Firestorm Page 12

  It was either seize or be seized and Gareth couldn’t afford to let Hond’Lif into his mind again. He twisted his shoulder, knocked the knight’s other arm aside and grabbed the white gauntlet, which shone like a star in the gloom of the crypt.

  Hond’Lif is weightless in his hand. Silver-white, the brightest thing on this drear afternoon when blood is about to be spilled. He remembers its manic song tempered by the slow elegy of Hond’Myrkr. What will happen without that dark refrain? But Serjo claims it will be safe to wear alone.

  Serjo …

  He curses. His brother promised to be here and now there is no time. The Sartyan general himself stands upon the rise, protected by his soldiers and his ambertrix. His arm lifts; despite the distance between them, it’s as if they lock gazes in a silent acknowledgement of what cannot be put off.

  The general’s arm falls.

  He thrusts his fist into the gauntlet.

  Hond’Lif’s madrigal is chaos. Screeching and soaring, multi-stranded, it sweeps up everything in its path, including him. There is nothing to hold on to, no slow song to counter the rippling melody. But in the heart of chaos is beauty. Such beauty as to wring one dry of tears.

  The last thing he sees is Serjo. His brother stands upon the walls of Kalast, already under siege from Sartyan artillery, watching him. Watching as maniacal laughter spills from his mouth, watching as tears course down his cheeks. Watching as the knights try to reason with him. Watching as Hond’Lif forces him to slaughter every last one.

  ‘No!’

  The word was lost in the scream ripped from Kingswold’s throat. For a moment, he seemed to forget Gareth was there, for he crouched, covering his face with both hands.

  Where is Serjo? Where is my brother?

  The question came back to Gareth, the one he’d asked on the deck of the airship, when first reawakening to the world. ‘He told you it was safe,’ he heard himself say. ‘He lied.’ His eyes strayed to the throne, to the runes burned into its arms. ‘It was he who bound you here.’

  Kingswold raised his head, eyes flaring blue-white. ‘He will answer for my death.’

  ‘How can he? That was five hundred years ago.’

  ‘He lives still, I know it. I can feel it.’ The knight regained his feet in one swift movement and Gareth took a step back at the hatred emanating from him. Kingswold held out his hand, skeletal beneath the gauntlet. ‘I tire of our struggle. Give me Hond’Myrkr.’

  A strange feeling crept over Gareth. The crypt took on the unreal contours of a dream; nothing existed outside of it, no Acre, no Brégenne or Kul’Das, no Naris. It was as if everything he’d ever known had leaked away. ‘I have come too far to surrender it,’ he heard himself say.

  Kingswold regarded him. ‘I would think less of you if you did. But it changes nothing. I will have what is mine.’ Before Gareth could muster any sort of defence, the knight was upon him, wrestling him to the ground. He kicked out, but Kingswold ignored it. There was nothing he could do, no pain he could inflict when they were both creatures of death.

  Kingswold seized Hond’Myrkr with both hands and Hond’Lif’s song carried Gareth into the past.

  His mother’s nostrils flare like a hunting wolf’s. ‘You would betray me for this magic-man and his tricks?’

  ‘They are not “tricks”, Madam,’ the Wielder says. ‘Your son has a gift.’

  Ilda grows pale; Gareth has never seen her so angry. ‘Please, Mother,’ he tries. ‘You don’t know what it feels like. The things Master Hanser says I’ll be able to do—’

  ‘Tricks,’ she spits, ‘to compensate for a weak body, a weak heart.’ She turns her glare on Hanser; the man visibly flinches. ‘If he goes with you, he is no longer a Kul. He forfeits his blood.’ She looks Gareth straight in the eyes. ‘He will be my son no longer.’

  The words hurt. He swallows the stone in his throat, closes his eyes. In the darkness behind them is gold, a thread that curls through his veins. It burns hot as the sun – it is the sun. He can’t turn his back on it, not when it’s inside him.

  He lifts his head, looks at his mother. For the first time, underneath the fury that’s turned her face pallid as the snow, he sees tears. But they are not enough to drown the sun. ‘Then I am no longer a Kul.’ The words sound absurd in his child’s voice. ‘I am no longer your son.’

  For a moment, she only looks at him, her mouth a little ‘o’ of shock. Then she snatches the sword, the Kul blade, from the scabbard at her waist and hurls it at him. He dodges; it falls into the churned snow. ‘Rot, then, you ungrateful bastard.’ Ilda’s voice is as muddied as the ground they stand upon. ‘If I see you again, I’ll kill you.’

  Kingswold’s grip loosened; he recoiled from Gareth as if from a striking snake. ‘You are a Wielder.’

  Gareth seized the opportunity to scramble gracelessly to his feet. ‘Hond’Myrkr was kept in Naris, our city. I found it in the Wielders’ archives, half a year ago.’

  ‘Half a year?’ For the first time, Kingswold looked uncertain. ‘And you have worn it since? It should not have been possible.’

  Gareth glanced at the gauntlet. Hond’Lif had left an imprint of white on the dark metal; but Hond’Myrkr’s mark was also on the light gauntlet, curling fingers of smoke staining its alabaster hue. ‘Perhaps the Solar shielded me,’ he said.

  ‘Yet you do not use it.’

  ‘I am not alive.’

  A dark smile grew on the knight’s lips. ‘Thus does Hond’Myrkr ensure you are no threat to me.’ The smile widened; withered skin cracked. ‘Even when worn by another, the gauntlet recognizes its master.’

  Gareth had no reply. In all likelihood, Kingswold was right.

  In silence, they faced each other. It was fast approaching, the moment when neither of them would hold back. Gareth had hoarded his secret, concealed it from Kingswold in the hope that he could somehow use it against the knight.

  What hope, he now asked himself bitterly. The Solar was denied him as long as the gauntlet remained on his wrist. Only Kingswold had the power to remove it and Gareth would die when he did. He could see no way out. One of them had to defeat the other.

  They circled, their paces perfectly matched. Kingswold stalked him, flaring eyes never leaving Gareth’s face. Perhaps it was an effect of the knight’s presence, but all remaining sensation began to fade from Gareth’s body. It grew heavier, incarcerating; his consciousness felt like a trespasser. All he had to do was let go, to release his hold on his decaying flesh. He would be free. Lighter than light.

  He stared at Hond’Lif, recognizing its siren song. Closing his eyes, he sank down, deep inside himself, calling on the counter-melody that had stripped him of life. When next he looked, vines like the tendrils of some dark creature twined about his wrist. Hond’Myrkr smothered its sibling’s song with its own: iron bells tolling in an empty hall, a wind that whistled between standing stones, grey skies that came without relief. Ashes, darkness, ending.

  Hond’Lif’s spell broke. With a battle cry that had become an unearthly scream, Kingswold came at him. He attacked with the desperation born of centuries of limbo, with the promise of a second chance. Gareth met his charge with his own and they locked fists, white against black, life against death.

  Images flooded him, memories of a world he’d never seen. Fields of the dead and dying; orders given that would take hundreds of lives; Sartyan swords, blades dipped in ambertrix, spitting as they met his own blade.

  Serald’s face, the shocking sweetness of his touch.

  More images flooded him, his memories. Wrapped in fur, warmth, comfort: an early memory of his mother, before her smile turned bitter and her heart cold; snow covering trees like a white shroud; stink of the tanner’s tent.

  Shika laughing, as they lounged in the dormitory, trading jokes.

  Power in his veins, on his fists; he could raise legions, slay legions, if only he was strong enough. He would grow strong enough. Serjo’s piercing eyes that had always seen too much. His smile, his promise
s, his lies.

  Power in his veins, drawn from the heart of the sun; day of the test: first pain then ecstasy, knowing he had passed. Years of lessons, needing to grow strong; he would grow strong. Kyndra, the chill in her eyes. Her face, so knowing, so uncertain.

  Wild laughter, wild force, weeping as he slaughtered his men. Hond’Lif’s mad song, beautiful, untempered, untamed. A chaos of light and screams; blood on the metal, in his mouth. Then darkness, a throne, a binding. Watching his body decay while he still wore it.

  Finally: hope.

  Fist plunged in solid earth. Tendrils seeking flesh, withering, exposing bone. Men’s screams; his own body little more than a wraith’s. Waking to death on the rocking deck of a ship; Brégenne’s face, her poorly concealed horror. Journey to Ben-haugr, arrows pulled from his back, walking these halls, alone save for the dead.

  Finally: hope.

  He fought and the fight went on forever. There was nothing but the struggle; death was not the end he’d thought it; life was not the days he’d lived. It was all one.

  The balance shifted. He had a self again. He had a body. Metal sheathed his fists, white and black. A shuddering, as life coursed into his veins, carrying with it a beating heart, flesh whole and undamaged. He straightened. The crypt was full of eldritch light.

  His name – his name was …

  ‘Gareth,’ he whispered.

  14

  Hagdon

  No one wanted to remain in that den of carnage, its ashy ground churned up by blood and fighting. But Hagdon wouldn’t leave until they’d gathered the bodies of the slain Sisters and built a pyre.

  ‘A waste,’ he murmured, watching as the sorcerous flames consumed clothes and flesh with ease. Unnatural, but they had no other fuel, not in a wood already charred black.

  He sensed a presence – Irilin had come to stand at his side. She did not look at him, just gazed into the flames. A woman’s open eyes stared back, the skin on her face just beginning to blister and curl in the heat. Without a word, Irilin gestured; the fire sprang up, hotter and brighter than before, and the corpse was lost to view.

  ‘Sorry you had to see this,’ Hagdon said without knowing why.

  Irilin’s face hardened. ‘How do you know I have not seen worse?’

  He didn’t look away. ‘Have you?’

  She sighed. ‘No.’

  There was a pause. ‘The battle with Khronosta was bad,’ Irilin said, ‘but I couldn’t do anything then. This time was different. I am responsible for some of these deaths.’

  ‘It doesn’t get easier,’ Hagdon said, turning again to stare into the hungry fire. ‘It shouldn’t.’

  ‘You would know.’

  ‘Commander,’ Avery called before Hagdon could form a reply. She and Hu had come behind Mercia’s unit, ensuring the downed Sisters stayed down. ‘We’re moving out?’

  Somewhat relieved, he nodded at Irilin and left the pyre. Kait, he saw, was fussing over Nediah in a way quite unlike her usual self. ‘I’m sorry, Ned,’ Hagdon heard her say. ‘If that weapon hadn’t paralysed me …’ She gently touched his bruised cheek. ‘Does it hurt?’

  Nediah caught her hand. ‘I’m fine, Kait,’ he murmured, flushing. It made the bruise stand out all the more starkly. He glanced at Brégenne. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Brégenne stood stiffly, eyeing the Wielders’ joined hands. Then she looked pointedly away.

  ‘Do you have a plan for when we get to Ben’haugr?’ Hagdon asked her.

  ‘Find Gareth,’ she snapped.

  ‘Those burial mounds are vast, connected by numerous passages filled with traps.’ Hagdon adjusted his vambraces, hoping to hide his scepticism. Wielder or not, the young man was probably dead by now. No one survived that place, especially on their own. ‘He’ll be hard to locate.’

  ‘I have to try,’ she said in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘We’ve come this far together.’ With another stolen glance at Nediah, she added, ‘I won’t abandon him.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s get out of here.’ Shrugging back into his feathered cloak, Hagdon led them from the clearing. Behind him the pyre sputtered, fading to embers, and the Deadwood claimed the Sisters’ ashes.

  They reached Ben’haugr just as morning lightened the sky. A man awaited them.

  Although Hagdon drew his sword on reflex, stepping in front of Irilin, she immediately pushed him aside. ‘Irilin,’ Nediah cautioned, but the young woman didn’t look round. Dawn turned the man into a stark silhouette: above average height, broad-shouldered, longish hair stirred by the breeze. The shadow of a sword was sheathed at his hip. Hagdon narrowed his eyes – a star shone on the man’s left hand. Moments later, he realized it was pale metal, reflecting the sky: a gauntlet. A strange gloom gathered about the other fist, but Hagdon could just make out the shape of a second gauntlet. Instead of reflecting, it absorbed light.

  The man began to walk towards them, ragged cloak billowing in his wake. He stopped just yards away, framed by the grim cairns of Ben’haugr. ‘Gareth?’ Irilin murmured, far too quietly for the newcomer to hear.

  But he heard her and raised his head. Although he had the face of a young man, he stood with the bearing of someone older, authority in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. Hagdon had the impression that he was looking on a fellow commander, a leader of men. Beneath the cloak, the man’s frame was thin, almost skeletal. His cheekbones were sharp ridges in pallid skin. And his eyes –

  Warm brown, perfectly ordinary. Hagdon realized he was still holding his sword, blade angled towards the man who had climbed from the barrows of the dead. ‘Who are you?’ he called. ‘State your name.’

  ‘My name …’ The stranger’s voice was deep, deeper than his young face suggested. His brow creased, as if Hagdon had asked after the meaning of life rather than something as simple as a name. ‘It’s Gareth. Kul’Gareth.’

  Irilin drew a shuddering breath. ‘Gareth?’ she said again. ‘Is it you?’

  ‘Irilin?’ The man smiled. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Are you … well?’

  A shadow touched his face, but quickly passed. ‘I am well.’

  Despite the exchange, neither of them moved to embrace or otherwise. ‘You look different,’ Irilin said a little tremulously, her gaze ranging over his spare form. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Much,’ Gareth said. He rolled his shoulders, as if easing an ache. ‘I don’t think you’d care to hear the full story.’ His eyes moved to his left wrist, enclosed by the pale gauntlet, and he held it up to the dawn, murmuring, ‘Beautiful.’

  Hagdon could not pretend he wasn’t thoroughly disturbed. Perhaps Irilin felt some of his unease, for she glanced at Brégenne, who came forward to stand beside her. ‘So you found it,’ the Wielder said.

  Gareth’s eyes were still on the gauntlet. ‘I won it.’

  ‘From Kingswold?’

  He swallowed. ‘Yes.’ The inflection in the word almost made it a question.

  ‘And you’re … better now, I see.’

  Finally tearing his eyes away, Gareth smiled briefly; the smile contained little warmth. ‘You mean my body. Yes, Hond’Lif saw to that.’ The gauntlet gleamed in the newly risen sun. Without warning, he clenched it.

  A shockwave, like the peal of silent thunder, staggered Hagdon and the others. Gareth was the epicentre, standing calm and tall, his expression turned inward. Irilin and Brégenne backed away and a golden aura surrounded Kait and Nediah.

  There was movement. Hagdon gripped the hilt of his sword and watched in horror as the barrows split open under the weight of the dead climbing from their graves. Their movements were stilted at first, a bluish-white glow splintering through their forms in a parody of veins. Some were little more than skeletons, others still had flesh, mottled strips revealed under rags and rusted armour. All held the weapons with which they’d been buried. Hagdon took a step back despite himself.

  ‘Peace.’ Gareth held up his hand. ‘They won’t harm you.’

&nb
sp; The dead stood among the mounds, a grim and silent host. Every head turned towards Gareth, as if awaiting his command.

  ‘Gareth,’ Irilin said, in little more than a whisper. ‘There’s no one to fight.’

  ‘I had to know,’ was all he said. He opened his fist. As one, the dead returned to the earth, disappearing among the barrows.

  Hagdon slowly eased his grip on the sword.

  Between one breath and the next, Gareth’s demeanour changed. ‘Iri!’ he exclaimed, as if he’d only just noticed her. Hagdon watched narrowly as he gave her a swift hug. Irilin flinched a little, but Gareth didn’t react. He was smiling, his grin suddenly resembling a young man’s.

  ‘Brégenne,’ he said, clearly delighted, and he went to embrace her too. Her answering smile was rather forced.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said when he stepped back. ‘I wanted to come after you.’

  Gareth dismissed her apology with a wave. ‘Nediah.’ He turned to acknowledge the Wielder. They shook hands – with some reserve on Nediah’s part, Hagdon noticed. He found his gaze straying to Irilin; she was frowning, eyes sharp on her friend’s face.

  ‘Greetings, Kul’Das,’ Gareth said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to tell my mother that plans have changed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the blond woman asked suspiciously.

  ‘I promised her the gauntlets.’ Gareth paused. ‘That’s not a promise I can keep.’

  He was still smiling and it raised the hairs on Hagdon’s neck. Perhaps Kul’Das felt the same, for she took a tiny step back. ‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.’

  ‘Hond’Myrkr and Hond’Lif are mine.’ His tone forbade argument.

  ‘Gareth,’ Irilin said into the uncomfortable silence. ‘Don’t you – don’t you want to know why Shika isn’t with us?’

  He blinked at her. ‘Where is Shika?’ he asked obediently.

  ‘He …’ Irilin swallowed. ‘He’s gone. Killed by wraiths in the red valley.’

  Gareth’s face went perfectly blank. ‘I see,’ he said. The brown eyes were flat, but Hagdon saw something move beneath them, something vast and dark. ‘How did it happen?’