bowl of the pipe and used the candle to heat it. Finally breathing in the thick smoke, Lahk closed his eyes and waited for the dull aches in his body to fade. He used the drug rarely, only when he knew the pain of old injuries would keep him from sleeping, but they had been riding hard for a week now, through these inhospitable Chetse lands, and his ankle and knee in particular pained him enough that his brother had not been the only one to notice. Others had asked, King Emin and Carel most pointedly.
Lahk bowed his head. I am not my lord. I do not have his strength.
Memories of Lord Bahl filled his mind. As Lahk had been the bedrock of the Ghosts, the unmovable heart of that entire legion, so Bahl had been for Lahk: his strength and power surpassed the general’s understanding.
Had I known him, had I fought beside him before that day at the temple, I would have never offered myself so readily. He bore the weight of the nation on his shoulders; he suffered the whispers and lies while he served them all. Without him — without a ruler of his ilk — I am lost. Isak wears greatness like a mantle, but see how that incandescence has burned him. I follow him out of habit as much as loyalty. Truth and justice are just words to me. All I ask for is purpose.
The lingering note of pain in his limbs began to dim and his head fogged as the drug started to take effect. He spat on the ground, revolted by the bitter taste — in truth, everything about it revolted him, not least the days when he felt the need for it growing further apart from the catalogue of injuries, seen and unseen, he had accumulated.
He capped the pipe, dismantled it and put it away in the box before slipping his leggings back on again. His movements were slow and ponderous, but that was as he wanted: the smoke drove away the pain and the doubts and allowed a few hours of emptiness in his mind. The lumps were deliberately small, limited by the strength of will some saw as an iron soul. Some things were necessary and therefore they were done. He could make no sense of how others could lie and betray themselves out of doing what they needed to.
The chill in the room was gone now. As he went about the motions of stowing his armour and boots, unable to let himself sleep while it lay in disorder, he muttered the words of prayer he’d been taught so long ago. He couldn’t pray to Nartis, not since that day he was so gravely scarred, but the words of reverence his father had taught him returned without effort. As a boy, Tiniq had always scowled as he mumbled them at their bedside, trusting in his brother’s strong voice to hide his own reluctance. Now Lahk always pictured Lord Bahl as he spoke the words taught to all Farlan under his breath:
‘Give me strength, lord, for all I must do. Give me strength, lord, for the fear I must face. Give me strength, lord-’
He broke off, suddenly aware there was someone else in the tent. His battle-instincts had been dulled, but even as he realised they were there, he felt no panic. It was simply awareness, not fear. The long-knife entered his back cleanly: a quick, professional strike that pierced his great heart and sent the general rigid. He tried to turn, but the person had a firm grip on his arm. As Lahk moved, the knife twisted in the wound and the sharp blossom of agony spread around his ribcage, flowering hot over his skin though the blade was as cold as ice.
He felt his heart stutter, then a flicker of fear as he realised he was dead, but that faded almost immediately. Lahk remained standing even as the knife was removed and driven in again. The first blow had killed him; Lahk knew that with utter certainty, and his life’s blood spilled from his back, but he had seen too much death to fear it now. Battle had been his life, not his pleasure; he had no dreams of glory to follow, no heroic death to seek. He was beyond pain.
Lahk stared at the faded tent cloth, and at last his immovability ended. His killer eased him forward, just a step, to reach the bed and then down he went — sprawled across it, his face perched on the edge looking at the tent wall just a foot away. The light dimmed, the tent grew dark around him and Lahk found himself sinking into darkness. But the darkness was not empty, he felt power there — strength beyond mortal bounds. Something waited patiently for him, and Lahk would face it without regrets.
I come, my lord. I come to serve you once more.
‘Give me strength, lord,’ his killer finished, ‘for the man I must be.’ He withdrew the knife and wiped it on the bed. Once the weapon was sheathed he stood for a while looking down at the body.
‘I’m sorry. You deserved better,’ the killer whispered.
He collected the Crystal Skull from Lahk’s armour and held it up to the weak light for a moment. The shadows in the room swarmed and danced around him, swirling up to meet him even before the killer bent to blow out the candle. Then he left, wreathed in shadow, as unseen by the guards as when he had entered.
Isak sat, unmoving, as Suzerain Torl spilled the news, tears shining wetly in the ageing warrior’s eyes, his grey and lined face crumpled by grief.
‘Dead?’ he asked dumbly.
‘Found by his guards this morning,’ Torl choked. ‘Stabbed in the night, his Crystal Skull taken.’
‘How?’
‘They claim they don’t know. They swear no one entered or left all night.’ Torl’s face hardened. ‘Shinir will find the truth of it, but I’ve known Lahk’s hurscals for years…’ His voice tailed off. He looked shaken to his core. Even after all the death and battle he had seen, for his implacable friend to be murdered without putting up a fight tore at the man’s heart.
‘It must be done — it’s better Shinir questions them than Tiniq getting his hands on them. Speaking of Tiniq, has he been told?’
A strangled howl answered his question, and Isak rose and saw the hooded figure of Tiniq, staggering down the pathway between the Palace Guard’s tents. He had a messenger by the throat and was dragging the man in his wake, apparently unaware he still had the man in his grip.
‘Tiniq!’ Isak shouted, and the ranger stopped dead, hesitating for a moment before swinging around to face his lord. Isak and Torl headed out past their guards to meet him. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed with grief.
‘Let him go, Tiniq,’ Torl ordered. ‘He’s not the one to blame.’
The ranger looked down to find the young messenger in his hand still. The man hung from Tiniq’s grip, his knees dragging on the ground, both hands wrapped fruitlessly around the man’s fist. With an effort, the shaking ranger released him and the messenger flopped onto his back, gasping for air.
‘Go with him, Torl,’ Isak said. ‘Lahk was your friend; you should help prepare his body.’
‘Prepare his body?’ Tiniq echoed hoarsely.
‘Funeral rites — he was our greatest general, and we will honour him as such.’
Tiniq shook his head. ‘We wrap the body and bring him with us.’
‘Bring him?’ Suzerain Torl said, horrified. ‘Damn it, man, he was your brother!’
Tiniq advanced on the suzerain, for a moment looking like he was going to attack him, then he started fighting for control. ‘He was my brother, yes,’ he said, ‘and we will honour him — he wouldn’t care about a eulogy or memorial. We honour him by following the example he set.’ He looked around wildly at the soldiers drawing closer, hearing the whispers already running through the crowds. ‘You hear me?’ he shouted, ‘you want to honour my brother, you’ll bloody march for him! You think he’d want to lose hours of daylight when there’s an enemy to catch? You think he’ll give a shit about pretty words being spoken over him? There’s the job at hand, nothing more, and your job is to catch and kill the enemy. If you want to honour him, you’ll give him fifty miles this day to make up the ground we’ve lost!’
He voice wavered. With one final glare at Torl and Isak, Tiniq started off again towards his brother’s command tent.
‘You heard him,’ Isak said quietly. ‘We march for General Lahk; we’ll honour him tonight. Go and make sure he doesn’t kill anyone, Torl. I’ll get them ready to march; no man’ll need telling twice today.’
‘The final test?’ Ilumene asked, hurrying forward.
Ruhen turned and smiled. ‘The final test,’ the child in white confirmed as Ilumene joined him. He still towered over the boy, though Ruhen was taller than natural for his years. His composed stillness or smooth, restrained purpose set him apart from normal children — that and the shadows in his remaining eye.
‘It all went as you intended?’
‘All involved passed the test,’ Ruhen replied, ‘and that is all I ever plan for.’
Ilumene nodded in approval. ‘At least some things about that damn white-eye are predictable.’
‘You think him incapable of restraining himself?’
‘All the time? No, but you catch that boy off-guard and his first reaction’ll be to call the storm inside. Don’t give a man time to think and he’ll act on instinct — that’s when you know his true heart, and it tells you he doesn’t
