go.’
The door closed behind Brynar and Denser sank down onto his haunches and let the sobs roll over him, his tears mingling with the water that dripped from his face and hair. His body shook. He clamped his hands to his thighs, rocking back and forth.
The pounding flame and the incessant white teardrops. Her hair alight, surrounding her face while she screamed. The fire engulfing her hands at which she stared until the heat blinded her and suffocated her. Fingers clawing at the ground while she died. The tearing agony as her soul was lost to the void.
Worse than before. Ark had saved her soul from the demons the first time. Nothing could save her now, and even in his death Denser would not be near her. Not ever again. Denser let images of her face, her first face, settle in front of his eyes. He reached out but they distorted like reflections on windblown water.
Denser sat while the water chilled his body, making him shiver and interrupting his despair. He raised his head and wiped his face with his hands. He drew in a huge pained breath and coughed violently. So brief, returned life.
‘Get up, Denser,’ he said to himself. ‘Wallow later. Do something. Do something.’
He pushed himself to his feet. And, while he dried himself and found a change of clothes, he thought. He cleared his mind of his visions as far as he could and thought back over all that had happened out there on the battlefield and all that the dead had said in the days before.
And when he was done, he found that there was only one question that really mattered. Had his mind been playing tricks and, if not, what in all the hells had happened to Sol?
Denser studied himself in the mirror. A little greyer than the last time he had looked. And plainly exhausted too, but rest would have to wait. He placed a fresh skullcap on his head and made his way down the spiral stair of his upper tower to where Brynar would have left his food for him.
He opened the door to find he would not be eating alone.
‘Bloody hell, what’s brought you up out of your hole? And who let you in without asking me?’
‘My Lord Denser, it is customary to extend the hand of friendship to those with your best interests at heart,’ said Dystran.
The old Lord of the Mount chose not to stand, and instead remained seated on one of the leather-upholstered chairs in Denser’s dining chamber.
‘I see you’ve already helped yourself to most of my lunch. Don’t they feed you down in the catacombs? Too many rats and grubs, is it?’
Denser stalked into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He rang the communication bell, poured himself a large goblet of wine and sat opposite Dystran, whose eyes were sparkling from his prematurely aged face. Mischief and conspiracy, no doubt. Dystran waved a hand impatiently.
‘Oh, Denser, do shut up. There is more and better food in this tower’s kitchens than in entire quarters of our once-great city.’
Denser looked past Dystran to the grand fireplace, above which a portrait of the man in his younger days looked down. It was one of a set depicting the last eight Lords of the Mount in what could loosely be termed relaxed attitudes. Dystran was smiling.
‘And one day your picture will hang above the fireplace and mine will be consigned to the corner by the old broken window over there.’
‘I think not,’ said Denser. ‘I have told the committee that deals with such things, whatever it’s called-’
‘Heritage and History.’
‘Yep, them. That the most relaxed painting of me they’ll get is when I’m dead.’
Dystran laughed hard. ‘Very good, Denser. Very good indeed. I’m glad your sense of humour remains intact.’
‘It has been some time since I made that remark,’ said Denser. ‘Now tell me what you want. I have much to do.’
‘Indeed. One of the few survivors, I understand. Even King Sol is missing and, we presume, lost.’ Dystran’s attempt at a sympathetic expression was poor, more resembling a smirk. ‘No doubt the last few days have been… difficult for you.’
Denser gaped.
‘Difficult? I have witnessed a massacre. I have seen my best field mage teams obliterated. I have seen my guards dismembered, literally, right before my eyes. I have seen The Raven dead torn to pieces… and I have seen my wife, my wonderful wife, burn. Gone in moments. And I was helpless and so I ran. I ran, Dystran. Like a scared child behind the legs of its mother, hoping the monster wasn’t real. But it is real. And it is coming this way. So yes, you could say things have been just a little tricky.’
He grabbed Dystran’s plate from him and shoved over to him the thin remains on the serving dish instead.
‘And I come back here to find my city in chaos. The dead are bunching together towards the east gates because too many of my people think they are a curse on the living or whatever. Refugees are sleeping on every street corner and in every doorway and I have no way to feed or house them all. And profiteering appears rife. Such are the mercies of our wonderful city folk, eh?’
‘The problems within the city can wait a while. There is more to your massacre than you think,’ said Dystran.
Denser spoke through a mouthful of meat. ‘Meaning.’
‘Meaning you need to ask more questions of those here to help you and lean less upon the dead you choose to trust. The solution is plain to see but you have allowed old loves and loyalties to obscure it. You have witnessed a massacre, yes. But you have also witnessed the path to defeating this enemy.’
Denser scratched at his head under his skullcap. A pain was growing behind his eyes.
‘It’s an interesting version of events, I’ll grant you that. My own battlefield mathematics reckons we lost about two hundred, maybe more, once the wounded are brought back or not. Whereas the enemy lost one machine, a couple of animals and, what, twenty men? All of whom were replaced by ten times that number as quickly as you can snap your fingers. If this is the path to victory, then damn right it is obscured from me.
‘You know, I’ve had a really trying day on top of about ten really trying days. I don’t think I want to hear your befuddled reasoning if it’s all the same to you.’ Denser stood. ‘And if the words “you can’t trust the dead” are in anyway allied to your theory, I suggest you go and speak it to the deepest stone in the catacombs because I already don’t believe it. They warned me this enemy was too powerful. I should have listened.’
Dystran remained in his chair and eyed Denser coolly. His hands were trembling but not with the effects of his nightmares. Not this time.
‘Then you are more stupid and obstinate than even I had imagined. And you will consign us all to death. I should warn you that Lords of the Mount holding the reins of inevitable disaster are often thrown from their runaway wagons.’
Denser felt a cold breeze across his entire body. A smile played on his mouth and he pointed a finger at Dystran.
‘You’re threatening me,’ he said. ‘I really don’t believe it.’
‘No,’ said Dystran. ‘I really am your friend and ally. One of the few that remains, I suspect, within or without the Circle Seven. I will take my leave now; my appetite has diminished considerably since you came in. But I will say this. Ask yourself why it is that the enemy is not currently heading directly for Xetesk. There is a man here who knows why. I believe him at any rate. A most trustworthy man. And you might want to speak to your Communion Globe master too. He has a name for this enemy. Amongst other things.’
Dystran stood and walked to the door. He paused there for dramatic effect.
‘Your dead want you to run. They spread dissension among those who will listen in Xetesk, and some have taken heed and departed. The dead do not wish for you to see. The enemy creates a barren wilderness where nought but a floating soul could possibly find joy with its fellows. I see glory for Xetesk and I want to be standing before the man who will finally deliver it to us.’
‘Get out,’ said Denser, ringing the communication bell.
‘I am yours to call.’ Dystran smiled. ‘When you need me.’
Brynar entered before the door was fully closed.
‘You summoned me, Lord Denser.’
