Evening drew in, and surely none of Lord Relast’s men remained alive by now. Illyn’s army turned in upon itself, eating itself alive. The battlefield was meat like a butcher’s counter, the men fighting no longer recognizable as men. Half-living fragments hacking at each other, tearing with nails and teeth, drowning in their own blood. Endless bodies trampled in the dirt, a mass of dark and red and brilliant metal like a mosaic floor. All the banners brought down and scattered, most of the horses dead. Crows and seabirds everywhere, beaks crimson, drunk on blood, too sated to fly.
The sky burned with the awful, terrible beauty of sunset, turning the sea to liquid flame. Beyond the cliffs the seal women swam in the harbour, watching with pebble eyes the insanity and cruelty of men. Far off, around the high peak of Calen Mon, eagles were dancing on the wind. Somewhere in the west in the desert a dragon flew. Always a perilous time, this borderline between the realms of life and death, light and darkness. Thalia raised her face to the west and prayed. From the fear of life, and the fear of death, release us.
The words faded in her throat, empty.
No one wants to die, she thought. Not truly. At the moment of death, all regret that it comes. All see that they were wrong, and fools. All see the glory of living, even in pain, even in sorrow, even in the dark. The men out there fighting will regret, in the moment of dying.
I pray they will, she thought. It is too horrible otherwise. Too horrible to bear.
Finally, two figures broke away from the heaving mass, which now resembled only maggots wriggling in the filth. Two mounted figures, riding for the gates, flashing light and shadow as they came. A cry from one of the riders, answered by men at the gatehouse. The gates opened, the riders came in and the gates swung shut behind them with a crash.
Silence. No more screaming. The air stilled. The sea and the seabirds fell silent. Calm.
Marith dismounted his horse in the courtyard and Thalia came down to meet him. He was mired in blood to his eyeballs, his drawn sword still clutched in his hand. Light shone in his eyes. Unharmed, of course. Bareheaded, lightly armoured, even his horse unscathed. Lord Relast beside him, as caked in gore and as radiant.
Every man, woman and child in the courtyard apart from Thalia went down on their knees before him. Lord Relast shouted in a great voice, ‘All hail King Marith! King Marith! He is king here! The true and only king!’
Lady Jora shouted, ‘King Marith! King Marith! Ansikanderakesis Amrakane!’
Marith looked at them. His eyes were like knife blades. His face was a rotting wound. He looked, thought Thalia, as though he might kill them.
The people around took up the cry. Every voice, of all those left alive in Malth Salene. ‘King Marith! King Marith! Ansikanderakesis Amrakane! Death! Death! Death!’
What does it mean? Thalia wondered.
Ansikanderakesis: Great Lord. King.
Amrakane …
She saw his silver armour. His red cloak. His shadow. His face.
Lady Jora shouted, ‘All hail King Marith! Marith Ansikanderakesis! King Marith, who is Amrath come again!’
Thalia began to weep. Marith was weeping. Grief and wonder perfect in his face.
Landra lowered her face into the dust and shouted, ‘All hail King Marith! King Ruin! King of Dust! King of Shadows!’ Her voice dripped hatred. Grief. ‘I brought him back to you! King of Death!’ The people of Malth Salene took up the cry with joy. ‘King Ruin! Amrath returned to us! Death and all demons! Death! Death! Death!’
Outside the gates, the shattered remnants of the army of King Illyn stumbled over the battlefield, bloodied and broken, filled with shame. Searching out fallen comrades. Brothers and friends and enemies and lovers. Men they had themselves killed.
Out of a clear bright sky it began to snow, the white flakes like feathers, white and perfect, covering the bodies of the dead.
But he’s so beautiful, Thalia thought, looking at Marith.
He took her into his arms.
‘King Marith! King Ruin! Amrath come again!’
Chapter Fifty-Six
Bright they rode out in the sunlight,
They did not fear to ride out to slaughter
Nor did they fear to ride out with drawn swords.
Bright their armour,
Bright the jewels on their arm-rings,
Bright their shining hair.
The wolf ones, the bold warriors, the thieves.
Happy they feasted in our halls,
Happy they fought and bested each other,
Smiled at women, groomed their horses,
Drank wine in gold cups.
At Amrath’s command they rode out in sunlight,
Swords drawn, spears poised, hair bound.
Every man they met, they slew and left dying.
Red the blood they shed, and red their bleeding.
They did not ride back.
The great chant, sung by the men of the White Isles at the crowning of kings. The burial song of the last of Amrath’s followers, composed on the battlefield of Malth Ethalden where the ground was burned black with dragon fire. The last men of His Empire. The few who were loyal to the end.
They say, anyway. Who can tell what it’s about, or when it was written? Just men who died.
And with that, they crowned Marith king.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
That fucking poisonous bastard Marith. That sick, vile, diseased, degenerate fucking bastard shit. Gods and demons, he should have knifed him.
In a stinking tent most of whose other occupants were now dead, Tobias sat gnashing his teeth.
Join King Illyn’s army. March on Malth Salene to see Marith get his comeuppance. See Lady pox-on-her Landra get hers too. Find some closure on the whole fucking disaster then bugger off to Alborn to sit and drink beer. Maybe even find Thalia to apologize.
Yeah. Good plan, Tobias, me old mucker. Really good plan.
King Illyn had been really very nice to him when he turned up at the gates of Malth Elelane the never-was-anything-more-aptly-named Tower of Joy and Despair. As in: hadn’t killed him on the spot. Listened oh so politely, not asked the obvious questions about how exactly he came to have run into Lady gods’ damned Landra whilst in the company of beloved former son and heir wacked out and tied up in a cart. Nodded, said ‘I see’ a couple of times. Frowned. Barked orders about ships and swords at people. Made Tobias a nice generous choice of rewards for his services to the throne.
Option one: Stand in the front line when they marched on Malth Salene.
Option two: Have his throat cut right there and then.
Same old same old. Never ever turned out to be a choice anyway. He’d only survived what was politely being referred to as the battle at all because he’d run screaming and stuck his head in a lousy horse blanket the moment Marith drew his sword.
So now here he was. In a stinking tent most of whose other occupants were now dead. Besieging a fortress. Front line to what now seemed to be a civil war. Freezing his nads off. Being driven half-insane by seagulls. Listening hilariously to the hilarity going on just the other side of the besieged fortress wall.