A trampling mire of men and horses. In the maelstrom of the fighting, loyalties and allegiances were long lost, men hacking at comrades and commanders and lovers, nothing in them beyond killing and being killed. King Illyn’s army surged forward, formless, swords shaking in their eagerness. Men came riding or running out from Malth Salene, some barely armed, bareheaded and clad in servants’ liveries, clutching swords and spears and wooden sticks. A madness overtaking them all, bloodlust and deathlust, hacking and stabbing with no thought to self-defence. The hard ground churned to mud. The horses rearing, exposing their soft underbellies, falling dying and crushing their riders beneath them, men and beasts treading them into the ground. In the midst of it all, Marith Altrersyr, dragonlord, dragon killer, dragon kin, demon born. King of Dust. King of Shadows. King of death and emptiness and despair. His sword flashing, his face alive with radiant shining light.
Blood! Oh blood! Oh blood and killing! He struck out with his sword and a man fell before him, cut open, gutted like a fish. A stink of shit. He spurred his horse forward and a young man was there, mounted on a warhorse, expensive silver armour, his helm crested in peacock feather plumes. Kamlen Jurgis, the younger son of his father’s best friend. Kam lunged at him. Marith parried the stroke easily, struck back. Kam was good: parried, twisted himself sideways in the saddle, struck again. A shriek of metal as the sword grated on Marith’s armour. Green eyes stared at him, hating. Gods, this was wondrous! Everything, even the joyful slaughter in the palace of Sorlost, everything in his life was as nothing compared to this! Power. Such power flowing through him. They died at his asking. All of them. He’d kill them all. So futile, their little lives. The thin fine skin of life, suspended over the eternity of emptiness. They all deserved to die, surely? Death and death and death! The one true thing! The only thing! He drew first blood on Kamlen, making a mess of the man’s left arm. Kam howled at him and got a stroke in in return, not managing to wound but the flat of his sword smashed into Marith’s head by his temple, making his ears ring. You can die badly for that, Marith thought. For hurting me. He’d never liked him when they were children together. Nasty, lazy boy two years his senior. He wheeled and struck again and Kam lost his helmet. Hah! Marith raised his sword. Drove it in across the boy’s face. A gash opened where the eyes should be. Seemed to stay alive for a moment, blinded, raw, opened up. Puzzled at what had just happened to his world. Made nothing as he died, a broken thing lacking the power of sight and speech, unrecognizable so that no one would know it to mourn. He killed the horse too and rode his own horse over their bodies, just to be sure, bringing its front hooves down hard on what was left of Kam’s face. A funny loud hollow crunching sound, it made.
He could hear it, clear and fine, over the roar of battle around him. Could see everything, hear everything, every detail, the pattern, the logic of it. Everything. Ti was swinging and hacking. His face was bloody, he seemed to be wounded. You can’t die, Marith thought suddenly as he watched. You can’t die. I need to kill you. He steered his horse over towards his brother, cutting men out of his path as he went. Couldn’t see his father. Ti looked up and saw him coming towards him, stared, mouthed something, turned his horse and was off down the field away from him. Coward! Coward! Come back and die! Marith turned his own horse to follow, but then suddenly two men were in front of him, drawing up swords. He recognized them too, men of his father’s guard, good fighters, men who’d helped teach him to fight. They knew what they were doing, they came on together, one on either side of him, swords swinging in concert, heavy thick broadswords, their horses getting in close so he couldn’t turn away. Stank of sweat.
No fear in him. No concern. He knew perfectly and absolutely that they could not kill him. ‘Amrath!’ he shouted, parrying off one blade, ducking and twisting to avoid the other. ‘Amrath! Amrath! Amrath and the Altrersyr! Death and all demons! Death! Death! Death!’ The air screamed around him. Things tore through the skies, shrieking, clawing at the light. He parried another sword thrust, avoided another, struck out. His sword met his opponent’s with a crash. Garent. The man’s name was Garent. Had helped teach him to fight. The other’s blade came for him, he couldn’t move in time but it rang on his armour and he knew he was unhurt because here nothing could hurt him. The screams were so loud, a maelstrom of noise, waves hammering on rock, seabirds shrieking, hungry, angry, maddening, maddened, voiceless, beyond speech, beyond anything. So loud it was almost blinding. But he could see. He could see everything. This was all he was. This was all that was real. Everything would die. ‘Death!’ he screamed over the shrieking voices. ‘Death! Death! Death and all demons! Death!’ He lashed out and Garent was dead, his head hanging from his body. Lashed out again and the other was broken, arm cut off at the elbow, staring bloodied and astonished at his wound, horror in his eyes as Marith killed him.
Garent’s horse went screaming off towards the cliff top, Garent’s body flopping over it, the head hanging on by a few shreds of sinew and bone. Jogged up and down as the horse bucked, like Garent was laughing. The horse’s eyes were so wide. The body slipped and went down hanging upside down tangled in reins and stirrups, arms dangling. The head was torn off, rolled away and was crushed in the melee of men fighting. The horse went over the cliff top, still screaming, taking Garent’s headless flopping body with it.
Hah!
He needed someone else to kill. Everything around him was red and bleeding. The men seemed to be fighting so slowly, like they were too worn out to move properly, like they were fighting underwater, like the air was too thick. Their mouths opened and shut but he couldn’t hear them. All he could hear was the screaming. Crows and gulls thick in the sky, wheeling, shrieking, heads red with blood. A man in white armour careered towards him, running on foot, holding his sword in both hands like a woodman’s axe. Laughing. Marith killed him in one stroke. A ragged boy with the dirt of the kitchens on him, a meat cleaver in one hand, a poker in the other. A lord on horseback who recognized him at the last minute, pulled away and ran until Marith cut him down. Another man on horseback. Another man on foot. A serving girl. Another man on horseback. Another man on foot. More. More. More. Killed and killed and killed and killed. His heart sang with killing. His mind was empty, dancing light, pure and utterly perfect joy. Saleiot: to shine, to sparkle, to dance like the sunlight on fast-flowing water. Joy absolute in his heart. The things in the air screamed, tearing at the light. He killed and killed and killed and killed.
Death! Death! Death!