felt useless.
'I feel so weak. Please, ring for Ahden,' the old man whispered.
Isak found a bell-pull beside the fire and tugged it hard, setting a jangle of bells going in other rooms. Within a matter of seconds, Ahden was storming in to the room, ignoring Isak as he made his way straight to his master's side.
The servant told Isak curtly that his companions were waiting for him downstairs. Maids would show them to their rooms. Isak looked at Fedei and said softly, 'Feel better. We'll be fine.' He received a wan smile in reply.
Isak rejoined his friends, who were gathered together in a stately but comfortable room, chatting. He said little for the rest of the evening, the image of the dark knight and his fanged sword weighing heavy on his soul.
CHAPTER 27
The desert smelled of age. Looking around at the withered trees clinging to the rocky ground, Kastan Styrax felt his own fatigue even more strongly. The ghost of an evening breeze yawned past his face as he removed his helm and looked at the cultivated scrap of land that, astonishingly, had warded off the desert long enough for the houses here to grow old and dilapidated.
Unhooking the golden rings of his belt from the great padded saddle, he slipped down from the wyvern's back and on to the dusty earth. The freezing air high above had left his muscles cold and stiff, but it took only a few careful steps to recapture his balance. He flexed his huge shoulders twice and then drew the fanged sword from behind
his back.
He stretched his back, arms and shoulders by working through forms, slowly, assuredly. As the massive blade hissed through the cool air, the grunting wyvern behind him turned its head, then returned its unblinking eyes to a figure trotting towards them from the distant
houses.
The figures completed, Styrax returned the obsidian – black sword to its sheath and sucked in a great gulp of air. The scent of the desert was more apparent down here, where the air was warm and calm, and he stood still for a moment to savour it. He spotted a miniva, one of the strange, dust-coloured plants that flourished all over this desert, providing food for animals and humans alike. Styrax bent down to examine the delicate fronds of the miniva leaf that absorbed what little moisture there was in the air. Lifting the flattened leaves, he exposed the deep-red plant stem. The tiny fruits were pale, not yet ripe, but he plucked and ate one, savouring the sharp sourness. A smile hovered on Kastan Styrax's lips as he waited for his vassal to approach.
'My Lord,' said the arriving soldier. He removed his black-iron helm
and dropped to one knee. His hair fell down untidily as he bowed his head. When he peered cautiously up he had to shake the long strands out of the way. After a pause he was motioned to rise. The man was small for a white-eye, and it was even more apparent when he stood before the Lord of the Menin.
'Duke Vrill. Everything proceeds as planned?'
'As well as I could hope for,' replied the duke. He cursed himself as he heard the nervousness in his voice; however slight, Lord Styrax would notice. In recent years their rare meetings had been in the comfortable surrounds of Crafanc and Anote Vrill had forgotten just how overwhelming his master could be, particularly when dressed for battle. The soul-sapping, weirdly curved armour grated on the edges of the duke's soul as much as the vile air of malice radiating from the sword Kobra. He shivered.
Styrax said, 'You've had problems with the centaurs. The Dark Knights are about to return home. Suzerain Zolin ran a sword through one of his own bondsmen, and a mage of the Order of the Five Black Stars was murdered last night.'
If any other man had said that, Vrill would have gaped in surprise. The duke prided himself on being better informed than his peers, yet his Lord always managed to surprise him. It had often occurred to Vrill that, in another age, he would have been Lord of the Menin, for no one, nobleman, merchant or politician, could match him for intellect and plotting – with the exception of Lord Styrax. As it was, Duke Vrill's lust for power had not overshadowed his intelligence and it was clear that Lord Styrax was at least equally adept at intricacy and cunning. Even the Mages of the Hidden Tower lived in fear of his skill. Only a madman would exercise the Menin right of challenge – though that most ancient of laws stated combatants should use identical weapons, it would make no difference. Styrax had won his right to rule at the age of twenty when he had killed his predecessor, who had ruled the Menin for three hundred years. The old Lord had wielded Kobra. Kastan Styrax used a steel broadsword. His prowess was unsurpassed and soon the entire Land would come to recognise that.
The duke put his musings to one side and concentrated on what his Lord was saying. 'How did you know about the mage?'
'I told Kohrad to do it. The man was a necromancer, and my son relishes any chance to practise his own arts.' There was a hint of laughter in that statement, but Styrax was a man who laughed alone. He didn't joke for the sake of others.
'So that's why he burned a unicorn. I hadn't realised there was reason to it.'
That was the reason. Kohrad is not completely gone yet, but I am hoping he overextends in the battle. Pitting him against the Order of Fire might amuse him enough to draw more magic than he can control. If that happens, Gaur knows what to do. You will assist him however he wishes.'
Vrill nodded, then ventured, 'Is Kohrad dying, then?'
The white-eye Lord drew in a sharp breath at the question, but Vrill had proved many times that he knew his place; that he intended to find greatness in Styrax's shadow. He could be trusted, as far as Kastan Styrax trusted anyone.
He answered the question. 'Eventually it will consume him, but I have no intention of losing this battle – or any other.'
Vrill nodded and bowed low, discreetly withdrawing from Styrax's presence. 'I will have a man bring you food.'
Styrax nodded distantly, staring away to the fading sun. As wisps of cloud stretched away like the sun's smoky trails, dusk wrapped the landscape in chill shadows. 'Make sure he's young, and of no consequence.'
Vrill hesitated, surprised by the command, then nodded curtly and marched back to his men. Styrax returned to the wyvern and unbuckled the saddle – none of his beastmasters were there to tend to the creature and a hungry wyvern wouldn't let a common soldier see to it. Once the ornate saddle was removed, Styrax took hold of the creature's nearside horn and roughly pulled its head towards him. The wyvern resisted for a second, then moved. Styrax peered into one massive green-veined eye and checked the shine and dilation of the pupil for a moment. He gave a grim smile, satisfied the beast remained sufficiently in his thrall.
He ran his fingers over the massive, blue-green scales that covered the wyvern's head. His left hand, snow- white now, was bare, as always. He felt little sensation through the skin since the day he'd won his armour on the battlefield. He ran a red-stained fingernail down the edge of one scale, teased out a small parasite and crushed it. He tapped lightly, listening carefully, and found two more of the potentially lethal parasites. There was no time to check the wyvern's entire
body so he stopped once the head was clear. That would do for now. From his saddle he withdrew a large, tightly wrapped bundle and untied the leather straps that held it together. He shook the bundle out and laid it on the ground. The woven silk looked creased and worn in the fading light. He didn't bother pulling out the waxed tent-cloth. There would be no rain tonight, only a biting cold that the many layers of silk would keep at bay.
The wyvern stamped one clawed foot and dragged a furrow through the ground, then shook its large homed head at Styrax, stretching out its wings to their full extent. He silenced it with a short gesture, but it was clear from the glare it gave him as it hunkered down that the wyvern was not wholly cowed. A minute or two of foraging found an armful of sticks, not enough to keep him warm throughout the night, but sufficient for his needs. Once the wyvern settled down for the night, it would willingly allow him to curl up against its belly.
Styrax divided the sticks into two piles and waved a hand over one of them. It burst into flame. He smiled, wondering idly when he had last lit a fire by natural means, until a snort from the wyvern made him look up
