The Twilight Herald: Book Two Of The Twilight Reign (74 page)

Doranei peered past his king at a dead acolyte lying across the top step, looking straight at him with one visible, vacant eye. The battered mask was pushed askew, revealing half a face, but a deep cut to the side of the head had made such a mess that it was impossible to make out whether the corpse was male or female. Silvery-grey hair lay in a tangle, a similar colour to that of the dead man still lying in the ruins of the abbot’s house, but luxuriant and flowing where the other’s had been hacked short.

He tested the air again, fighting down the soldier’s instinct to just block out the stink. The sharp smell of faeces filled the house, overlaying everything with its gag-inducing stench, and over that he could make out the softer scent of ash and embers, adding a dry bitterness to the mix. But beneath them all was another, one hardly noticeable, unless you knew to expect it.

Morghien had first described it as overripe peaches left to fester. This was the smell that accompanied Rojak wherever he went, the reminder of where he had come from. On the fateful expedition to Castle Keriabral, survived at the end by only Cordein Malich and Morghien, one other figure had walked away from the ruined fortress after the horror had played out, one that was no longer a man. The minstrel who had begged to accompany them so he could see the famous castle. He had spent his days there walking with wonder through the wild peach tree woods outside the castle walls, singing childhood songs to himself. He had been a gentle spirit, and a generous man -until a shadow spoke to him one night when the moons were high and the scent of peach blossom was thick on the breeze.

Doranei shifted his weight onto his front foot, anticipating the king moving on, but King Emin remained motionless, leaving Doranei trying not to topple into him. Coran loomed close behind them, and the scrape of his boots echoed in the confined space. Unable to move without colliding with one or the other, Doranei wavered between one step and the next until the king finally moved.

At the top he saw four bodies, two more acolytes, the last of the displaced gentry, and a woman wearing leather armour. Doranei recognised her from the theatre, a dancer of remarkable speed and grace. It was strange to see her lying broken and ruined alongside the ivory-skinned gentry. Both were horribly wounded, and even the acolytes, who were only human in the end, had been brutalised. Doranei knew what it took to kill a man, and this went far beyond that.

Rojak’s doomed guards had been hacked apart while the minstrel sat in his chair and looked out over the destruction he had wrought. All Doranei could yet make out of the minstrel was his sweat-plastered black hair that had been pushed to one side, making his skull appear misshapen. Perhaps he was dead after all.

Doranei shook his head, as though that would clear the horror before his eyes. He’d seen this before, this callousness of a man who knew no remorse. Rojak had probably laughed as his followers were cut down, even if he knew his death would swiftly follow. Doranei had seen the tragic remains of Thistledell, the village where the survivors had tried to erase its very existence, out of shame for what Rojak had made them do, and he knew there was nothing sweeter than misery to the minstrel. He doubted even Azaer’s purpose mattered to Rojak now; there was only the joy of inflicting fresh horrors upon the Land, for no reason other than his own amusement.

‘Won’t you come in?’ The breathy whisper from the figure in the chair was followed by a rattling wheeze: the laughter of a sickly old man enjoying his final pleasure.

The king didn’t reply, but the voice stirred him into action and he stalked across the room while Doranei worked his way around from the other side. Coran went to the top of the stair and stopped, not trusting himself to get any closer unless he was needed. There was a soft hiss and a thud as he allowed his mace to slide through his fingers until the steel-shod butt rested on the floor.

The armchair was damaged, grimy grey stuffing spilling from tears in the ancient fabric. Rojak was angled so his right arm rested on the length of the padded rest, his fingers hanging limp over the end. His other hand sat in his lap. He made no effort to turn, but the set of his body was such that the king would appear in his view first.

Remembering himself, Doranei took a moment to check their surroundings again. There were no obvious places for an ambusher to hide, but he made doubly sure, leaning out over the broken stubs of wood that were all that remained of the wall. There were no ledges or crevices to hide on -the wall dropped straight down to where half of the Brotherhood stood or squatted in a rough semi-circle around the three steps of the front door, guarding against any surprise attack. As Doranei looked down, both Endine and Beyn glanced nervously up. The blond soldier gave Doranei a coolly professional nod, in contrast to the small mage, who almost fell over with the shock of seeing a face appear.

‘Please allow me to introduce myself,’ Rojak said abruptly.

Doranei in turn almost pitched forward in surprise but caught himself in time to step around so he could at last see the minstrel’s face.

‘That will not be necessary,’ growled King Emin quietly. He stopped directly in front of Rojak and, after a moment’s appraisal, sheathed his sword.

‘No? Well you have put your weapon away at least, that will have to suffice as a politeness.’

‘I see no need to be polite,’ the king said as he reached into his pocket, ‘but I don’t need my sword with him there, and a cigar would be welcome to mask your stink.’ Emin nodded towards Doranei as he reached into the neck of his tunic and withdrew a stiffened leather packet. The King’s Man gestured down to his comrades on the ground and by the time King Emin had withdrawn a cigar and stowed the packet away, Beyn had tossed up a piece of wood, alight at one end thanks to Endine’s magic.

‘How delightful, your dogs do tricks,’ Rojak said hoarsely. Doranei kept his eyes on the minstrel as he reached out so the king could light his cigar. Rojak’s body was rigid, and only his eyes and jaw moved, but Doranei kept his axe ready anyway.

Caution rarely gets men killed
, said a memory, the voice of a criminal he’d been apprenticed to as a child.

The firelight brought out more detail, even as it deepened the shadows around Rojak. The skin on his face hung limp and loose, speckled by age and ugly wheals, indicating he was riddled with disease. Doranei held the torch up to illuminate the filthy state of Rojak’s clothes. The minstrel had soiled himself, more than once, he thought, and great patches of sweat had stained the once-green tunic, but his eyes still gleamed with ferocious malice. He was both repulsive and pitiable.

‘And you must be Doranei,’ Rojak croaked. ‘Ilumene told me you would be at your king’s side; the new favourite, one who could be trusted to be docile and obedient.’

‘That Ilumene thinks himself merely disobedient,’ the king interjected, ‘tells you all anyone needs to know about the man.’

‘Undoubtedly true.’

The wheezing chuckle took Doranei by surprise, but he saw no change in his king’s expression, which remained fixed and intent.

‘I believe Ilumene still harbours a little jealousy towards his replacement for possessing some quality he never had.’ Rojak paused for breath, his jaw falling slack, displaying his raw, blistered tongue. ‘But what characterises each of us better than our own small faults?’

‘Many things,’ King Emin replied without hesitation. ‘You surround yourself with the broken and the weak, and that is a fault of your own. The weak have nothing but their own failings. Spare us your poisonous, hollow words. They hold no interest for us.’

‘Hollow? They are anything but.’ Again Rojak laughed, the effort shaking his brittle, rancid frame. ‘After all you have seen in this place of death, and yet still you do not see. You ask me to spare you lies, but all I have is truth, and that is all spoken now. Spoken and recorded; copied, catalogued, translated and analysed; I am the twilight herald and my words for you were done a long time ago.’

‘You waited here and let your guards be slaughtered just so you could taunt me one last time?’

‘They are unimportant; the service they rendered was at an end.’ The whisper was faint now, and Doranei found himself craning forward to catch the words. ‘I am here because my quest brings me here, and it amuses me to see the look on your faces. I have passed you by a dozen times and more, so close I could reach out and touch your noble brow; it fills me with mirth to reveal myself only here, when any vengeance you may inflict will only do me a service.’

He tried to lift the hand from his lap, but his clawed fingers failed to move. He gave a gasp of pain. ‘Do you see?’ he asked through gritted teeth. ‘My agony is complete. Your retribution only ends my pain. Ilumene kept nothing private, so I know how that little village’s demise affected you both . . . and now you stand there, powerless.’ With a great force of will Rojak managed to raise his hands for a moment. He upturned his palms, like a priest giving thanks. ‘Was this how you imagined this moment, with your enemy broken and helpless before you?’

Doranei’s throat was dry. He was forced to swallow hard and moisten his lips before starting again. ‘I have thought of this moment often enough, and I told Ilumene of it when the memory of Thistledell was still fresh. My mother’s family came from there, though I never saw the place until my first mission as a King’s Man; my homecoming was to gnawed bones and trails of blood, to the spirits of the trees bloated on the souls of children, and wearing their faces as Ilumene and I killed them.

‘Yes, I have thought of this moment, but one thing my king has taught me is that hatred poisons us. I have seen what hatred does to a man, and I do not want to end up that way. The day I arrived in this city, my king told me to ensure that when this day came, it would be about more than vengeance. You say Ilumene is jealous of my qualities. That doesn’t surprise me, for though I haven’t the strength of body or mind that he has, that is my advantage over him.’ He cleared his throat again, aware that the eyes of the two men who had affected his life most were focused on him. ‘I understand what it is to be human, and what it is to be lacking. Ilumene has only ever lacked understanding, and that is what makes him less than I, and as empty as you. It didn’t take me long to realise that when this day came I would have no words for you because there is nothing to say. There is no justification for what you have done, and no fury of mine, however righteous, could give justice to the innocents you’ve destroyed.’

‘I agree,’ said King Emin abruptly. He reached for the dagger at his belt and drew it, looking at the engraved hilt for a moment before tossing it to Doranei. ‘It is enough that the end is now.’

Doranei looked at the dagger. Engraved into the pommel were the king’s initials and emblem, the worker bee that symbolised both piety and endeavour.

And when we do not recognise the weaknesses in ourselves, let us hope we have friends to save us from them.
He tossed the blade back. A flash of surprise crossed the king’s face, but instead of arguing, he nodded in acceptance.

‘It is enough that it ends now,’ Doranei said, as he and the king began to walk back towards the stair where Coran was waiting.

As he passed Rojak’s chair, Doranei let the burning length of timber fall into the minstrel’s lap. The flame gave a crackle as it caught on the stained material.

‘Send our regards to the shadow,’ he called over his shoulder, certain that Azaer was watching them only too closely. ‘When the time comes we will be there to end that too.’

Isak gave his head a violent shake, almost dislodging his helm in the process, but failing to remove the sweat dripping into his eye. He blinked again, and hissed in irritation, which did even less.

‘My Lord,’ called Vesna as he barged his way past a pair of Devoted lancers, ‘we can’t hold out much longer. We don’t have the numbers.’

The mob stood some fifty yards away, and whilst they were hardly human any more, showing no sign of noticing the defending soldiers using their last few arrows, some basic instincts remained and they had retreated momentarily from the slaughter. The central phalanx of heavy infantry faced them, ready to return to the killing at a moment’s notice, while the remainder were heaping the enemy corpses high, retrieving what arrows and javelins they could and expanding the barricades protecting them.

Still, Isak knew that Vesna was right. There were simply too many of them, and they wouldn’t give up, no matter how many died in the process. The weight of armour and weapons was wearing his men down, and they weren’t able to kill the mob fast enough to make enough of a difference.

Isak watched an impatient Sir Kelet wrenching arrows out the hands of every man he could reach, not trusting anyone but himself to make every shot count. The white-eye turned to the loitering mob and saw the arrow slam neatly into the chest of a tall bearded man. At that range the knight had his pick of targets and Isak realised he was killing the loudest and most animated; anything to give them a few moments’ rest, no matter that it would never be enough. Anything to slow the frenzied return.

‘Pull back to the temples?’ Isak suggested quietly. ‘We’ll only have Torl’s cavalry to cover our backs.’

The Temple Plaza was quiet enough that he could hear the zip of Sir Kelet’s arrows cutting the air, and the sounds of fighting in other areas, but it was strangely quiet. There were no cries of pain or pleas for help. When a soldier was pulled out of the line or hamstrung by a rusty knife and brought to the ground, he was set upon by the mob like rabid jackals. They didn’t stop, even when any sane person could see their victim was dead. Those few soldiers who had been dragged back away from the line and managed to struggle free had still found themselves surrounded, and though they’d killed several of their attackers, they’d all been brought down in the end.

‘Could you manage a diversion?’ Vesna was as out of breath as the men he now commanded. His helm was scored and battered from rocks and the wild blows that had evaded his shield.