The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (25 page)

Vesna dislodged his sword with a grunt of effort and assessed the remaining enemies.
Kill and move
. The choice was easy as the man whose nose he’d broken ran forward, yelling his fury. Vesna turned the blade aside and checked him with his shoulder, almost knocking the man off his feet. The novice staggered back a step, his eyes widening with horror as Vesna’s sword ripped across his gut then hacked into his neck.

Five men left, all injured. The one he’d speared first lay where he’d fallen, unmoving, so Vesna discounted him. Another had fallen to his knees, hands over his belly, and was making some sort of a mewling sound. Vesna dismissed him too; no one carried on after a sword to the gut. Of the last three, one had a ruined knee, and two were standing, weapons ready, but both favouring one arm. The younger looked far from confident about using his left hand so Vesna made it easy for him. He ran forward and cut down the other two with ease before stepping clear once more.

‘You,’ he roared, pointing at the last novice left standing, ‘drop that now and you’ll live.’

The man looked at his kneeling comrade and saw he was effectively alone. He let the weapon fall to the floor and raised his hands in surrender. In the blink of an eye the shadows behind the man boiled with activity and a figure stepped forward from the darkness. A weapon flashed, once, twice, and the two remaining novices fell, headless.

Vesna gave a cry of surprise and stumbled backwards, his sword already raised, but the newcomer only laughed, while his black robes whipped all around him like living shadows.

‘Apologies, but there could be no witnesses.’

‘What is going on?’ the count demanded. ‘Who are you?’

The figure stopped and sheathed his black-bladed sword with a flourish. Vesna focused, and found himself face to face with a hairless young man a little taller than he was. He had a tattoo of bloody teardrops falling from his right eye.

Vesna dropped to one knee, his limbs shaking from the exertion of the fight, but still obeying him. ‘Lord Karkarn.’

The God of War surveyed the slaughter surrounding Vesna with an expression of professional satisfaction. ‘You fought well. I am impressed.’

‘Thank you, my Lord.’ Vesna coughed, watching the blood tears fall in horrified fascination. He knew there would be fifteen, one for each of the slain.
Piss and daemons, please let there be only fifteen.

‘
Ah, how did you know, my Lord, that they were going to ambush me here?’

‘I arranged it, of course,’ Karkarn snapped, his face shimmering in a brief moment of anger, almost as though underneath this face was another that had briefly asserted itself, the Berserker Aspect of the War God. Vesna remembered the six temples in the heart of Scree whose Gods had been worst affected by the chaos there. Karkarn was one of them.

Merciful Gods, don’t let the Berserker out
, he prayed silently.
I won’t survive that.

‘Have I offended you, my Lord?’ Vesna bowed his head as he spoke, not daring to see the reaction to his words.

‘Not at all - you’ve pleased me. But I had to test your abilities. I was right to think that one group wouldn’t be enough, too,’ Karkarn said dispassionately. ‘A good thing I brought those two together, I think.’

‘Ah, my Lord, you’re testing me?’

‘Stand up, Count Vesna,’ Karkarn commanded, his voice suddenly booming, resonating with the weight of centuries.

Shakily, the count did as he was ordered.

‘The heresy of Scree has nicked me - no great a wound, but one I cannot ignore, and one that festers in the blood of my priests. It fell to me to defend the Gods at the Last Battle, to lead the charge that broke the enemy, and that cost me dearly. I do not intend to allow such a thing to happen ever again.’ There was a growl of barely restrained fury as he spoke.

Vesna nodded hurriedly to show he understood.

‘Good. It is clear there are forces at work that go unnoticed by divine eyes. I need a mortal agent to protect the interests of the Gods.’

Karkarn stepped forward and looked hard into Vesna’s eyes. The God had iris-less eyes the colour of steel. As he breathed, Vesna recognised the foetid stench of the battlefield.

‘I—I don’t understand what you are asking of me. I’m no Chosen, Lord, I’m no white-eye.’

‘My faith in the Chosen has paled,’ Karkarn said, his lip curling with anger. ‘I intend for my agent to be more than just a warrior, I need a leader of men - a general to take the fight to our enemy.’

‘You want me?’ Vesna asked, too dazed to think straight.

Karkarn nodded. ‘I want you to be my Mortal-Aspect. You will be the general and hero that all warriors need.’

‘Mortal-Aspect? To become part of you?’ Vesna’s mind was a blank as he stared at the blood-streaked face of a God he’d only ever prayed to in desperation. ‘But mortal?’

‘To share in my power, but to remain living the life you are.’ From somewhere under his robe the God produced a glittering gemstone that he held up to the weak moonlight. It looked like a ruby, a tear-drop faceted shape half the length of his thumb.

‘The tear of a God. Take this and keep it with you. When you accept my offer, cut your cheek with its tip.’

‘And then?’

Karkarn gave him a cold and terrible smile. ‘And then you will become part of me, both God and mortal. Do not think there will be no price for my gifts - but the rewards will be eternal.’

Without waiting for a reply, Karkarn stepped backwards and was swallowed by the boiling shadows once more. Vesna blinked and stared straight ahead. The street was empty, shrouded in grim silence.

‘The tear of a God?’ he wondered aloud, bending to wipe his sword on the nearest corpse. He hissed with pain as he pulled the cut on the side of his head. He wiped the sword clean and sheathed it before retrieving his nicked dagger. The actions were mechanical, ingrained by so many years of habit. Once the dagger was clean Vesna gave the battered weapon an affectionate pat before stowing it away in his belt.

‘The tear of a God,’ he repeated, wincing again. He looked at the carnage all around him. ‘Right now, I’d prefer a horse.’

 

Mihn tied his horse to the wrought-iron archway that served as the entrance to the small park and walked inside. Death’s Gardens backed onto an ancient shrine to Death that pre-dated the city’s principal temple. It was surrounded by a waist-high stone wall and a tall bank of laurel hedges. Once inside it was easy to feel as though one had left the city completely. In the darkness not even the city’s towers were visible. Mihn struggled to make out the gravel path now the yellowy light of Alterr had been covered by cloud.

The quiet crackle of a fire cut through the night and he let his ears guide him in the right direction. The witch had pitched a double-layered tent towards the far end, strung underneath three yews that had grown together to create three-quarters of an uneven dome. He set off down the path, but had gone barely a dozen paces before a deep voice spoke out from the shadows.

‘It is late for callers.’

Mihn recognised Fernal’s growling voice. ‘Would I be intruding?’

‘No, she will see you.’ Fernal stepped out from under the yew’s branches and joined Mihn on the path. The massive Demi-God sniffed the air as though checking for other visitors. ‘She is used to being awakened.’ He beckoned with one hooked talon and Mihn followed without further comment. Fernal, bastard son of the God Nartis, had an air of implacability about him, one that Mihn could only aspire to. With his savage lupine face and monstrous size, he looked out of place in a city of humans, but however keen he might have been to return to his wilder home in Llehden, he appeared unperturbed by it all.

The witch was standing beside the fire when they reached her small camp. ‘Am I needed at the palace?’ she asked as Mihn came close enough to be identifiable.

‘No, I’m not here on anyone else’s behalf.’

She cocked her head to one side. Though visible, her face was as unreadable as Fernal’s. ‘Then what can I do to help you, Mihn ab Netren ab Felith?’

‘I came to ask what you knew about death.’

‘Our God, or his deeds?’

‘The process as much as anything else.’

She scrutinised him for a few moments before gesturing to the fireside. ‘Please, join me. Even under that fleece you must be cold.’

Mihn did so gratefully, squatting down to warm his hands in front of the flames. Fernal picked up a small bowl and gestured at the pot hanging over the fire. ‘Something warm?’

‘What is it?’ Mihn asked as he took the bowl gratefully.

‘Nettle tea,’ the witch of Llehden answered as she sat on a log next to Mihn. She straightened her dress so it covered her ankles properly. He knew they were of a similar age, but Mihn felt like a child in her company, the memory of their first meeting surrounded by the gentry, Llehden’s forest spirits, reinforcing that feeling.

‘But in this weather, who cares so long as it’s hot? Now - what can I tell a man with a Harlequin’s knowledge about death?’

‘I—I do not rightly know,’ Mihn admitted after a brief pause. ‘I have been thinking about fate and prophecy, about the threads that bind our existence. I am not yet certain what it is I’m looking for, but I believe I need to know more about death if I am to understand my lord’s fears correctly.’

‘Then I doubt I can help you,’ the witch said gently. ‘Your knowledge of myth and legend surpasses my own - you know the descriptions of Death’s grey hall better than I, of the final judgement he delivers and of the Dark Place. I am familiar with the moments of death and birth, but not the halls of the immortals. You would need a priest of Death or a necromancer to tell you things you do not know.’

‘I suspect a priest would be even less likely to help me than a necromancer nowadays,’ Mihn said with a grim expression, ‘but perhaps . . .’ His face became thoughtful. ‘Perhaps the answers are already written for those who can reach them.’

The witch studied his face. ‘Are you talking about scripture or heretical texts? Just how much are you willing to risk?’

‘You bring me to my second question. Lord Isak feels the strain of responsibility on him; he fears the hurt his position may cause those around him. Xeliath, Carel, his father - they have all been permanently damaged by their association to Isak, and that guilt runs deep. He sees me without weapons or armour, and so he fears to let me serve him.’

‘He is right to do so.’

Mihn tried to read her expression but it was devoid of emotion. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ he said sharply.

‘It is a consideration,’ Ehla replied in a calm voice. ‘For all his power and gifts, it does Lord Isak good to think like a normal person from time to time. Concern for his friends may prove a useful reminder that he is a man and not a God. You do remember there is no actual obligation holding you here? You could leave tonight and walk away from the death that lies in that young man’s shadow.’

‘Says the woman far from home and camped in the freezing cold of winter.’ Mihn gestured to the park where the glassy sheen of frost covered everything.

She dipped her head, acknowledging his point. ‘I merely wish to remind you that the choice to stay is yours; that you should actually make that choice, rather than be swept along by the tide of history following him. He is a white-eye and the Chosen of Nartis; Lord Isak’s presence commands those around him, so it would be easy enough to forget you still have a choice.’

He shook his head. ‘I have not forgotten, and I choose to do what I can. I’ve seen the look in the eyes of those who returned from Scree. I cannot walk away.’

‘Very well. So what help do you need of me then?’

Mihn took a deep breath. ‘Last week Isak mentioned something that Aryn Bwr said to him in Scree and it stuck in my mind: “not all steel is destined to become a sword”. I will never have the power to rival his; the Gods did not bless me in that manner, but they did bless me. Acrobatics have always come easily to me; my skills of tracking and stealth surpass the Farlan rangers I have met - these are abilities of subtlety that I had hoped your witchcraft could augment.’

‘Would you be a thief or assassin for your lord?’ Ehla asked sternly.

‘I would do what my lord asks of me,’ he replied, ‘but my vow remains. Count Vesna has already asked that of me and I will not change my mind.’

‘Good. I will not let my magic be infected by a murderer’s deeds.’ Ehla spent a while inspecting Mihn. He matched her gaze for a while, until he noticed that Fernal was watching him equally as intently. The weight of the Demi-God’s scrutiny was harder to bear, for it crawled over his skin.

‘I have watched you in your master’s company; you keep close to him, as close as a shadow—’

Fernal raised a hand to cut her off. ‘Be careful how you name him,’ he said with a warning growl, ‘for a name shapes, just as it is defined by shape.’

‘Call a man cousin to Azaer and you open him to its influence? A sensible precaution,’ she conceded. ‘We have no idea of the shadow’s power, but if I were to augment your natural abilities somehow we should not be thinking of you as a shadow.’

‘But you have an idea of what you could do?’ Mihn fought the flicker of excitement in his heart.

Ehla nodded. ‘It will take careful thought and preparation, but I have an idea. A witch’s magic is not based on power but insight, on working with what already exists. You are a quiet man in manner and action, easily overlooked and skilled enough to slip through the night unnoticed. I might be able to help a stealthy man become ghostly, to push you beyond the limits already reached by the training of your childhood.’

‘How would you do it? A charm? A spell?’

‘A charm you would wear, stitched into your clothing, perhaps; the magic would have to be woven in while you were wearing it to make it become a part of you.’ At last the witch showed some trace of emotion. ‘An invocation to a God perhaps? Cerdin, God of Thieves? Nartis? The Nighthunter might be a powerful ally in such a working.’