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Her comment left him bemused, and he said nothing as he pondered its meaning.
They rode out from the knot of hills, and saw before them the Hust encampment. As they lifted their mounts into a canter, and drew closer to the picket line, Galar Baras glanced across at Toras Redone, to see her face turned towards him.
She laughed.
* * *
Wareth sat in his tent, staring at the armour lying on a carpet opposite him, the blood hue of the iron links, the overlapped coin-shaped scales protecting the leather straps, the studded rivets sheathing the gauntlets. He looked upon the helm, flared at the neck, with a camail of chain depending from just inside the rim, and the broad cheek-guards flanking the nasal spine. For all the artistry inherent in the design, there were no elaborations, no creative touches, not a single swirl or inset pattern. Like the swords, the armour was plain, purely functional. It promised the utilitarian application of prowess in the midst of violence. There was something both beautiful and terrible in this.
And yet, none of it was for him. The trappings rode him uneasily, no matter how tightly he fit the straps, or cinched the buckles. There needed to be solid flesh beneath the chain, not this shying unease that now seemed to plague him, as if every muscle upon his bent frame had be
come uncertain. Shivering despite the brazier, he sat with his hands together, fingers knotted.
Cursed weapons and the like belonged in fairy tales, along with magical rings and staves that sprouted fire. In each, a wish was fulfilled only for a price to be paid, the wagers of life reduced to a simplistic morality tale delivered to children. But here, in this world, even sorcery defied the conventions of wishes made real, unearned power suddenly within reach, and none of these gifts settled easily into the reality he had made for himself.
Too many of the prisoners had seen it differently. They now strutted. They laughed with the blades, hummed in time with the keening links of chain. They took to the marching in serried ranks, the wheels in formation, the chorus of weapons drawn in unison. Their crimes dwindled behind them, their punishments – whether felt deserved or otherwise – had been magically transformed.
And yet.
And yet. It all remains a game to them. They sneer behind the backs of every officer. At night, gathered round their squad fires, they spit sizzling contempt into the flames, telling each other stories of looting, pillage and all the helpless victims to their every desire.
We are an army of monsters. Thugs. Mother help us should we ever win a battle.
Both Prazek and Dathenar had lost something in the days since their arrival, as if their equanimity was under siege by all that they witnessed, and all that they feared was still to come.
Wareth pitied the return of Galar Baras, and the thought of Commander Toras Redone seeing for herself the vicious travesty of her legion filled him with shame.
I warned them. This was a mistake. Corruption was inevitable. The Hust Legion should have been left dead, every sword and every hauberk of chain buried with the rotting flesh in the barrows.
Should they prevail against Urusander, should they crush this uprising, the Hust Legion would stand alone, unmatched on the field. It would turn on the highborn and their rich estates. It would turn on Kharkanas itself.
We will break this world. I warned them, and now it’s too late. The beast is made, its thousand limbs shaken loose, its multitude of eyes blinking open, each ablaze with avarice and lust.
Not even Prazek and Dathenar can hope to hold these reins. Nor Galar nor Toras Redone. Nor Faror Hend, nor any of us who once lived in the pits. We’re rolling to our feet, bristling and bold, and this sneer – still hiding in the shadows – will soon turn to a snarl.
An unexpected call to muster had sounded. He stared at his armour, and then, with trembling hands, he reached for it.
* * *
Faror Hend had been standing on the edge of the camp, facing east, when the harsh tone of the bell reached her. She had been waiting for something to appear on the horizon. A mounted figure, gaunt atop a weary horse, a man of grey and black, or perhaps revealing the bleached skin of one blessed by another god. She had thought to remain where she was as that rider approached, as if pinned to the frozen earth, spikes driven through her boots. She wondered at the words they might exchange, when at last he drew up before her.
Less than a legend, yet more than a careless promise of a future to be shared between them. She imagined him drawing closer, revealing ever more detail, a fleshless face, the hard angles of bone beneath stretched skin, his long iron-grey hair hanging limp from a peeling pate. And in the sockets where eyes belonged, only darkness.
‘I’ve come for what was promised.’
She nodded but said nothing as he continued.
‘Youth was lost to me. I will now have it back.’ Raising a skeletal hand. ‘Here, to hold.’
‘Yes, Lord Tulas, I understand. It was all I was ever meant to be, all I was made for. You name my purpose, sir.’
‘I have no power to steal your youth, nor would I. Rather, I would see you age. This, and this alone, is what I seek.’
‘Sir, will I never awaken your desire?’
‘You have already. In my keep there is a throne, elevated to embrace my lifeless presence. There I will sit, to witness the years take you. Such are the appetites of old men. My desire is appeased, my lust, coiled as a serpent, dreams of heat and is content in its torpor.’
‘Kagamandra Tulas, I will be your wife.’
