The Spear of Malice (War of the Archons 3) Read online

  Siff closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to control the pain with her strength of will, but it did little good. She turned from the edge of the canyon, heading back to the encampment. Perhaps if she threw herself into planning the coming battle it would help take her mind from her injuries.

  When she reached Laigon’s tent she was relieved to see he was still awake. The flickering light of a candle was visible through the entrance and she passed the praetorians guarding the way to see him still poring over the Shengen attack plans. The coming siege would be difficult, but Laigon had marshalled dozens of campaigns in service to the Shengen emperor and the Iron Tusk after him. If there was any man who could overcome the defences of Mantioch it was he.

  ‘Still awake, Valdyr,’ she said as she looked down at the plans. ‘Do you never rest?’

  ‘I could say the same to you,’ he replied, still staring at the map of the outlying terrain.

  Siff could see he had laid out plans for the siege. Small wooden blocks represented his troops, the city of Mantioch had been hastily sketched at the centre of the map. There was only one way in across a raised bridge.

  ‘Are we ready?’ she asked.

  Laigon nodded. ‘Siege ladders will be hoisted at the eastern wall to cause a diversion. Then the ram will be pushed across the bridge to the main gate.’

  Siff looked down at the plans. Even from the rudimentary sketch she could tell they would suffer great casualties. More sacrifices. But they would be necessary if Innellan was to be stopped. If she was allowed to continue her reign in the north this whole realm would eventually suffer much greater loss.

  ‘Are your men ready?’

  ‘My men are always ready. They have not failed you yet.’

  Siff felt the pain of that more keenly than any wound she had suffered. Despite her refusal to accept their worship she knew they held her in as high regard as their emperor.

  ‘And I will not fail them,’ she replied.

  Laigon regarded her with sympathy. ‘You should sit this one out. You need rest. It would not—’

  ‘No. I will be in the vanguard as always. I cannot ask them to risk their lives while I stand aside and watch.’

  Laigon was about to argue when there came a shout from outside the tent. When they both walked outside to see what the commotion was, Siff saw a rider entering the camp.

  The horse was exhausted, snorting loudly as it came to a stop. The rider was in a worse state and he tumbled from the saddle to be caught by two of the Shengen warriors, who gently lowered him to the ground.

  Siff approached, seeing it was one of Josten’s scouts. The man gratefully accepted a waterskin, drinking deeply from it.

  ‘What has happened?’ Siff asked. ‘Where is the rest of your troop? Where is Josten?’

  The man tried to rise but he was too fatigued. ‘Ambush,’ he managed to say.

  Siff knelt beside him. ‘What is your name?’ she asked gently.

  ‘I am Eyman,’ said the scout. He was no Shengen, but one of the Cordral militia who had joined them at Dunrun.

  ‘Tell me what happened to you.’

  He knelt on the ground, taking another drink before saying, ‘They were waiting for us. They knew we were coming. It was a slaughter. Everyone…’

  ‘Josten?’ she said.

  He fixed her with a sorrowful gaze. ‘Everyone,’ he repeated.

  Siff stood as the camp surgeon came to see to the scout. Josten was lost. As much as Siff tried not to feel the grief of it she still suffered the loss keenly. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she tried to shrug off the pain. Josten had agreed to join her even though this was not his fight. She had persuaded him to come along on her crusade and he had sacrificed himself for the cause. But then, so had so many others. Blaming herself would not bring him back. She had been tricked. Innellan had deceived her into chasing the Stone of Katamaru and she had fallen for it like a fool.

  She marched through the encampment to a tent surrounded by sentries. None of them stood in her way as she lit a torch from a nearby sconce and entered. The Hierophant was still tied to his chair, asleep. As she entered he awoke, blinking in the brightness of the torch as he saw her standing, watching him. It pleased her to see the fear that crossed his features.

  ‘You must have known this moment was coming,’ Siff said.

  ‘I had no choice,’ the Hierophant replied. ‘The White Widow demanded prisoners. That was my sacrifice.’

  ‘And the Stone of Katamaru? Was that also a lie?’

  The Hierophant could not hold her gaze. It was clear he did not want to answer, conflicted by his fear of Siff and the terrifying prospect of betraying Innellan.

  ‘We still have it… in Mantioch. But Innellan cares little for it.’

  ‘What do you mean, she cares little for it? The Stone is an artefact of supreme power.’

  The Hierophant shook his head as Siff took a step forward. It needed all her will not to crush his head in her hands.

  ‘Please, I am but a servant. I know nothing of—’

  He stopped, his face reddening. As Siff watched his features went slack, his body convulsing, white froth gathering at the corners of his mouth. Before she could move closer, his eyes flipped open revealing two dark black pools.

  Siff knew she was no longer in the presence of a mortal. This was her sister Innellan in all but flesh.

  They regarded one another across the tent. Slowly her sister smiled in that wicked way that so many found alluring. It sickened Siff to her stomach, and it took all her willpower not to pull the Hierophant’s head from his shoulders and fling it into the night.

  ‘You are determined to stop me,’ the Hierophant spoke with the voice of an Archon. ‘That much cannot be denied. But I wonder; are you sure you’re strong enough, sister?’

  Siff didn’t want to answer. She knew she was being goaded, but simply couldn’t help herself.

  ‘We will meet soon enough,’ she replied. ‘And you will see exactly how strong I am. You have betrayed the covenant. You do not belong here.’

  Her sister laughed, dry and hoarse through the Hierophant’s throat. ‘Of course we belong here. This is our purpose – to rule over these chattels. And it is their purpose to serve. To worship us.’

  ‘No. That is not the way. We agreed. We all agreed.’

  ‘You agreed,’ said Innellan. ‘You dictated. You ordered and enforced. None of us believed it. Without benefaction what are we?’

  ‘We cannot—’

  ‘You cannot,’ Innellan snarled. ‘You refuse it, but it taunts you. I can sense your weakness… and your yearning. You want their worship more than I do. Why deny yourself any longer?’

  ‘Because I am stronger than you. More powerful than you will ever be.’

  Another wicked leer. ‘Then you should prove yourself, sister.’

  ‘What do you—’

  Before Innellan could speak another word, the Hierophant’s eyes rolled back in his head, the black turning again to white. Blood began to trickle from their corners as he sobbed dark rivulets down his cheeks.

  Siff took a step back as the Hierophant began to choke, spitting gobs of red from his throat, convulsing as though stricken with a palsy. Within moments his body went limp, head lolling to one side.

  Then you should prove yourself, sister.

  What had Innellan meant? Cold dread welled up inside her as she left the tent. The camp was calm, surrounded by the quiet of night, but something was wrong.

  Siff rushed to the highest point of the camp, to the ridge looking over the surrounding desert. There she closed her eyes, feeling the bodies among the encampment, every soul within it – some resting, some anxious, some hopeful.

  With ethereal fingers, Siff reached out, stretching past the limits of the camp, spreading her essence beyond any mortal boundaries. She crossed the desert, feeling with her consciousness in every direction, snaking her way along the desert floor. She was half blind in the darkness, but still she c
ould feel her way, every inch filling her with a growing sense of foreboding until…

  They stood tall and silent in the blackness of the desert. Row upon row waiting at Innellan’s behest less than a league away from the Shengen encampment. It was a horde – countless warriors of the Ramadi, a host made up of fanatics from every cult.

  Siff opened her eyes, feeling the cold breeze chill her to the bone. Innellan’s army was coming in overwhelming numbers. Her sister had been right – it was time to prove herself.

  9

  THE drumming of hooves on the hard dirt road were all she concentrated on as she urged the horse further north. It was getting tired beneath her, but what could she expect after galloping the steed for a day and a night? As the sun began to rise on the desert she could feel the beast becoming less surefooted, its breath coming in ragged gasps, but still Adaali kicked its flanks, pressing it harder. It was the only chance she had to survive this.

  Despite digging her heels into its flanks the horse ignored her, slowing every few yards. She glanced back, peering through the morning haze at the distant horizon. They were still there. The riders who had dogged her trail for a day and a night were not yet ready to give up the chase and she could just make out their dark cloaks billowing as they forced their own steeds on to greater exertion. It was not enough that they had murdered her mother and brother, they would only be satisfied when she too was dead.

  As Adaali focused north once more, memories of the slaughter in Kantor began to plague her. The vision of her mother raging, flinging herself at Egil Sun only to be cut down by the bonecaster’s knife. Adaali gritted her teeth against the memory, forcing it from her mind, only to have it replaced by the dying face of her brother, those eyes of his filled with such innocence.

  ‘I was silent. Just like you told me,’ he’d whispered, moments before taking that final breath.

  Adaali’s eyes welled, the tears streaking her face as she rode. The anger at such injustice burned inside her, the fire of vengeance raging. There would be a reckoning for this and she would start with her pursuers, but she knew she could not face them on open ground. Were she to stop and confront them here she would be cut down in an instant. Then who would avenge her family? Not Musir Dragosh, for surely he was already dead. Not the militia of Kantor, for they had done nothing to stop this massacre in the first place. She was the only one left now, and she was determined that Egil Sun would die by her hand before she perished. All she had to do was live long enough to see it through.

  That prospect seemed a distant one as her horse faltered beneath her. Its rhythmic hoofbeats grew more unsteady, but in her desperation Adaali kicked it on all the harder. It stumbled, and she felt cold panic grip her chest. With a final pained whinny the horse reared, then collapsed to the ground. It hit the earth with a thump, but Adaali had already cleared the saddle and rolled clear, despite her fatigue. She rose to her feet in a cloud of dust, and approached the prone horse. It was still alive, but barely. Exhaustion had finished it, the bulky warhorse was not bred for long flights through the desert.

  Adaali knelt by its side, laying a hand on the horse’s neck. She would have to leave it here to die alone and suffering. With no weapon she could not help relieve the animal’s pain.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Then she was on her feet once more, running north as the dawn sun began to illuminate the desert.

  It beat down on her intensely as she fought her way north across the sands, across the dust, over dunes and rocky outcrops. Every now and again she would allow herself a glance back into the distance, and every time she would see those dark-cloaked riders gaining on her. It wouldn’t be long before they ran her down.

  There was nowhere for her to flee. This far north, this close to the Ramadi border, there was no civilisation, no towns or cities had existed here for decades. Since the Fall they had all been consumed by the desert. Her only chance was to keep going, to put one foot in front of the other until she could find somewhere to hide, or at least make a final stand.

  Thirst clawed at her throat, her muscles cramping, her legs burning from the endless flight. She crested one last ridge, ready to give up the chase, when she saw something below that restored her vigour.

  It was a settlement – or at least it had been at one time or another. A sorry collection of buildings was arranged in a wheel formation, narrow streets forming the spokes that led to a central hub. Most of the buildings were in ruins, with those to the east all but consumed by the sands, though a few remained intact.

  As she stumbled down the side of the ridge, Adaali wondered if there might at least be someone alive here. Someone eking out a meagre living in the desert. The closer she got the more she abandoned the notion. There was no one alive here, there hadn’t been for centuries. Besides, no one could help her even if the place was inhabited. The bonecasters would slaughter anyone who stood in their way.

  Still, there was nowhere else for her to run. If she were to strike out further into the desert she would be easy prey. This was as good a place as any to stand and fight and die.

  Adaali moved further towards the centre, her search becoming more desperate as she tried to find some hiding place or anything that could be used as a weapon. In one crumbling two-storey building she found the broken handle of a sword, the blade long since rusted away. Just as she was about to abandon any hope of finding something useful she noticed the haft of a spear lying in the dirt. As she picked it up, the wooden shaft crumbled in her grip, but the rusted steel head was still in one piece. Adaali allowed herself a smile. At least she would not go down easily – she would show these bonecasters the viciousness of her bite.

  Pressing on, she reached the centre of the settlement. Here a few of the buildings were almost intact, though there were still no signs of life. A dried-up well stood in the centre of the town, and across from it was what looked like the ruins of an ancient temple. Adaali crossed the central square, tentatively peering inside. The door had rotted away, and she crept through the open arch. Inside was but a single chamber, high ceilinged and relatively undamaged. As the sunlight beamed through the gaps in the roof, Adaali gasped at what she saw.

  Someone had been there recently, at least in the past few weeks. Every inch of the walls was covered in script. Markings, cyphers and litanies covered the place. As Adaali peered at the words, she realised they were little more than the ramblings of an unhinged mind. ‘I am the betrayer,’ seemed to be a common theme, repeated again and again. ‘No justice for the damned,’ and ‘She has cursed us all,’ were also repeated again and again, scrawled alongside pictures of mighty fortresses and scenes of torture and death. On one wall was the depiction of a giant hag, leering and cruel, her hands distended to stretch out over a legion of stick warriors, like they were marionettes and she the puppeteer.

  Adaali became more unnerved the longer she stayed in the place, and slowly she backed out into the open air. Glancing around the central square she realised she didn’t have long. She must find somewhere to hide, to lie in wait for her pursuers.

  Only one other building looked suitable, and she rushed towards it. Once inside she was relieved to find the staircase still standing, and she carefully made her way up, hearing the rotting timbers creak under her weight. There was one room on the upper floor, and Adaali crouched by the window. It gave her a good view of the square and the road that led to it from the south. There she knelt, gripping the spearhead in her hand. It was a pitiful weapon but it would have to do.

  Before she could lament the weaknesses in her poorly planned ambush, she heard riders approaching from the south. There were five of them, steeds lean and swift, where her own had been broad and powerful. No wonder it had perished, pursued so hard through the desert by these long-ranging beasts.

  Each of the riders wore a black cloak but the hoods were drawn back. Adaali could see the pale, emaciated faces of the bonecasters as they came to a stop at the centre of the settlement.

  The riders jumped down from
their steeds, quickly hobbling them before they began their search of the settlement. Adaali pressed herself against the wall of the ruined hovel. It was only a matter of time before one of them found her.

  She gripped the spearhead tightly, feeling it cut the flesh of her palm, but she didn’t make a sound as she heard a creak from the stairs below. Gritting her teeth, she peered from behind a broken section of wall, her eyes fixed on the open archway. The bonecaster’s curved blade slowly appeared as he tentatively crept into the room. Adaali was stunned by fear, but she knew she had to overcome it. She could not just crouch there waiting to be discovered – waiting to be murdered like some coward in the desert.

  Silently she leapt. The bonecaster saw her from the corner of his eye, but he was too slow to raise his blade and defend himself. Adaali plunged the spearhead deep into his chest, jamming it between his ribs.

  They both tumbled to the floor, the timbers cracking beneath their weight. Adaali looked down, expecting the bonecaster to fight, but he just stared back at her, bloodshot eyes wide and pleading. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, and for the first time Adaali noticed how young he was. Not much older than a boy. Not much older than her.

  A sudden commotion below sparked her into action. She grasped the boy’s fallen blade and turned to face the door. Two more bonecasters had rushed up the stairs and the first one came at her, sword raised.

  Adaali ducked the blow, lashing out with the blade and opening a wound in the first attacker’s shoulder. She was not swift enough to stop the second smashing into her cheek with the butt of his blade. Adaali reeled back, unable to stop them as they rushed her. The fight was swift, but ultimately futile as she wrestled against two much stronger opponents. The relentless flight north had left her weak and now she stood no chance. As the two bonecasters disarmed her, another joined them, hastily tying her ankles and wrists with a rope.