remained and a tiny shanty town had sprung up. The place stank and Berren felt a wild urge to race into its midst and burn it to the ground, to chase off everyone who would flee and slaughter the ones who would not and give it back to the ghosts of all the men he’d once known but would never see again.
They marched from Forgenver down the south road towards Galsmouth and Tethis. Berren rode at the front of the army on a horse he’d stolen from some officer of the sun-king who’d found himself on the wrong end of a javelin. He could have had his own cohort if he’d asked for it but he never did, preferring his own company. In the south he’d fought with Tarn, or with Talon, or wherever else he thought he could make a difference. Where the enemy was strongest, or weakest, or simply the easiest to reach. Today he rode with what was left of the Deephaven lancers. There were a dozen of them now, the rest dead or drifted away, and he was as much one of them as he was anything else after the last season in the south. And besides, he didn’t want to be with Tarn for this. Not with a friend he might see killed for such a sour and selfish business. Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of the last time he’d come this way. The anger, the hunger, the hope, the desire. They’d come to free Syannis, to free Fasha and Gelisya and to kill Saffran Kuy, and for all their victories they’d done none of that.
At least there was no endless rain this time, no need for carefully prepared caches of food; now they lived off the land. As they reached Galsmouth, half the company, the half made up of the veterans who had fought against Meridian, marched openly towards the town, welcomed with open arms by the soldiers that now made up the garrison there. The rest, Berren, the other foreigners and southerners, the men with strange faces and sun- darkened skin, skirted the town and vanished into the hills. They left behind their colours and their badges, took on new ones and became the Thousand Ghosts. A forgery of renegades whispered in the winter winds in Kalda, masquerading beneath carefully planted stories of brigands and rapists, of looters and pillagers.
Talon’s plan was absurdly simple: the Thousand Ghosts were a story carefully made and spread over months. For one night they would become real. They would throw themselves on the city of Tethis and for a few perilous hours it would seem as though the town stood on the edge of destruction; then Talon and his Hawks would arrive in the nick of time, the wicked brigands would flee and all would be safe once more. Everything would happen in a blur of confusion, too quick for anyone to count the Thousand Ghosts and realise they were more like a hundred. It would be over in a night. In the chaos Talon would sweep away the warlocks, and in that blur kings and princes would die.
On the last day out from Tethis Talon slipped away from his men too. He put on a helm that covered his face, hid his colourful cloak and banner behind leathers and furs, and joined the Thousand Ghosts. They waited all through the night, until before the first gleam of dawn on the horizon. From the light of the stars and the moon, they could all see the castle where king Aimes was doubtless sleeping, little more than a bow shot away.
‘You know where to go.’ Berren nodded. Talon turned to the three men who would lead the charge on the castle. ‘And you? Sure you know what to do?’ They nodded too. ‘Smoke and noise, friends, no more. This is my home.’ Maybe it was the moonlight, but Talon seemed to have turned pale, almost white as though he’d seen a ghost. Finally the Prince of War took a deep breath. He gave the sign and the Thousand Ghosts began to creep in silence towards Tethis and the castle that loomed before them.
‘Let it begin.’ He sounded grim.
Berren mounted his horse. He waved to the lancers and rode towards the river and its gorge. In the time it took for the Thousand Ghosts to rouse the castle guard, Berren would come from another way. They would leave their horses at the top of the gorge and slide silently into the castle, following the same path that he and Syannis had used years ago. He had no key this time, but he had a dozen men and he had a small ram. They’d appear inside just as he had done before. He’d slip through the darkness and find Aimes and kill him for Talon and then open the gates and the castle would fall. Except his own plan was a little different. He would not search for Aimes but for Gelisya and for Fasha and for his son. He’d take them all, and then, and only then, decide who he would allow to live and who would die.
They reached the top of the gorge and there everything started to go wrong. There were king’s guard, a dozen of them, maybe more, already making their way along the river and into the fields. They couldn’t possibly have come so far from the castle unless they’d already left before the attack had begun, and there was only one thing that could mean.
Syannis knew.
The soldiers sent up a cry of alarm; the lancers, who knew no better, rode them down. Berren screamed after them and charged in their wake. The lancers scythed down half the guards on their first pass and turned hard for a second. Berren watched, lost for words. Most of the survivors broke and ran. The horsemen chased them down. In the middle someone was still standing. Whoever it was had his back to him. Berren lowered his spear and cut him down.
The lancers dismounted and drew their throat-cutting knives. For all Berren knew, Aimes might be among the dead here, Syannis too, perhaps both of them. When the Deephaven soldiers were done, he forced himself to stare into the faces of the fallen, and there was Aimes with his head smashed in. King Aimes. Dead. He wasn’t wearing anything to mark him out, no crown, no golden sword, nothing. If he hadn’t had Berren’s face, he could have been anyone.
But no sign of Syannis. Berren wasn’t sure whether to feel glad or afraid; all he wanted right now was the same as he’d wanted for years: Fasha and their child. And then he’d be gone, away with the gold he’d saved from the seasons in the south. The dead staring back at him made it possible. For better or for worse, more by accident than intent, he’d done what Talon had wanted of him. There would be no more killing. He’d take his son and go somewhere far away, where Syannis and Talon and Gelisya would never find him. To Deephaven, or to some other part of the empire. Syannis might chase him to the ends of the world for what he’d done here, but however far he went Berren would simply go further.
He took a moment to look at Aimes, that face that was so nearly his own, the face that had changed his life beyond all reason, and closed the dead king’s eyes, glad that he’d not been the one to deliver the killing blow. Then he turned away, because what mattered now was to get into the castle, to find Fasha and do it quickly; and then to the harbour and away, never to see Tarn or Talon or any of the others again. He’d miss them, he knew. Some of them.
They left the bodies where they lay and cantered back to the gorge, dismounted at the top and ran down the path that Syannis had once shown to him. He missed the cave at first and wasted ten minutes searching for it. They lost another five smashing down the grate. By now he was late, terribly late — the sun was rising and he should have been inside the castle almost an hour ago — but there was nothing to be done about that. They stripped off their armour and swords and swam the sump, Berren first. The Pit lay beyond, empty and dark today. They paused long enough to arm themselves again and then ran up the steps, through the cellar and into the guardroom, to the place where he and Syannis had last raised their blades together.
It was empty. The king’s guard were out on the walls. In Talon’s scheme Berren and his lancers would take the castle gates from behind and let the Thousand Ghosts inside. They’d ransack the place and Aimes would die. And then, in the thin light of the dawn, the Hawks would come. But Aimes was already dead, and Berren was afraid of what else that might mean.
He tore open the door to the armoury, but the secret panel at the back had been bricked shut. No way through. He cursed. ‘Out. Quietly. Take down anyone in your way and get the gate open. Quick now.’
He left the lancers to it and ran from the guardroom deeper into the castle. The place was deathly quiet. No soldiers anywhere. No shouting. He kicked down the doors to the kitchens. Empty too. Except for the soldiers out on the walls, the castle seemed abandoned.
And then it came to him: Gelisya wasn’t here! And why would she be, when she knew what was coming? The Hawks had made no secret of their march south from Forgenver. She’d known days ago. Syannis had known too.
No. Not
The lancers did their job. The gates were opened and the Thousand Ghosts poured in. The surrounded guards threw down their swords and surrendered without a fight. Berren counted. Sixteen of them left. Sixteen men to defend a castle? He pushed through them, looking for Lucama, but Lucama wasn’t there.
No Gelisya. No Syannis. No slave. No son. And he would go after them, and Syannis would stand in his way,
