Orb Sceptre Throne

‘What is your rank?’

‘Sixth.’

‘Sixth? I met the First. Long ages ago. Then I wouldn’t have dared face any of the champions. Let us see how things proceed — now that I have had ample time to practise.’ It grasped the naked flint tang of its sword in both bone and sinew hands, and advanced.

*

The whirling storms that scattered Ebbin’s consciousness to the furthest corners of his mind had receded. And all his memories came crashing in at once, bringing with them the horrifying awareness of all that had happened, caused by him. The one small stone he dislodged and the avalanche it precipitated. And so he wept. Arms wrapped around his head, he sobbed, abject.

You see, the voice whispered within his mind, the favour I do you? Ignorance is a blessing.

Stung, Ebbin moved to scuttle off on all fours.

In his mind a hand clutched his neck. The monstrosity straddled him, gold mask turned to study the roiling clouds. ‘Let me go!’ Ebbin pleaded. ‘You’re finished!’

‘Nay. I have won. The Moranth are defeated. They cannot touch me.’

‘Your attack failed!’

‘True,’ the creature allowed. ‘That was … impetuous. But live and learn, yes, scholar? I will bide my time.’

‘No — you are lost. You’re revealed for what you are.’

‘And what is that, dear scholar?’

‘A monster nightmare of our childhood.’

The hand released his neck. The Tyrant stepped away from him. Mocking laughter rose from behind the graven gold oval. The embossed lips seemed to drip it. ‘Oh, scholar. If you only knew.’ The mask snapped away. ‘Enemies gather … but not the one I was expecting. Of course, the same may be said for me. We will continue this discussion later, scholar.’

The figure swirled away, but Ebbin’s awareness remained. He groaned and held his head once more.

*

‘There. That thing. In your crossbow.’

Scorch lifted the weapon to take a look. ‘What? Nothing.’

‘No — the …’ Exasperated, Leff stepped out to tap the stock. ‘Look at that bolt. Where’d you get that?’

Scorch stared. His mouth opened in amazement. ‘Would you look at that!’

Leff cuffed him. ‘Keep it down,’ he hissed, fierce. ‘Where’d you get it? You holding out on me?’

‘I ain’t never seen it afore in all my life! I promise.’

‘You stole it, didn’t ya?’

‘What? Never.’

‘Well — we need to give it back. Got our position to think about. Can’t be wavin’ stolen goods about.’

Unnoticed, the Legate stood to step down from his throne. He stopped before it, hands clasped behind his back.

Leff grabbed the stock. ‘Look at that thing. All engraved. Wax on the head, too — real fancy, that. Gotta give it back.’

‘No — let go. Don’t …’ Scorch knocked one of Leff’s hands aside. Leff tried twisting the weapon from his partner’s grip.

‘Just cooperate! Let me …’

‘Watch it!’ Scorch hissed. ‘Don’t …’

The crossbow fired, jerking in their four hands.

The bolt slammed into the Legate, who spun round with the force of the impact.

Four eyes swivelled to see the Legate straightening. He touched at the feathered end of the bolt where it stood from his ribs. The mask turned their way. A hand stretched out to them.

Scorch and Leff looked at one another, eyes hugely wide at the enormity of the accident. And at the magnitude of their immediate danger.

‘Fire!’ they yelled in unison and Leff levelled his crossbow, noticing in passing that an identical bolt sat snugly in the channel of his stock. He aimed and fired while Scorch slipped a foot through the stirrup of his weapon and yanked ferociously.

Leff’s bolt threw the Legate back another step. His knees appeared to weaken briefly as he staggered. Yet he came on. Smoke streamed from the two wounds.

‘Fire!’ Leff bawled again and Scorch levelled his weapon. The third bolt struck true, thumping the Legate backwards a good few weaving steps.

Leff reached into the sack at his side and was briefly surprised to see that every single one of the bolts he possessed had intricately engraved blackened shafts and gleaming iron heads encased in wax. None of this stopped him from frantically reloading.

‘He’s still comin’ for us!’ Scorch yelled, nearly bursting into tears.

‘Fire ’em all!’ Leff howled.

*

Lady Envy left a second-storey terrace overlooking the front battle-grounds. Tapping her fingertips together she crossed the abandoned darkened office. So, an Imass. Never cared for them. Smelly unkempt things always leaving bits of themselves lying about. She cocked her head, thinking. Been ages since I destroyed one of them.

She remembered impertinences recently suffered from one Imass in particular and her mouth hardened. Yes … too long by far.

She headed for the stairs.

Yet something whispered from the dark drew her to a pause. A presence. Someone’s there. In the shadows. ‘Who is it?’

‘Envy.’

The barest whisper from the night.

She raised her defences. Her Warren crackled, sending papers flying and bursting into flame around her. ‘Who’s there! I demand that you show yourself!’

‘Still afraid of the dark, Envy?’

That voice! So familiar. Who? ‘Who are you?’ she called, tentative now, a hand at her throat.

‘With reason!’

A flash of munitions lit the room, and in a freeze-frame instant revealed a tall man all in black. Face, eyes and hair all black. Envy backed away, her hand at her mouth, and gasped, choking and stammering, ‘Father …!’

And she fainted dead away.

*

One of the Moranth guarding Galene gestured, pointing through the woods, and Torvald joined in squinting at the nearest building corner. There one of the mages had been standing — the hunched, oddly proportioned one — and now while they watched he was down on all fours attempting to get up, clutching at his chest.

‘There! Look there!’ Torvald hissed. He almost reached out for the Moranth Silver. ‘Something’s happening.’

The red tube still in her gauntleted fist, Galene shifted her attention.

The mage managed to straighten but fell backwards against the wall. Panting, in obvious agony, he hugged his chest as if he would burst. Then he disappeared.

‘There!’ Torvald exclaimed. ‘See that! We’ve won!’

‘Contain yourself, Councillor,’ Galene said. She gestured to one of her guards. ‘Check in with the wing commanders. What’s going on?’

The Black trooper ran off through the woods.

*

Up hall after hall they duelled. The heavy flint sword was a blur in the hands of the tireless Imass. Palla retreated step by step, yielding, slipping all blows, leaving countless gashes across the fleshless ribs and skull and