and the white-eye come.’
‘They’ll be digging ditches and sorting ramparts, at first light,’ Ilumene confirmed before hesitating slightly. ‘What about your Children, do you want them stacking stones too?’
‘I have a greater burden for them.’ As Ruhen spoke a gust of wind surged up the hillside from the direction of the troops, and all three turned to face it. It carried the usual stinks of an army, sweat and animal musk, festering wounds, shit and urine — only now it was intermingled with something else, something stranger.
Ilumene heard a chuckle on the wind as he recognised the sickly sweet smell of overripe peaches. They had gathered cartloads of rotten fruit at the oasis outside Keriabral’s crater wall. They were withered and well past their season; the wind had dried them on the trees, and insects had burrowed into those that had fallen, eating the goodness from within, but still Ruhen had insisted the remains be collected.
Ilumene heard the voice on the wind again, and this time he made out Rojak’s unmistakable laugh. The dead minstrel was not quite so confined to Venn’s mind here, it appeared. The smell of peaches lingered, and Ilumene realised that the fruits were no longer inedible husks, though there was no way they could smell like that naturally.
‘Aenaris?’ he asked.
‘It is the breath of life,’ the boy answered. ‘Its gifts I shall share with my faithful servants.’
‘To the same effect as it had on Rojak?’
‘I still have my herald,’ Ruhen said, ‘I have no need of twenty thousand more. No, this gift is a burden too, a covenant with my chosen few. Gods are anointed in the blood of the innocent — but who says the innocent can’t put up a fight first?’
As Ruhen walked back through the camp heads lifted at his passing. Devoted troops saluted their leader, while the preachers and white-clad followers knelt, heads bowed in prayer. Ruhen’s smile lifted the fatigue from their faces, provoking gladness from all he passed. Luerce, first among Ruhen’s Children, fell in behind his lord and the rest followed without any order needed, the ragged column swelling with every step.
The campfires that lit the way were small, limited by the paucity of wood on the parched plain, but enough to define the boundary of the camp. Through the lines of tents, past the watching soldiers and generals of the Devoted, Ruhen went with a train of attendants. Those spread further out sensed something on the wind, and answering some unspoken command, men and woman crawled from the tents to join the burgeoning crowd. Soon it became clear Ruhen was heading to the furthest part of the camp, where the supply wagons were drawn up. The pickets set around the supplies parted like evening mist as they approached. Cauldrons of rice-heavy stew bubbled slowly over cooking fires, and as he continued to the wagons at the back, the men tending the food stepped aside and watched the mass, now numbering in their thousands, as they followed in reverential silence. The crowd surrounded the wagons, kept separate and under guard by the Hearth-Spears, the grey-skinned warriors from the Jesters’ loyal clans.
Ruhen climbed up onto one of the two wagons piled with fruit. He looked around at his assembling followers: people were still coming out of the camp, but there were enough present for him to start. He slipped the wrapped sword from his back and a collective sigh raced around the crowd. Under their white cloaks and ragged clothes he saw they were emaciated and dull-eyed with fatigue. Most had been painfully thin before the journey had started; they were barely standing now, driven on by fervour and desperation to the very limits of their life.
‘Brothers and sisters of peace, our time draws near,’ he started, his clear voice carrying. ‘This Land is a wounded beast, weakened and fearful. The Gods themselves tremble at what must come to pass, at the betrayal of their priests and the heretic King of Narkang.’
Ruhen held up the sword for them all to see. Even with its light covered, there was a palpable air of power around it. The coin hanging from Ruhen’s neck glinted in the fading light, displaying the rough cross scored on its surface.
Slowly, solemnly, Ruhen slipped the covering from Aenaris and pure white light blazed out like a beacon across the camp. The boy’s skin looked unnaturally pale in its light as he held up to for them all to see. As one the masses fell to their knees, crying out blessings and wordless sounds of devotion. Ruhen turned in a full circle, allowing all of his assembled worshippers to see his face, not trying to hide the burden Aenaris was as his blind right eye shone in the gloaming.
The massive sword was as light as a feather, but it ate at the shadows inside him, making it feel as though it was made of lead rather than pure, flawless crystal. He was forced to squint against its light, the camp beyond growing darker to his one remaining eye as the Key of Life eclipsed his shadow soul, but even in the darkness he spied a shape moving, circling beyond Ruhen’s Children like a wolf on the hunt, her cold blue eyes bright in the darkness. Ruhen nodded respectfully and the Wither Queen faltered, matching his gaze for a moment before taking two last steps and fading into nothing.
He looked down at the peaches, which had been restored to ripeness by Aenaris. He lowered the sword and whispered lovingly to the unnatural crop. Power flowed out of the weapon and the sickly-sweet stink of fruit almost past their best grew, filling the air with their odour while the skin of his fingers hissed and crackled.
Wincing at the sensation, Ruhen completed the spell and went to do the same with the other wagon. He transferred Aenaris to his other hand and staring down at the palm of his right, which was burned as white as bone by the sword’s power. As he repeated his workings, Ruhen faltered slightly, his legs wobbling underneath him to moans of fear from the onlookers, but then he caught himself and stood straight again, forcing himself to look up at them and meet their eyes before he rewrapped the sword and hid its searing light.
‘These fruit are my gift to you, most faithful of siblings,’ he said hoarsely, struggling to find the strength to raise his voice momentarily. ‘Share them amongst yourselves, ensure all of your brothers and sisters are permitted a bite.
‘Soon we will be forced to defend this holy site. This is the place of our rebirth, of the Land’s rebirth. Here we will defend our Land, our Gods and our future.’
With stiff limbs he returned Aenaris to its sheath and took a slow breath before continuing, ‘During the Great War the Gods blessed many of their followers as they headed into battle. Battle is soon coming to this place. The Knights of the Temples are steadfast and brave, and they will do their duty to the Land, I know. But no one will escape the savagery, and the Gods have granted me this boon for you: we stand in service of innocence, defenders of the weak — you have all followed me here out of that ideal, but now you are the innocents to be protected.
‘The Knights of the Temples have sheltered you, fed you with their own rations, and done so without complaint, for they see our holy mission. And now it is my turn: so eat of this fruit, share it amongst your enfeebled and exhausted brethren, and receive my blessing.
‘The path before us is hard; the covenant I offer is as much a burden, for it is one of strength. As I have taught you these past months, the defence of innocence is no easy duty — but do not fear this burden, do not fear the heavy blessing of the Gods, for I will care for you. Come the dawn light, you will be reborn, and then we will lead the Land itself to rebirth!’
A fervent roar rose up from all around him, shaking the ground with its upwelling of passion. Arms raised to the heavens, some prayed, some shouted and howled and many wept. Luerce and his senior preachers stepped forward, climbing up into the wagons to renewed calls and wordless paeans echoing out across the dark sky.
With the greatest reverence Luerce picked up a peach. Juice ran down his fingers as he bit into its flesh. He tore a chunk away and passed the peach to the eager hands of the next man, then swallowed the sacrament with his eyes closed, his face turned to the sky above. All around them the supplicants reached forward, desperate for their lord’s blessing, and soon the preachers were handing out the peaches as fast as they could.
Copying the First Disciple, those nearest tasted the flesh and passed the rest back, moaning with ecstatic pleasure at the sickly, half gone peaches as they handed more and more to the crowd beyond. Many grabbed handfuls and started pushing back into the crowd beyond, holding the fruit aloft as they made for those who could not get close to the wagons.
Ruhen stood on the wagon and watched them approvingly, dark shadows dancing in his eyes. He turned back at the hilltop almost a mile away. ‘The twilight reign is here,’ he whispered, the words sweeter on the tongue than any fruit. ‘My reign is come.’
CHAPTER 39
