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Saluting, Tathe Lorat departed.
A short time later, Hunn Raal drained his goblet of wine and rose, pleased at the grace that accompanied the effort. The sorcery within him flowed easily through the alcohol, lending an acuity that defied his habit. There were times, of course, when the clarity frustrated him. Particularly in the depths of night, when the longing for oblivion commanded his soul. But like the Holy Light’s refusal of night’s gift of darkness, Hunn Raal was denied his escape.
It was folly to expect that such blessings of magic would not come with a toll. He was already learning to hide his sobriety when it suited him. He was well served by the assumptions of others, as they watched him dip into his cups and believed his wits dulled.
Hunn Raal departed the command tent.
Outside, he saw a work crew approaching with new poles, guides, and a mallet to aid any new placement of stakes that might be required. To the ruined furniture within the tent, Hunn Raal was indifferent. Better, in some ways, if the reminders of his power remained. If fear added to his authority, bolstering his new title, then it was all to the good.
He walked through the camp, unmindful of the soldiers, their cookfires and their muted conversations. The bitter cold of the air barely reached him. There was enough power within him, at this moment, to thaw the ground beneath the entire camp. Yielding to a kind of laziness, he let the sorcery bleed into his vision, altering the landscape around him. Refulgent light devoured details on all sides, while the cookfires seethed like knotted fists of flame. Figures in the avenues between tents revealed a preternatural ambience, sometimes flickering, sometimes fiercely bright. Nearby, a soldier sat with his sword bared in his lap, working a stone along its edge. Seeing the iron blade feeding upon the ethereal light made Hunn Raal pause, frowning.
The iron’s thirst seemed unquenchable. Bemused, but insufficiently so to pursue his own unease, Hunn Raal continued on.
A few moments later he was drawn to a cookfire, sensing from its virulent flames something like defiance. As he approached, the soldiers who had been gathered round the firepit rose and then backed away. Ignoring them, the Mortal Sword stared down into the hearth.
There is something … something there. I …
He could not pull his gaze from the flames as that unknown force reached out, plucking at his will, mocking the sorcery within him.
What is that? A face? A woman’s face?
He heard laughter not his own, rustling in his skull like autumn leaves. And then a woman’s voice spoke in his mind, and its power was such that he felt like a newborn pup, helpless on the ground as something vast reached out to prod and poke it. The realization further weakened him, and he felt his soul suddenly cowering.
‘Thyrllan itha setarallan. New child, born to the flames, I see your helplessness. Bethok t’ralan Draconus, does he even comprehend? See these measures of love, every span meted in desperation. She strides the Eternal Expanse of Essential Night, seeking what? Power is not born of love, except among the wise, for whom surrender is strength. Alas, wisdom is the rarest wine, and even among those who partake of it, there are few who will know its flavour. But you, O Mortal Sword of Light, walking preened with pride and drunk on nothing but self-satisfaction – your ignorance makes your power deadly, untempered. I felt you, was drawn to you.
‘Discipline your subjects as you will, but understand this: power draws power, extremity invites extremity. Indulge in foolish displays, and there are those, more than your equal in strength, but wiser in its use, who will crush you into dust. Dislike of temerity is commonplace. Affront at misuse rarer, but potent nonetheless.’
‘Who – who speaks? Name yourself!’
‘Petty demands from a petty mind. Listen well, as I do not often offer advice unbidden, unpaid for. His first gift to her was a sceptre. Bloodwood and Hust iron. You must forge an answer. Find your most trusted blacksmith, an artisan of metals. The crowns can wait, while the orbs … destined for another place, another time. This night, build for me a fire, out beyond your civil strictures. Make it large, and feed it well. I will return to the flames then, and guide you and your blacksmith to the First Forge.
‘Balance, Mortal Sword. Each gesture answered. Each deed matched.’
‘If no payment is asked,’ Hunn Raal said, ‘then why do this for me?’
‘You? Do you think arrogance charms? I am a woman, not a half-grown girl with fresh blood on the grass. I do nothing for you, Hunn Raal. But you will learn temperance. That cannot be helped and so I make no claim to its gift. Light must face Dark as an equal—’
‘It is no equal,’ Hunn Raal snapped. ‘Darkness kneels to Light. It falters, fails, retreats.’
Her rattling laughter returned. ‘You heed too few of my words. Kneels? Falters? Look to the night sky, foolish man, and gauge the victor in the contest between Dark and Light. Drink yourself insensate, and discover whether oblivion greets you with light or darkness. In eternity’s span, Light must ever fail. Waning, flickering, dying. But Dark abides, upon either side of life.
‘Tell all this to your High Priestess. Puncture her bloated presumption, Mortal Sword. If you seek domination in your absurd war, you will fail.’
‘Mother Dark has already yielded to our demands. If a battle awaits us, our enemy will fall, and there will be no one to oppose our march into Kharkanas. In that, woman, I care nothing for Light or Dark. I will win for the Legion the justice they have earned, and if this makes the highborn kneel, then I will attend their humiliation with pleasure.’
‘Build me a fire.’
Scowling, Hunn Raal said, ‘I will think on it.’
‘Build me a fire.’
‘Did you not hear me? I will think on it.’
‘Thyrllan itha setarallan.’ She seemed to reach into him then, grasping not his heart, nor his throat, but his cock. Sudden heat engorged it, and an instant later he spurted savagely, saw his seed devoured by flames. She laughed. ‘Build me a fire.’
She released him. He staggered back, blinking awake to the mundane surroundings of the camp, the abandoned hearth before him, the dozen or so soldiers gathered round to witness.
Hunn Raal looked down. He had been standing amidst the flames during his conversation with the demon. His boots had burned away, his leather riding trousers were blackened and curled, revealing his burnished white, now hairless, legs. His cock hung out from what remained of his breeches, still dripping.
