Aurun spent another hour inspecting the defences and talking to his men. He had expected to find them anxious and afraid, but if anything, they seemed excited. He could understand it. They had spent their whole lives being told that they were born for one purpose, to protect their ancestors, and now they were going to have a chance to finally show that they were worthy of all that trust. The more time he spent talking to the men on the walls, the more proud he felt. Their excitement was infectious. They would easily hold the walls until Prince Volant arrived, and then he would explain to him why they need not leave. And then the people of the Barren Points would be free to return home.
As they climbed the walls and headed towards Aurun’s chambers, excited voices rang out.
‘The prince!’ cried the men on the ramparts. ‘All hail the Morn-Prince!’
All along the walls, the sound of horns rang out, bright and bold, seeming to drive back the shadows.
Aurun grabbed Corsos by the shoulder, and the two old friends grinned at each other.
Two worlds were visible to Prince Volant – the first was illusory, full of pain and doubt, and the second was true, full of life yet to be lived, where understanding would be attained. He alone in the princedom could see so clearly and so far, and his royal attire was designed to symbolise the duality of his vision. Like his subordinates in the Gravesward, he wore lacquered black armour and a white, feathered cloak, but his helmet was of a unique, ceremonial design. It was intricately worked so that one side resembled a snarling face, obsidian black and shockingly ferocious, and the other side was palest ivory, its expression serene. The Morn-Prince had a habit, perhaps a subconscious one, of turning his head as he talked, depending on which side of his mask best represented his mood. As he looked down from his saddle at Lord Aurun, only the black side of his mask was visible.
His steed was a skeleton drake, its gleaming bones clad in the same black as its rider. As the prince leant out from its back, the drake settled its enormous wings with a sound like rattling spears. Behind Volant were knights of the royal Gravesward, scythes gleaming and pennants trailing. Their steeds were smaller kin of the beast the prince was riding. It was an impressive sight. Aurun had never received such a visit before. In fact, he had never heard of anyone receiving such a visit.
Behind the pennants was a less cheerful reminder of the prince’s power. Dozens of cylindrical cages were raised up on poles, swaying above the knights’ heads, and each held a pitiful, emaciated wretch, stripped of their clothes and painted with runes. These were the Barred. They were men the prince had deemed unworthy – men who had failed to protect the Unburied. Some were already dead, dangling from their cages, but others would last for days, their cries growing weaker until they finally died from their wounds or lack of water.
‘Did you receive my order?’ said the prince. He spoke softly, but the words chimed through his helmet like a temple bell.
‘Your highness, I did,’ replied Aurun, determined not to be cowed before his men. ‘But the messenger was wounded and confused. He did not make sense. And I’m afraid he did not survive more than a few days. Even if he had lived, I could not have complied with the order.’
The prince stared down at Aurun for a moment. They were outside the fortress, near where the wynd rose to meet its gaping North Gate. The Barren Points was one of the largest fortresses in the princedom, second only to the prince’s own palace, the Lingering Keep. The light of the Unburied was pouring through the walls and flashing across the knights’ scythes, making it hard for Aurun to see the prince. He had to hold up a hand to shield his eyes. The desperate cries of the Barred rang out from their cages, pitiful and deranged as they called for mercy. Aurun knew they were wasting their breath. Prince Volant was known for many things. Mercy was not one of them.
‘We have ridden a long way to reach you, Lord Aurun,’ prompted one of the prince’s captains.
Aurun started, shocked to be addressed so casually by a subordinate.
He bit back an angry reply, conscious that the prince was still staring at him, and stepped back, waving the royal knights through the temple gates. He called for grooms and servants as the deathless steeds clanked past.
‘Give me a few minutes,’ said the prince as his attendants helped him from the drake. Aurun was not lacking in height, but the prince towered over him, eight or nine feet tall and bristling with lacquered ebon plate. His voice sounded like an echo in a crypt. ‘Then join me in my chambers. We have only a few hours to prepare.’
Aurun hesitated, confused. He had been waiting for this moment for years, but now that it had come, it was not playing out how he had expected. He bowed, and was about to reply when he realised the prince had already strode off across the courtyard, preceded by a scurry of servants and courtiers.
Corsos looked as shocked as Aurun. ‘A few hours to prepare for what?’
Aurun shook his head. The column of knights was still riding into the square, and as they passed, Aurun noticed that many of them were wounded, their armour gouged and battered, as though they had been grappling with animals. Their faces were speckled with blood, the crimson stark and shocking against their bone-white skin, and several looked little better than the prisoners suspended above their heads. More shocking than that were the numbers.
‘Is that all of them?’ whispered Corsos, his eyes wide as he leant on his bone staff, peering out through the gates.
They both stared in shock as they realised that there were no more knights coming down the wynd.
‘That’s barely two dozen men,’ said Aurun, shaking his head. ‘I thought this was meant to be the greatest host ever to ride out of the Lingering Keep. Did the Unburied give you no word of this? Did they make no mention of the prince’s situation?’
Corsos looked uncomfortable. ‘Nothing. But you know what I have already told you. They’re troubled and strange. They do not speak with voices I am accustomed to. The last time I prayed to them, they–’
Lord Aurun silenced him with a wave of his hand, already aware of his friend’s concerns. ‘It matters not. We are prepared.’ In fact, thought Aurun, if the prince’s numbers were reduced, it would give him all the better chance to show what the men of the Barren Points were capable of. ‘Do not let this interrupt the usual observances. Make sure everyone gathers for pallsong as usual. Fetch the shield poems from the reliquary and choose something appropriate. I will speak with the prince. When he learns how we have prepared for this day, he will want to come and sing with us.’
Corsos bowed. He turned to leave, but hesitated. ‘My lord,’ he said, nodding at the wounded knights. ‘This must be to do with whatever made the other temples vanish. The prince must have come here because we are–’
‘What happened at the other temples will not happen here.’ Aurun raised his chin. ‘We are different.’ The haughty tones of Prince Volant had given him a new surge of determination. ‘These are the Barren Points. We will not be sent into disarray by the negligence of others. We will not abandon our wards because others cannot tend to theirs.’
Corsos nodded, but seemed unable to drag his gaze from the darkness.
‘Corsos!’ called Aurun, heading back into the temple. ‘Ready the shields. Gather the choir.’
‘They’re gone?’ Aurun found a chair and sat, staring at the floor, his breath quickening.
The servants had put the prince in a room on the south face of the fortress with a balcony that overlooked the wynd. From up here, the huge iron bridge looked like a gossamer thread, glittering with hoarfrost, floating over a gelid storm. Volant’s advisers were waiting outside in the hall, and the two knights were alone.