The Everchosen picked up the hammer and held it out, as if weighing it. ‘The hours grow short, and the shadows long. I would have vengeance, not because I desire it, but because it must take place, else what was it all for?’
Canto’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Archaon was not looking at him. One blow, and he would be free. Or dead, he thought, as he lowered his hand. ‘I do not know, my lord.’
‘The beast will not succeed.’ Archaon touched the shimmering gemstone set into his helm. ‘I have seen its failure, spread across the skein of possibilities. The only question is one of time. When will the pieces fall? And where?’ He spun Ghal Maraz gently in his grip. ‘It must be here. There is a moment here, waiting to be born. It has weight, and draws every other moment towards it, like a stone drawing the man whose leg it is tied to down into the dark water. It will happen in Middenheim.’ He glanced at Canto. ‘The end must justify the means. The world is a lie, and the truth must out.’ Archaon rose to his feet, Ghal Maraz in hand. ‘I cannot rest until that is done, Unsworn. Even if I must defy the gods themselves, I will have the truth.’ He climbed the steps slowly, the hammer dangling from his grip.
Canto watched the Everchosen sink back onto his throne, and thought of Araby.
TEN
Duke Jerrod drove his blade down into the hairy back of the slavering beastman, severing the creature’s spine. He wrenched the blade free and twisted in his saddle, lopping off the arm of another. The creature howled and staggered back, clutching at itself. His stallion whinnied and lashed out, killing the creature with a single blow from its hoof.
The beasts were wild with madness. The bloodlust so common to the minotaurs had spread to every gor and ungor loping beneath the trees. For days they had hurled themselves into death on the spear points and sword blades of the elves, and for every thousand that perished, another thousand prowled forth, slavering and berserk. For the most part the bulk of the enemy were held at bay by the elves, but some small groups had slipped through the wall of spears and shields to ravage behind the static positions. It was these isolated fragments of the horde that the Incarnates had roused themselves to destroy.
The elves, led by the Dragon-Prince, Imrik, were on the verge of exhaustion. But to give in, to surrender even a single glade, was to threaten the safety of the King’s Glade. And that was too steep a price for even an hour’s respite. But such was the fury of this latest onslaught, that even the Incarnates had been stirred from their interminable debate.
Or so it seemed to Jerrod, at least. Endless hours of argument, back and forth, accomplishing nothing tangible save to put folk who should be allies at each other’s throats. It seemed inconceivable to him that such a thing was possible, that even now men and women broke and shattered beneath the weight of their own hubris.
Then, not everyone had the Lady to guide them onto the proper path as he and his knights did. Around him, the Companions of Quenelles fought with courage and honour, lances and swords red with the blood of abominations. He murmured a silent prayer as an axe hacked away one of the frayed strips of silk which decorated the crown of his helmet, and nudged his horse around. The flat of his shield caught the minotaur on the side of the head, knocking it aside. It stumbled, and then fell, as a spear erupted from its side. The beast collapsed onto all fours. Its hide bristled with arrows, and despite the spear in its side, it tried to struggle to its feet. An armoured boot caught it in the head, shoving it back down.
Wendel Volker caught the haft of the spear and jerked it free, before plunging it down through the minotaur’s bulging, bloodshot eye. The Reiksguard looked up at Jerrod and smiled. It was a fierce, unnatural expression, lacking in humour. ‘Much better than listening to all that bickering, eh?’ Volker said.
‘I never knew you to be so eager for a fight, Wendel,’ Jerrod said.
Volker left his spear where he’d planted it. He drew his sword, and a single-bladed axe, from his belt, and hefted them meaningfully. ‘What else is there?’ he rasped. ‘There’s nowhere to run now. May as well take what I’m owed, before the end.’
Volker had changed much in the weeks since they had arrived in Athel Loren, Jerrod reflected. It was as if something grew within him, remaking him in its image. What that image was, and what form it would eventually take, Jerrod could not say. Whatever it was, it frightened him. The white-haired knight had always been a brave, if hesitant man, with too much love of the bottle for Jerrod’s taste, but in the past few weeks he had become a fierce warrior, staying out on the borders of Athel Loren for days at a time, leading his band of foresters and scouts in hunting down any beastmen that slipped through the defences of the elves. The men who followed him included priests of Ulric and Taal, shrieking flagellants and howling, fanatical worshippers of the wolf-god. The mad and the lost, formed into a murderous pack that even the most bloodthirsty beast hesitated to cross.
Volker’s eyes blazed, and Jerrod’s horse whinnied nervously as the temperature dropped suddenly. He followed Volker’s gaze, and saw that he was staring at the elf mage, Teclis. The mage fought beside Lileath, the elf-woman who was neither Incarnate nor noble, as far as Jerrod could tell. He could not, in fact, say what she was. Lileath of the Moon, and Ladrielle of the Veil – that was what she had called herself. But what did those names mean? Why did they sound so familiar to him, as if he had heard them before? In a dream, perhaps, he thought. Volker took a step towards them, weapons raised. Jerrod nudged his horse between them, blocking Volker’s line of sight. ‘Your Emperor has said that the mage is not to be harmed, my friend,’ he said.
Volker grunted. ‘So he has.’ He twitched, and looked up at Jerrod. For a moment, his face was that of the man Jerrod had first met in Averheim, so many months ago. Then the mask was in place once more, and something feral looked out through Volker’s eyes. He nodded to Jerrod and turned, raising his weapons. He howled. Jerrod’s stallion stepped sideways in agitation as Volker’s band of lunatics ghosted through the glade, following into step with their commander. They flowed smoothly towards a point where the elven battle-line was beginning to buckle, and smashed into the beastmen with howls and wild screams.
Jerrod saw the enemy reel from the sudden onslaught. Another charge might put them to flight, he thought. He signalled for one of his Companions to sound his horn. At the first quavering note, the Bretonnian knights broke off from the melee with an ease born of hard-won experience and formed up about him. Jerrod had lost his lance in the first crashing charge, but he wouldn’t need it. Momentum, and the blessings of the Lady, would see him through. And if not, well… death would not find him a coward.
He spurred his horse into a canter and the Companions followed suit, falling into position behind him, arranging themselves by instinct without need for his command. The horses began to pick up speed as they drew closer to the main thrust of the battle. His blood sang in his veins as the canter flowed smoothly into a gallop. It had been too long since the Companions of Quenelles had ridden out and faced the enemy head on. There had been too much skulking behind walls or in glades; such was not the proper way of it, and he relished the chance to show the haughty inhabitants of Athel Loren how a true son of Bretonnia fought.