Golden Firebird: Akurite Empire, #2

PROLOGUE

Imperial General Tate awoke in darkness, wondering at first that he had slept out a day and a night only to realise that he had hardly rested an hour. He had been woken by the soft caw of a Jaro kneeling at his side.

General Ultramontane, the Jaro said, addressing him as its kind insisted on doing despite all corrections. I have obeyed your orders and ridden on in search of the rebels. They have crossed the river Kessel upon the ice and gone into the frozen country. They are but a few hours on the march; the river is not far and they were still on the ice when I turned back to bring you word.

How long did this take you? Tate sat up on his elbows, wide awake in an instant and painfully aware that he had barely slept.

My steed is of the Heimjaro plains; the enemy ride only mortal horses and we outpace them as if we flew. I have gone and come again in an hour as far as they have ridden so far into the morning.

How many such horses do we still have?

Twelve, my General; all that my kinsfolk could retrieve from the battle.

And can others ride them?

If they dare; some feel a horror of them to ride.

Tate had only looked in passing at the monstrous steeds of the Jaro, long-legged bony things with horned heads and fanged maws, clawed in front and hoofed behind, tufted with fur and feathers, dead-eyed and foul smelling. They were placid as if drugged, but turned demented and implacable in battle.

Fetch your kin and the surviving Goro and Wadwo... Tate began, picking himself up off the turf.

There are four of us, General, plus two Goro and one of the furry people, the Jaro replied. Four steeds remain besides your own.

I will pick four men; you have your orders.

My general. The Jaro bowed, extending its single huge wing and crossing its chest with its muscular arm. Tate watched the feathered Ur-Ite dash off while he brushed himself down. In the east, the sun was rising. Tate hurried among the ranks of his remaining demoralised army, picking out the first Warrant Officer that he knew by name.

Daon, get me the best archer, swordsman and tracker we have left and find me again with the scouts at the entrance to the valley. Run, man!

Within a few minutes, Tate and his posse were mounted; four Jaro braves, two of them left-winged and right-armed, one left-handed south-wing and a rare two-armed Jaro archer; two Goro, horned and hoofed; one huge Wadwo; two sergeants and a corporal that Daon swore blind was the finest swordsman he had ever seen.

Corporal Dansac, sir; swears he's the son of Montesinos DeKellia but got no pedigree to prove it. He's spawned of a whore in Narillion, sir, but don't call her a liar or there'll be a fight. Sergeant Cabal is a fine archer but an even better tracker; Sergeant Harpe can't miss with that rifle if he tries... I know you didn't ask for a rifleman, sir, but Cabal's the best archer and tracker we got, and you wanted three in total, so...

You did well, Daon.

Thank you, sir. May I ask where we're going?

Northwest; we will overtake the rebels and perhaps mount a raid. At the very least, we will spot their position and bring it back to the Empress.

CHAPTER ONE

THE GHOUL KING

Were you here for the battle? Meri asked Sabra as they picked their way through the rubble of the Winter Palace's outer walls. They had crossed the frozen river with only a few pratfalls on the ice, which was thankfully thick enough to withstand even the impact of Sabra's armoured backside when her horse lost its footing. Meri made the crossing without incident, but Sabra and Menalowen both fell twice, the second time occasioning a snowball-fight that raised bruised spirits enough to walk their horses the last yards to the snowy western bank.

I have never been here before, Sabra said. It must have been Sorcha with you then, Meri, although how you could get us mixed up...

My memory was a funny thing in those days; I killed people so frequently and I'd lost so many friends to war that faces and names just jumbled together. It all became suddenly clear again around the time Silveneir fell, like a haze lifted from my mind even as my strength disappeared. I don't miss it; I know where it went. Meri locked eyes with Sabra and she knew the old woman was smiling behind her mask.

That was how I knew she was the one, Meri told Menalowen. When I fell on the battlefield and she took up my sword, suddenly the armour was too heavy for me; the spirit of the Old Daishen had chosen her. He took his power back from me and took mine with it, according to the pact; no Daishen was ever meant to outlive the mantle and my strength was his by rights when he left me alive. I don't begrudge it to you, Sabra.

I had never thought of it like that, Sabra said. They had come through the outer walls now and were crossing what had once been the lawn. The snow lay two feet deep and concealed chunks of rubble and the occasional armoured skeleton to be tripped over. I had never thought that being the Daishen was like a pact or an agreement, but as a responsibility.

It is a gaes, Meri said, an unbreakable oath potent as any wizard's spell. Perhaps our Goro friend would say that Tork Vasud has breathed upon you.

You know of my god? Menalowen asked, surprised.

Oh yes. It was he that slew my predecessor, and so the mantle of the Daishen was passed to me. This is the strength of the Old Daishen; that a mortal might do battle with a god.

They had reached the main ruins of the once noble Winter Palace, the walls tumbled and the crystal dome shattered so that only the steel skeleton of it remained. The ruins were extensive and plants had overgrown the rubble, making a labyrinthine rockery of snow and climbing winter plants.

Sabra would have gone on with the conversation while they walked, curious about the link between the Old Daishen and Tork Vasud, but she was interrupted by a ringing surprise blow across her helm and a sudden shout in Kellion; Hah! On guard!

Another hit chimed off her helm before she had her sword out; she was struck twice more before she spotted her opponent. He was a spry youth in the uniform of an Imperial Corporal, ducking and darting around her while his sword stung against her armour. The weapon was far too light to pierce her mail and she at once gave up trying to evade him, refusing to be goaded while she awaited the one mistake or opening that would leave him dead at her feet. He committed to a lunge and she parried, drove for the clinch, and somehow stumbled past him. He popped up grinning at her shoulder and speared his sword behind Estarriol's hilt; as she swung about to hew at him, he disarmed her neatly and she was sent stumbling past him a second time.

I've got her, Daon! Her sword went into the brush!

Sabra realised there were other Imperials on every side, emerging from cover amid the rubble. Meri had remounted and was riding tight circles with her horse, holding them at bay but unable to engage or escape. Menalowen had dismounted, his horse behind him on its hind legs, guarding his back with flashing hooves while he set an arrow to his bowstring. Four Imperials rushed him together; a Kellion sergeant, two Jaro, and a Goro warrior who showed no hesitation in attacking one of his own kind.

Menalowen put his first arrow through the enemy Goro's eye, felling him instantly. As fast as they came on, Menalowen was faster; a second arrow sang and laid one of the Jaro in the dust, transfixed through his avian skull. The Kellion sergeant hesitated, letting his remaining Jaro comrade close in a few paces ahead. The man's caution proved their undoing; the Jaro sprang fearlessly, leaping higher and farther than a man could, only to be torn open by a scything flick of Menalowen's horns. The sergeant had no time to run; Menalowen seized him in both hands and broke the man's body with horrible ease, half a dozen bones snapping in unison.

The officer, Daon, had dashed off into the ruins in search of Sabra's sword.

Meri, get that officer! Sabra snapped, and saw her friend gallop through the loose ring of their enemies in pursuit of Estarriol and its intended thief. To the young corporal, Sabra said, And just who the hell are you?

Heh, I'm the son of Montesinos DeKellia, I am. The young man stood back on his heels, his sword resting at Sabra's throat, and grinned at her, seemingly heedless of any danger. She looked him dead in the face, studying every detail of his features while he gloated; My old mum was a whore in Narillion, true enough, but she recalled the night she met my father, oh yes indeed and she told me the truth...

Your mother was a liar. Sabra watched his eyes bulge and his face turn purple. She was already in motion before he flew at her; she swatted the sword aside and ducked beneath it to hit Corporal Dansac a clothesline to the gut. The blow broke his ribs and knocked the air from him, lifting him clear off the floor. He collapsed in a heap and Sabra kicked his sword beyond reach. He went for his pistol and she kicked his brains from his skull; her boots were platemail sollerets. His fingers spasmed and the pistol went off in its holster, the gunshot ringing hollowly through the ruined Palace halls.

The sound brought Karel Tate and the rest of his men to the scene; they had been staking out the ruins in two groups since early morning, waiting for the rebels to appear. Tate arrived on his Akurite steed with a sergeant and a Wadwo riding at either hand.

Harpe! Tate barked, and the sergeant stood in the stirrups to aim his rifle at Menalowen. Sabra did not need to shout a warning; Menalowen was faster and put an arrow in the man before he had brought the rifle to his shoulder. Tate grabbed the rifle from the dead sergeant and fired, but was no gunman and missed by a mile.

Menalowen set another arrow and shot Tate in the arm, piercing the joint of his vambrace inside the elbow. He turned the pain into barking orders at the Wadwo to assist the sergeant and two Jaro still on their feet.

Sabra judged the distance before the Wadwo reached her; it had dismounted and came lumbering on foot. She used the time to seize one of the Jaro and break it across her knee, recalling the terror she had known of them at her first encounter with the birdmen years ago.

The sergeant came at her with his sword, laid one blow across her upraised vambrace and got her armoured knuckles in his face in return. He went reeling back only to be kicked in the head by Menalowen's enraged horse.

Then the Wadwo was on Sabra, sweeping her up in a bear-hug and bearing her backwards off the ground in spite of her armour. She had never fought one before, never seen one so close; the smell of it was abominable and the piggy red eyes glared balefully from its leathery face even as it strove to squeeze her. Strong as it was, the thing could not crush plate armour and was too stupid to know it. Sabra was helpless to escape but could breath without difficulty; she hammered at the Wadwo with punches and elbows, finally setting up a repetitive battering of her fist in its face until the bloodshot eyes crossed and it deposited her on her feet. The Wadwo was still conscious, its arms still around her, but it swayed drunkenly.

Sabra punched it in the chest and found the layers of fur, fat and muscle too thick to injure unarmed. She grabbed its heavy pelt for balance, raised her foot, and stomped with all her weight through the Wadwo's knee. The joint withstood the first kick only to shatter on the second; the Wadwo groaned and toppled, pulling Sabra with it. She turned the fall into a hop and landed on the Wadwo's ribs with both knees. Something snapped, but the Ur-Ite flung her off and rolled on its front, crouching on one leg and both hands, still fighting.

Sabra pulled her dagger, took a run-up and bowled the Wadwo on its back, sitting astride the furry mass to stab it again and again with two-fisted blows until long after it was dead. Only then did she notice the totality of the silence. The battle had stilled abruptly, her fight with the Wadwo lasting a few seconds longer before the silence reached her. There was not even birdsong in the ruins of the Winter Palace.

Menalowen had remounted his horse, but now he and Tate both sat motionless in their saddles; the last Jaro brave was on his knees in surrender. All around them, holding the reins of the horses and the stirrups of their riders, surrounding the Jaro warrior and forming a ring around Sabra and the dead Wadwo beneath her, she saw a crowd of pale creatures dressed in rags where they were dressed at all. They had come out of the ruins in a silent swarm and taken even Menalowen by surprise; one of them had snatched his bow and another had Karel's sword. Their skin was greenish grey and their limbs emaciated, ending in grubby talons.

Sabra barely had time to guess their numbers before they rushed over her in a clammy tide, seizing her by the arms and legs to bear her up off the ground. Menalowen and Tate were pulled from their horses and the beasts allowed to flee; the Jaro screamed as it was carried aloft. Helpless, the four of them were spirited away into the ruins amid the silent mob.

Imperial Warrant Officer Daon had found Estarriol quite quickly and decided immediately to keep the sword and run for his life. He had seen the speed with which Menalowen felled any to attack him and was shaken by the death of Corporal Dansac; the young man been a rare talent as a swordsman, even if he was a self-deluded liar. Watching Sabra kill the young duellist unarmed had quite overthrown Daon's courage and loyalty.

Meri caught up with Daon just as he reached the snowfield beyond the ruins of the Winter Palace. She barked at him once to stop, but meant to kill him regardless and so rode down on him without pause.

He knew he could not outrun her, but was unprepared when the old woman kicked free of her stirrups and flung herself bodily at him from horseback. Daon caught her automatically, expecting her weight to be negligible. She drew her sword mid-flight and sank it deep in his body, the do-or-die manoeuvre perfected over many years.

Daon fell on his knees, vomiting blood and depositing Meri gently on her feet before him. Meri watched him cough up the last of his life in red on the snow before he collapsed facedown. Then she stooped to retrieve the sword Estarriol. The ongoing fight had been a distant echo all through the brief pursuit; she turned back to the ruins when she heard the sudden silence. Mounting up, she rode to see what had happened. She found only bodies at the scene of the ambush, her heart gladdened by the sight of the Wadwo lying dead with Sabra's dagger in its chest. She retrieved the dagger and as many of Menalowen's arrows as remained intact; he had not missed once, but some of the shafts had lodged so deeply in the bodies that the heads broke off when the arrow was withdrawn.

Meri saw the tracks of many feet, but took the time to round up Menalowen and Sabra's horses before she followed. She found Tate's horse too, a Jaro steed. Her comrades' horses she tied up with her own; the Jaro steed she killed out of hand, slashing its throat with her sword. DeKellia had ridden one for a while, delighting in the horror it inspired until the thing's Akurite nature turned even his imperturbable stomach.

Taking only her own horse and leaving the rest corralled, Meri followed the tracks of over a hundred clawed feet to the centre of the ruins where the dome had come down. There was a mountain of shattered glass beneath the snow and Meri tied her horse up a little way back and went in on foot. She had once danced in that hall with Shivan Daishen, but that night seemed a lifetime ago. The place was a ruin now, the great fireplace long cold and the domed roof open to the sky. Archways that had once led to corridors and stairs now led nowhere, half the Winter Palace flung down in rubble by the onset of Guillemot DeJiar, the man who had thought to raise a fleet of airships to conquer the world.

One door from the hall still stood, a heavy iron-banded portal set into an intact section of the wall. Meri explored the ruins until she was sure that there was no other way into the area beyond the door, then stood before it, considering. She had never been any kind of thief, but she knew her business when it came to breaking doors. The portal was barred from within, certain proof even beyond the tracks leading to it that this was where the enemy had taken her friends. Less than an hour had passed, but that was more than enough time for countless horrors to occur; she had no time for subtlety. Standing back from the door, she set her feet in a fighting stance, took Estarriol by the blade in her left hand and set the sword at her hip as if sheathed there while settling her right hand upon the hilt. The pose, once so familiar, brought a rush of memory back to her like a new lease of life. She closed her eyes and spoke briefly to the sword, reminding it who she was and how she dared claim the right to wield such a weapon. A grim smile arose behind Meri's mask to think that Sabra had so little grasp of the awesome power of Estarriol.

Carried off by the mob, Sabra, Menalowen, Tate and the last of the Jaro had been brought within moments through the door in the main hall and down to what had once been the wine cellars of the Winter Palace. Here, the stench of a mass grave assaulted their nostrils.

The dark cellar was strewn with bones and broken bottles. Wine barrels had been shunted to one side to make room for a pile of corpses in varying states of decay, some as old as the ruins and others fresher.

At the farthest corner of the cellar, the prisoners were set down and presented to the leader of the ghouls that had come to inhabit the ruins of the Winter Palace. The creature was larger than its fellows, sheathed in rusty platemail, the joints and chainmail clagged with grime. It was barefoot, with long-clawed toes and equally vicious hands, in which it held a human thigh bone still bearing a few scraps of meat.

The ghoul chief looked up from gnawing the bone when his prisoners were brought before him. The corpse-like face lit up in a mad grin, baring broken fangs like tombstones, and he threw the bone aside.

Shuffling and hopping, never quite rising from his crouch, the leader of the ghouls came and sniffed his prisoners closely. Sabra could not help but recoil at the closeness of the thing, but a dozen ghoulish hands held her and even she could not match their combined strength.

Flesh, the chief ghoul hissed. New flesh.

Sabra had barely registered that the ghouls were cannibals when a new dimension of horror was added; the ghoul chief leant very close and sniffed her again, then tousled her red hair with its claws.

Girl flesh.

Through her revulsion, Sabra saw that the chief ghoul wore a knight's sword and had a rusty circlet on its head like a crown. White hair stood up in tufts around the crown, which might have been gold or the hoop of a small barrel; it was impossible to tell through the grime all over it. The ghoul's head was like a skull,  sheathed in taut greenish flesh with perpetually grinning cheeks and a nose that was only nostrils gaping cavernously. The staring eyes were horribly human, despite that they were bloodshot and rarely blinked. Flesh, the chief ghoul said again.

Menalowen, wait for my move, Sabra said; the Bowman stood rigid with ghouls hanging off his limbs, his muscles quivering with the effort of restraining his urge to fight to the death now that he stood upright again. He rolled his eyes at Sabra and nodded once.

General Tate.

The Headsman lolled his eyes to look at her her.

Wait for it.

He just shut his eyes, his face impassive, as if composing himself for death. Sabra forgot him and did not bother at all with the Jaro; she locked her eyes on the chief ghoul and spoke to it, lowering her mouth into the raised bevor of her neck-guard to invoke the reverb and command of the Daishen. The ghouls leapt and gibbered in fright when the voice of the Daishen echoed within the cellar, but their chief held his nerve.

You do not know with you whom you interfere, Sabra informed him. Learn that I am Kam Daishen. It is too late for you to release us; none shall come against a knight in arms and withdraw unscathed. You have bought the death of your clan this day.

It does not beg, the ghoul replied, sounding horribly pleased. Good, good, then it is brave. It will not go mad, no, it will remember its name and who it was for a long time, very good. It hopped suddenly to squat in front of Menalowen. Is this one brave?

I am the Bravest of the Brave.

Good, good, but is it true? We will see.

Do you have a name? Sabra asked, and the ghoul chief darted towards her grinning, only to leap suddenly atop a barrel and stand fully erect, staring down at her with a theatrical performance of lordly disdain.

Once we were called Sir Forfinax Orcini. We were a knight. The ghoul leered and cocked its head to one side, then leapt down from its barrel and danced about, cackling. Now we are a king! King of the Ghouls! Ha-ha-ha!

It was eminently clear to Sabra by this point that the ghoul, formerly Sir Forfinax, was hopelessly insane.

You will eat of us! The Ghoul King screamed. Eat of our flesh and become like us! Eat the ghoul flesh and become my queen!

This was all Sabra needed to hear to rear up against her captors, flinging three of them off their feet and tearing one arm free to swat two more with the back of her fist.

Menalowen brayed and plunged his head and shoulders suddenly, forging up straight again with blood on his horns and a ghoul held aloft in each fist. He dashed the foul creatures together a moment later, breaking their bodies with a moist impact.

Karel Tate and the Jaro joined the fight, but the Ur-Ite could not match its fellow prisoners in strength and was dragged under in a moment by the onset of ghoulish claws. Tate's armour defied their rancid nails, but they clawed at him in frenzy nonetheless while he battled to throw them off.

Sabra fought with a will, unarmed but for her gauntlets and the power of her arms; her fists split flesh and bone with every impact, but the ghouls came on in a rush out of the cellar shadows by the score, overwhelming her by sheer weight of numbers.

Again she, Menalowen and Tate were flung on their knees before the Ghoul King. The Jaro was dead; already a dozen ghouls squatted around the body to pull out its innards. Sabra did not even attempt to watch, but the sound  of the ghouls eating would haunt her for years. The contentedness of their munching was what she recalled with the most horror.

New flesh. The Ghoul King repeated. New Queen. Last queen died. New Queen strong, won't go mad. The new Queen will help the King, help him find swords and treasure, magic treasure underground.

Under the ruins? Sabra asked, curious despite the ghouls hanging off her shoulders to keep her on her knees.

Oh yes! Under here, under palaces and tombs, under many places. Always looking, looking in the tombs. Swords and armour, a magic crown that told us we were king! It stooped its head to indicate its crown. Sabra saw that it was not a crown at all, but a living parasite with a hide like tarnished gold, an Akurite perching behind the chief ghoul's skull. It had long insect legs that encircled the ghoul's brow to create the look of a crown, but now that she had seen it, Sabra could only think of it as a grotesque mutant spider. It had gleaming eyes like black gemstones and a huge proboscis sunk in the Ghoul King's brainstem.

Sabra assumed she would never get another chance and wrenched her arm free to land a dolorous hammer-blow on the Akurite crown. The parasite cracked and squished, but survived the blow; it was so enraged that it tore its proboscis out and brandished it at Sabra. In that moment, the Ghoul King shrieked like the damned; Kill us! Kill us! We don't want to serve it! We don't want to live!

Then the proboscis was plunged back in and the Ghoul King's eyes fixed on Sabra again. No more Queen now; no, we shall eat you. Eat you by pieces, by fingers and toes, knees and then elbows and shoulders and hips, slowly by slowly and all to ourself.

Just as it was saying this, the door to the cellar was smashed into fragments and bright sunlight flooded down the stairs. Sabra had forgotten, in the urgency of wrestling down screaming horror, that Meri was still at large in the Palace grounds. She had also quite forgotten Estarriol, which blazed like a brand of white fire in the old woman's hand.

But Meri did not seem old now. She had flung off her ragged outer cloak and stood in riding boots, jodhpurs, grey Silvan tabard and polished steel mask. Her silver hair was a stern bun at the back of her head. She took three running paces down the stairs and leapt into the midst of the enemy as if into a pool, her war-scream resolving itself into a battle-psalm that echoed about the wine cellars the ghouls had made their catacombs.

Hear me, vermin and know my name; I am Meridian Charn! Once they called me Kam Daishen, but your people will call me death! She had hewed a path straight to the Ghoul King to deliver this message; Sir Forfinax rose up to meet her, his rusty sword in hand.

Death to you and all of your blood! Meri screamed in his face, and Forfinax pragmatically flung one of his own ghouls at her bodily. Meri cut the shrieking thing clean in half, Estarriol slicing through as if the ghoul's flesh were butter.

Death to all who owe you kinship!

Forfinax hewed at her two-handed with his sword. He had been a knight once, and knew well how to use a blade, but Meri remained a fell-handed Diva despite her age, revivified now by the power of Estarriol; she ducked his first swipe, parried the second and hacked off his sword-arm at the wrist. Brackish blood sprayed from the stump and Forfinax screamed, an inhuman shriek drowned out by Meri's battlecry:

Death even to your memory!

Sabra had no time to shout a warning; she was too busily engaged once more wrestling with the ghouls, as were Menalowen and Tate. She looked up in time to see, through the slow-motion of adrenalin, Estarriol flying in Meri's hands to swipe off the head of Sir Forfinax.

Even as the blade bit through and the Ghoul King's skull parted company with his shoulders, the Akurite released its hold on him and sprang at Meri. The long spider-legs hooked in her shirt and the proboscis stabbed three times into her chest. Meri gasped and staggered, but inserted her sword between her body and the Akurite and swept it off her, claiming three of its leg when it tried to cling on. It landed only to spring again, but Meri was ready now and slashed it from the air before her wounds claimed her. She crumpled to her knees with the Akurite parasite in pieces around her.

Sabra had managed to get her helmet on in the midst of the fight and now barged through the ghouls to Meri's side. They could not pierce the Daishen's mail, but already descended on Meri with slavering teeth bared. Sabra snatched up Estarriol and laid about the enemy, driving them back until she could lift Meri and run for the exit. Menalowen and Tate made a fighting retreat behind her.

Tate's first act in the fight had been to retrieve his sword; once armed, he slew every ghoul to dare come between him and the exit. Menalowen was the last to retreat, smiting the ghouls down with his fists as he paced backwards up the stairs.

Bursting out into open air, Sabra fell on her knees and laid Meri out to check that she was still alive. At the door to the cellars, Tate and Menalowen put their strength to tipping a stack of masonry across the threshold. They grabbed Sabra by a shoulder each and she had to scoop Meri up and run again. Soon they were back beside their horses and Menalowen had retrieved his longbow from the snow where it had fallen in the ghouls' ambush.

Listen... Meri's voice was barely audible. Sabra laid her down on the grass and knelt beside her. Listen to me...

There is no time for lessons now, I have to help you.

Too late. Final lesson. Meri coughed blood inside her mask and began to choke. Sabra peeled the mask off and wiped the blood from her mentor's lips. She had never seen Meri's face before, and was surprised to find her brow almost unwrinkled and the stern lines of her profile still handsome despite age. Meri looked her full on, and Sabra saw that the left side of her face was torn with two long, old scars that ran from her brow to her jaw.

Listen. Shivan Dansac, she was the Daishen before me, her last words...

Meri, there is no time for this!

Meri grabbed Sabra by the wrists with surprising strength and stared intently into her eyes. Listen to me! Before she died and the Order passed to me, Shivan Daishen told me of the pact she had made with DeKellia.

What pact?

The Brethren of the Sword.

I have never heard of it.

No of course not! Shut up and listen to me! Meri coughed another mouthful of blood and had to roll on her side, muttering while she hawked up the mess. "Idiot girl, always asking questions, you don't listen... The Brethren were formed at the Savistri Mansion five years ago. I don't know who the others are except me and... him, DeKellia... and now you. Simply knowing of it makes you part of the pact."

But what is it?

To put the rule of all nations into mortal hands. That is all. To ensure that no Warmaster ever rises again. That is why we fight against the Empress. There are others; you must find them.

How? I have no idea who they are!

Follow the Quest. Meri's eyes were glazing towards death. You must stay true to the Quest. Honour the Daishen's mantle... Lucidity flickered for the briefest moment in her eyes and she strove to sit up, but could not. He calls; the Old Daishen draws close to me... Her grip on Sabra's hand tightened fiercely and then went slack. Sabra closed the old Diva's eyes and replaced her mask. Menalowen's shadow fell across her and she looked up.

We must go, the Bowman said.

We have to bury her here.

There is no time.

This is the way of a Kellion knight! Sabra screamed at him. She will lie in the ground of her last battle if I must die here beside her!

Then do it quickly. I will defend you. He turned at once and went back into the ruins. The ghouls were still digging their way out through the rubble-choked door; Menalowen began putting arrows in them as they forced their way free. Sabra retrieved the shovel from her horse's saddle and began to dig with manic intensity. Behind her, Menalowen's bow was singing faster than a fiddler could play, the shrieks of dying ghouls going up in the wake of every arrow.

She dug only three or four feet down before rolling Meri into the grave and filling it in. She looked up only once to see Menalowen retreating from the ruins as the enemy advanced. There were far fewer of them than had begun to emerge from the rubble only a few minutes before. Menalowen's quiver was empty; he loosed a final shot and ran back to Sabra's side. There was no fear in his eyes, only battle-frenzy restrained by tactical exigency.

"We must retreat, they are too many! Your quest will end here if we do not go now!"

Madness born of grief seized Sabra then and she drew her sword. The ghouls coming up out of the cellars were unprepared for her rush upon them. Menalowen set his horns and hooves to work again and within a minute they had together slain over a dozen undead. Even when the enemy fell back, Sabra pursued them back into their hole. The sound of the fight went on for a long time, the ghouls shrieking and gibbering until Sabra had sought and slain every one. Those that made it out met Menalowen; he caught them and wrung their spindly necks in his strong hands, flinging the bodies back into the pit.

By the time Sabra emerged, she was covered in blood and not one ghoul remained alive.

Karel Tate had stolen Meri's horse, dumping the saddlebags to hasten his escape. Menalowen offered Sabra his arm to lean on and they limped back to their steeds, leaving Meri's grave behind them marked with her upright sword. No Silvan would ever dare remove such a weapon, fearing the rage of the warrior spirit that might rise to claim it back.

They camped that night amid the wooden crags on the edge of the icy Moruna where only wolves and fugitives dared to go. Sabra said nothing while Menalowen built a small fire. They had nothing to eat, but Sabra was not hungry. Darkness consumed her; she closed the visor of her helm and sat within her armour, feeling as if she herself did not exist and there was only emptiness within the Daishen's mail.

After a long time, Menalowen said, It was a glorious battle. We did great deeds this day.

Meri is dead.

She fought valiantly; such feats of arms I have rarely seen, and they are the greater because we live to tell of them. Do not grieve for her; it is the Dance of Tork Vasud. What would she say to you now?

How should I know? Sabra said, but then lifted her visor and took off her helm. I suppose it is the death she wanted. I think the only thing she feared was to die in bed.

Then give her honour in your just vengeance, for I know you will be revenged upon her killers. In strictest truth her death was no doing of the Empire, but we should not have been taken so lightly by the ghouls had not Karel Tate chosen that very spot and moment for ambush. We will kill them, Sabra, but we have a long journey to accomplish first, and many other great deeds to do.

Journey? Sabra had quite forgotten in her grief why they had even set out and where they were going.

To the Daishen's Castle, Menalowen reminded her. With her dying breath, your mentor bade you ride on. You will not ride alone; the Bravest of the Brave is with you, Sabra Daishen. My arrows will be your allies; where your sword cannot reach, there your enemies I will slay.

There is something else Meri told me, Sabra said, and repeated the old Diva's dying message. Menalowen bowed his head gravely.

In telling me this, you have sworn me to the pact. It shall be so. Forevermore I will account myself among the Brethren of the Sword and strive to put down those immortals who would dare to rule the world; this I will do in honour of Meridian Charn. But today's fight is done and we have far to travel with the dawn.

When he uttered Meri's full name, Sabra looked up in surprise. How did you know...?

All the deeds of the great heroes I have memorized, for poetry is the greatest love of my people. Who else could know the resting place of the sword Estarriol, which was ever at her side until the Order of One came to her and she laid aside her name? Sleep now, Sabra Daishen, and forget your grief. I will watch over you.

CHAPTER TWO

THE CLOCKWORK SWORDSMAN

Menalowen shivered and bleated softly in the harsh wind that blew off the Kellion Moruna. His horse shifted nervously beneath him. Sabra sat still, staring for a long time at the distant walls and ramparts of the Daishen's ancestral home.

Meri should have lived to see this, she said.

She walks with you even now, Menalowen replied. "For you know better than I that she once wore the armour of the Daishen, and you have told me how all those who