved; nowadays it was usually splinted to its neighbour. Even his knuckles were scarred and ugly with use.