the first time in his memory. Archers ran to the muster-call.
He had no doubt the gates would burn.
And after them, the city.
“Samiel!” The cry was crazed, but he had nothing else left.
And the Varchinde answered him.
He heard hooves: a thundering that shook the ground, flashed sparks from the grass-devouring flames. Through the wall of smoke and mist and horror, he could see shapes – hazy, mounted. And the
With a high, ululating war cry that echoed back from the city walls, they were there – exploding through the smoke, bridleless, savage, utterly disordered.
His black mare on her hind legs, bellowing defiance, Syke of the Banned wheeled his arm above his head and sent them as a flat-out run, slamming into the rear of the creatures assaulting the gates. They didn’t bother with weapons – the mounts fought for themselves, forehooves slashing, back hooves shattering stone with hammer blows that exploded dust into the air.
He heard a ragged cheer from the archers on the wall.
Reining his mare to a halt, the Lord of Roviarath stared at the war-Banned, heard their yowls and catcalls, wondered at the sheer viciousness of the attack.
He had the oddest feeling they were enjoying themselves.
One hand on his monster recurved bow, Syke brought his snorting, prancing mare close by.
Jade looked at him, stunned. Said only, “Why?”
“Triq,” the Banned commander replied. He gave the Lord a shrewd, narrow-eyed look, then turned to watch the ramshackle mess about him. “Her mare came back. I saw these bastards running, I figured she’d failed. She died – Ress and Jayr – because I didn’t rally when I should’ve done.” He let off an idle snap-shot at a lumbering stone creature, hitting it neatly in the eye socket. Its stone head turned to look at him. “Well, we’re rallied now.”
“You couldn’t have come just a fragment earlier?” Jade was starting to laugh – at his reprieve, at the end of the grief and the horror. He laughed as though he were crying. “They’re not dead, you fool – though your guilt’s appreciated...” He stopped, choked by smoke and relief.
“Guilt, my arse.” Syke’s denial may as well have been a confession. Around them, the Banned were scattering the stone assailants into tumbling rubble. Spearmen were laughing, coughing, picking themselves up. He heard the cry to rally from close to the wall.
Jade managed a grin, though it struggled to reach his eyes – they’d seen too much.
“The scouts said the Monument’s collapsing – the light’s going out.” He clapped the grey-eyed man on the shoulder – old friend, old adversary, familiar thorn in the CityWarden’s side. “Be proud of Triqueta – she won.”
“So did you, you daft old sod,” Syke told him. “So did you.”
29: LOREMASTER
FHAVEON, THE MONUMENT
Roderick was woken by a stealthy
He lay still, taut in the darkness, listening.
He’d been dreaming – again. Dreaming of the Ryll, glory and tumble and sparkle and spray. Dreaming of the very mind of the Goddess – too much for mortal man to bear. The aged Guardians stood watch, but had they never touched the water.
Somehow, he had seen the waterfall with more clarity than he ever had. Yet the image had been split, broken – had he seen it through some cracked casement, some twisted reflection?
This time, the noise brought him fully awake.
Like a child afraid of figments in the night, he held himself breathless and stock-still.
The noise was hastier this time, almost nervous.
Pulse racing now, the Bard swung himself into a sitting position, put his bare feet on the cold stone floor. He rubbed his eyes, shoved his filthy mass of hair out of his face, and then got up and padded over to the door. He was stiff, his legs ached from lack of use.
He said, softly, “What?”
“Roderick! You’re awake!”
The voice was unknown to him.
Puzzled, he replied, “Yes. Who is it? What do you want?”
“Hang on.”
There was the sound of a drop-key being lifted. A moment later, a tiny crack of yellow rocklight touched his discarded black boot and then spread outwards in an arc across the floor.
Startled, he backed away. “Who are you? Who’s there?”
The crack opened wider, and the light blinded him after days in the gloom. Raising an arm to shield his eyes, he saw that the incoming figure was a soldier, a young woman, pale and furtive.
And the last, cold shock doused him.
He found himself shrinking back against the wall, sudden fear robbing him of breath.
It was over.
The after-images of his dreaming broke loose, spilled free and made the hairs on his arms prickle. Faced by the soldier that had come to take him to his death, he was still shaking at fragments unnamed – something about a creature of crystal and fire?
The shattered-window image came again – through it, he could see the waters of the Ryll clearer than he had ever done, clearer than even the Guardians had ever witnessed. It was as though there was something in the way, some conduit or device, something that both enhanced and defended his flawed mortal vision –
A cold, hard object was being pressed into his hand.
Startled, he looked down.
The door had opened enough to let the soldier slide through and pull it almost-closed behind her. She was pressing a weapon into the Bard’s anxious grip, a long, narrow poignard, real white-metal, with a nasty-looking point. For a moment, Roderick blinked at it, baffled – was the city offering him another way out?
A way to end his own life with dignity?
Love of the
The first spark of rebellion ignited somewhere in his heart. He said, “No...”
But the soldier was speaking, low and urgent.
“They’re coming for you. Any minute now.” The woman looked back at the door and spoke quickly. “Everything’s changed. Demisarr is dead, Rhan has been cast down. Phylos closes his fist around the city, and around the Varchinde.” She was sweating. “I bear you a message, brought by bretir from the Lord Nivrotar in Amos. She says you must go to her. And she says to tell you, “The world’s fear comes.”
Ice shivered through the Bard’s skin. Demisarr, Rhan, Nivrotar. The world’s fear. The Monument, blazing. Ecko. Death in the grass.
It was too much to take in.
But the soldier was panicking now.
“You have to get out of here! They’re coming!”
“How do you know this?” Roderick gripped the woman’s shoulder, striving for stability. “How do you...?”
“I don’t. I’m just a message bearer. The Wanderer’s still here. If you hurry...” The soldier glanced back again as other feet sounded further down the passageway.
