upon him.
The moment, the vision, passed, and he sank back into his saddle. He was still imbued with a desperate excitement, but he was only a man once more. He led his warriors across the rubble and puddles and corpses towards an opening-the stone-formed memory of a street, perhaps, that once ran from this wide square. It carried them deeper, closer to the jagged bulk of palaces and parapets in which all Kanin’s desires were now invested.
Like vermin, like swarming vermin, the inhabitants of Kan Avor came clambering and staggering from every side. Kanin and his Shield were beset once more, their horses plunging through a clawing sea of outstretched hands, a rain of stones. His sword arm ached, but his mounting anger drowned out that weary pain. He raged against the capacity of this city to oppose him; to vomit this unending flood of poisoned flesh up from its crevices and alleyways and drains, and batter at him with it.
He was turned about for a moment as his horse faltered in confusion or weakness. He saw two of his men go down, dragged into the gaping maw of the mob and devoured. He saw how few warriors remained at his side and at his back. And his horse slumped down, tried to rise, and failed. The throng closed on him. He was crushed and beaten and choked with the heat and stink of bodies. The light of the muted day was dimmed still further as a dozen hands hauled him from his saddle, and the crowd engulfed him. But he still had his sword and still had strength in his legs.
He rose, and made of his blade and shield a storm. He killed and killed until he was no longer alone; until Igris was there, and others. Until they opened a path of corpses that led on. Deeper.
There were only six of them. Their horses were gone, all dragged down. The rest of the warriors were dead or scattered, fighting their own doomed battles now. Behind them, the entire city seethed with slayers and their victims, their voices and their struggles filling the sky with a single shrill howl.
Kanin ran, and Kan Avor yielded its heart to him. It took him in beneath the cliffs of its greatest edifices, and led him down cobbled streets, past doorways with carved lintels, and eroded statues bedecked in regalia of mud and moss. It took him into its rotten core.
The first of the Battle Inkallim came running alone, quite suddenly, from beneath a cracked archway, a long thin axe held out to her side. Like a dark arrow. Kanin veered towards her, but two of his Shield were closer and faster. They stepped between Thane and raven. And the raven feinted and weaved her darting way inside a sword thrust, and split one of their skulls. The second shieldman cut her across the hamstring, and she staggered but did not lose her grip on the axe. It came free of bone, and swung low and hard into the man’s knee, taking his leg from under him, the joint flexing at an impossible angle.
The Inkallim limped another clumsy pace towards Kanin before she fell. He hammered his sword halfway through her neck. Her eyes turned white as they tipped back in their orbits.
“Sire,” Igris shouted.
Kanin turned. Seven more Inkallim, arrayed across the street. They were relaxed, their shoulders loose, their expressions full of calm confidence. Two leaned on spears; others cradled naked swords. Shraeve was there, arms folded across her chest, staring at Kanin.
“Have enough died yet, Thane, to assuage your anger?” she asked him levelly. “Have you amassed sufficient dead to convince you of your error?”
Igris and the last two of his Shield-one man, one woman-stood in front of Kanin.
Shraeve smiled as they formed that defiant barrier.
“Your forces are somewhat meagre, Thane. If fate’s favour is measured in numbers, I think you find yourself condemned.”
Kanin looked back over his shoulder. The way he had come was closed off: thirty or more men and women, warriors and commonfolk and Tarbains. All wild-eyed, half of them bloodied. The rain had stopped, he realised. Blood no longer ran freely, but thickened and crusted on skin.
His hopes became dust. What had seemed so possible now was plain folly. What madness had been upon him that he had thought himself capable of overcoming the fever of an entire world?
“You did not think we would leave him undefended, did you?” Shraeve said.
He stared back at her, and in that stare she evidently found the answer to any and all questions.
“Very well,” she said with a dead smile.
And even as she spoke, two spears were in the air, spinning along shallow arcs. Kanin started forward. So did Igris and the other two of his Shield. Only Kanin and Igris completed more than half a stride, as the spears hit home.
Shraeve did not even move. The six other ravens spread into a half-circle, sinking gently into fighting stances. Kanin and Igris found themselves back to back, as that half-circle slowly extended itself, reaching to enclose them.
“My feet are on the Road,” Kanin heard his shieldman murmuring. “My feet are on the Road.”
Kanin bit back his scorn for such futile fidelity. But what did it matter? Death came as it wished, and what rode in its wake only the dead could know. Let those entering its embrace believe what they wished. To die a fool was no worse than to die alone and faithless.
A flurry of blows. The scuffing of feet over the grimy cobbles. A hissing gasp. Kanin did not look round. He could not, for the three Inkallim facing him edged closer, eyeing him with all the focused intent of hounds stalking a stag at bay.
“Igris?” he muttered.
He heard metal on metal. Something-a shield, perhaps-striking the ground. Another muffled impact and then silence.
Igris slumped against Kanin’s back. The sudden weight almost made him lose his balance, but he leaned against it. Slowly, the burden slid down his spine into the small of his back, across his thighs. Then it was gone, and Kanin swayed for a moment. He spared only the briefest of instants to look down and see Igris lying there, face down, his head by Kanin’s feet. There was blood on his neck and scalp.
Kanin grinned at the nearest of the Inkallim.
“So be it,” he said.
But they backed away. They opened the circle that had held him and fell slowly back into rank across the street, aligning themselves with Shraeve once more. Past her shoulder, past the hilt of her sword, two dozen paces back, at the base of a tall column of curved stonework that could only encase a stairway, a door was opening. Kanin straightened, lowering his sword, letting his shield come back to his side.
And Aeglyss emerged.
III
Aeglyss leaned heavily on Hothyn the White Owl as he advanced out into the street. His head-a simple skull, almost, in its gaunt and fleshless angles-lolled on a limp neck. The plain robe he wore was patterned with brown and red and black stains, the exudates of the wrecked and porous body beneath.
At the sight of him, Kanin was instantly blind to all else, and he sprang forward.
“Be still,” Aeglyss said, like a thunderclap on the damp air.
Kanin staggered to a halt, dizzied. The world spun about him for a moment, a swirling vision of dirty grey stonework and mud and figures that flashed past too quickly to be recognised. He steadied himself. The na’kyrim was staring at him, and that gaze was all contempt, all confidence.
Shraeve started to move. Long, languid strides, hands reaching slowly up for the hilts that framed her face. Her eyes were on Kanin, wholly committed to his death. And he could see it quite clearly for himself. He could envisage with the utmost clarity his own graceful execution. She would be like a hawk, composed entirely of speed and power, falling upon him. He would die now on Shraeve’s twin blades, and go into the darkness knowing he had failed. He would follow Wain, knowing there would never be an answer to her death.
He knew all this, and the weight of it felt as though it would crush his heart, but still he hefted his sword in his hand and tightened his grip upon the straps of his shield until the leather creaked, and stepped forward to meet her. Perhaps… perhaps…
