63. Ghosts of a Time Long Dead
Chapter 63
Ghosts of a Time Long Dead
20 th Day of the Blood Moon
River Makeer, west of Achyron’s Keep – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
“Easy, girl.” Dayne ran his hand along the neck of the bay mare he’d taken from the camp. The magnificent creature had carried him through the night and into the morning with little complaint. Ahead, the light of the rising sun sprayed over the Rolling Mountains, glistening in the mist of Dayne’s breath, winter still holding its grasp on the world.
The horse came to a stop in the middle of an open glade, snorting, the river ahead. Dayne laid his spear across his lap and patted the creature’s neck. He gave a tap with his heels, and the horse walked forwards.
The River Makeer had three points of crossing where the water was shallow enough. Dayne stood before the southernmost crossing. The old fort sat about a mile back from the far bank, nestled against a thicket of trees.
Fort Lukaris, named after the great Valtaran general Alexin Lukaris. It was here that Alexin fought the Battle of the Bleeding River against the Karvosi invasion back in the Age of Honour, around the year one-four-three-six After Doom. It was said that the Karvosi casualties were so high it had taken months to clear the bodies and the river had run red all the way to Myrefall.
Dayne’s mother had told him the story a thousand times when he was a boy. Alexin was known as the greatest military leader in the history of Valtara. A man who’d never lost a battle. Not a single one. The skulls of three Great Horns were still mounted on the walls of Macidea, the ancestral home of House Lukaris, just south of Skyfell. Dayne had never seen one of the creatures alive, but the skulls were easily as long as he was tall, the enormous horns the same length.
Staring out at the river, Dayne found himself longing for those days when his mother let him and Baren stay up long past the setting sun and into the early hours, the fire roaring, her strong voice spinning stories of all the ancient battles and generals of Valtara. His mother had always had a love of history and the blood spilled to accomplish the present. Knowing your past allowed you to appreciate the gifts you’d been given, or so his mother had always said.
The Battle of the Bleeding River, the Broken Isles, the Weeping Wood, The Battle of the Shattered Spears, The Burning of a Thousand Ships. All some of Dayne’s favourites.
That was all before he’d fought a battle himself. Before he’d truly known the stomach-turning sound of snapping bones, or the way skin crackled as it burned, or the particular scream of a man being eaten alive.
He still appreciated the genius of minds like Alexin, even more so than he once had. But now he knew well enough not to yearn for the glory of battle. Death would find him anyway, wherever he went, as it always did. But there was nothing noble about watching a man shit himself with a spear buried in his gut. Nothing righteous about walking waist-deep through a river turned red with blood and floating corpses.
He was already too far gone. There was no good deed in the world that would clean his hands. But he would end as many lives as he needed to if it would keep his child’s hands from bearing the same stains.
His child. Such a strange notion. In his arrogance, he had thought he’d understood the grief Alina had gone through when her son was taken from her. But as soon as Mera had told him of the child growing in her womb, he knew how wrong he’d been. That child was barely formed, a shell not yet ready to protect the soul within, and yet he would die for it. He would crawl across a field of shattered glass, let the flesh be burned from his bones, blacken his soul to the point that even the void would turn him away – all this he would do to protect that child. A child who had not yet taken a breath, a child who, if taken, he would bathe himself in blood to find.
Dayne took a moment, allowing the sounds of the river to drift to the back of his mind – a brief peace – then signalled the horse to cross. The water at the crossing point barely came up past the horse’s knees, in contrast to the deeper sections where the river would have swallowed the animal whole.
He led the horse on a slow walk towards the fort, which now lay in disrepair. The remains of the limestone walls were dank, grey, and webbed with vines. Cylindrical towers intersected the wall at each bend, topped with crenelated battlements. The keep rose about a hundred feet into the sky, sections of stone missing where they had been chipped away across the centuries. As Dayne rode closer, he could see the temples to Neron and Achyron through the gaps in the walls. Once, those temples had been finished in the finest Valtaran marble mined near Ironcreek. But that had long been stripped by House Koraklon and repurposed in the temples at Achyron’s Keep. That thought alone caused Dayne to grate his teeth. Temples were sacred things, and for a great Valtaran House to defile them as such was – to Dayne – an unforgivable thing. But the gods, as of yet, had not seen fit to punish House Koraklon. He would be happy to do it for them.
If this war ever ended, he would ensure Fort Lukaris was brought back to what it had once been, the temples restored, the walls rebuilt.
Dayne dismounted and led the horse through a gap in the wall, climbing over chunks of moss-covered stone that had long since become part of the earth. He walked through the ruined fort and stopped at the base of Neron’s temple. The statue of the god was one of few things mostly intact. The Sailor’s left arm was missing, a chip taken from his cheek.
Dayne tethered the horse to a stone post, then knelt at the base of the statue, placing his spear on the ground, his eyes closed.
“Neron,” he whispered, “I kneel before you as a man who has no right to ask anything of anyone, let alone a god. And yet here I am. I do not kneel at Achyron’s feet, for it is not strength I need. It is guidance. You have watched over Valtara for millennia, guided us to safe shores when the storms threatened to swallow us whole, kept us from oblivion when greater powers crumbled. And now I come to ask of you a smaller deed, one far below you. I ask that you keep my family safe, that you show them a safe path through this storm. I will pay whatever price you seek. Just keep them safe, I beg of you.”
When Dayne was finished, he pulled a long, aching breath into his lungs and exhaled slowly, dragging himself to his feet. The gods seldom dealt with the minor happenings of men. But on the off chance The Sailor was listening, Dayne had thought it worth speaking.
He left the horse tethered where it was grazing on tufts of grass that sprouted from the cracks in the stone, and climbed to the top of the closest tower he thought wouldn’t collapse on him. Once there, he perched atop a merlon, folded his legs beneath him, and rested his spear across his lap.
Dayne slid his hand into his pocket, allowing his fingers to rest on the smooth stone within. Power radiated from it even then, calling to him, demanding he open himself to it. Dayne closed his eyes and drew his breaths slowly, listening to his beating heart. He needed to show himself that he had the will to resist, that he was strong enough to do what needed to be done. He would not abandon Baren.
He stayed like that for quite some time, the gemstone whispering in the back of his mind, until he eventually pulled his fingers away and opened his eyes.
Hours passed, shadows bending and shifting as the sun moved across the sky. Midday had just passed when Dayne spotted the cloud of dust ripping towards him in the distance.
Ten riders approached the fort from the east, slowing as they drew closer. Seven wore the pale blue skirts of House Koraklon, the Oranak squid worked into their silver cuirasses. Loren was easy to spot with his head of short white hair, his armour gilded, his mount covered in blue and gold barding. The other three wore the black cloaks and markings of the Lorian Battlemages, and the power of the Spark pulsed from them.
Dayne smiled at that. His tactics had been working if Lorian Battlemages wouldn’t even approach him without the Spark firmly held in their grasps.
The riders came to a halt near the base of the fort’s walls. Shouts rang out, and four of those in armoured skirts galloped towards the river, spreading out along the banks. Dayne watched for a while, taking a small pleasure in knowing that he could snuff out Loren’s life in a heartbeat if he so wished. But that death would have been too quick. And if Loren died now, Dayne was absolutely certain that all he would find of his brother would be a corpse.
It seemed a fitting thing to him. All those years ago, Dayne had been forced to run to save his family, and now he was forced to do precisely the opposite. He had tried running, and all it had brought his House was ruin. He would not run again.
“I could snap your neck right now,” Dayne called down.
Even before the heads turned, the Spark rippled from the Battlemages. All three of the mages turned their horses about, eyes fixing on Dayne. So too did Loren’s guard, but Loren himself kept his mount steady.
“Dayne Ateres. It’s been a very long time. You might snap my neck, but you won’t live to draw another breath if you do. And your brother will have the skin peeled from his bones. And your sister? Well, I’ll make sure that crown is melted and poured over her head. Why don’t you come down here and we’ll talk face to face?”
“Why don’t you come up here? It’s a lovely day. You can see for miles in all directions.”
When silence answered, Dayne climbed down from his perch and descended the tower. The horse waited for him where he’d left it, still munching on tufts of grass. It snorted as he approached, lifting its head and pressing its muzzle into his chest.
“Good girl.” He ran his hand along the far side of the horse’s neck and rested his head against her soft coat for a moment. Then, giving two short clicks with his tongue, he led the animal back through the ruined fort and out to where Loren had now dismounted along with his guard, the three Battlemages remaining on horseback.
Well into his fifth decade, Loren was still densely muscled, his frame broad and lean. Full markings of the spear adorned his right forearm, four black rings on his left.
“You’ve been busy.” Loren stood with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “The whispers in the keep call you voidspawn, a demon sent to tear us limb from limb in the night. But I am familiar with your work, Dayne. I have not sat by blindly all these years. I heard of what you did to Harsted Arnim. Setting a man on fire is a harsh kind of vengeance, don’t you think? For someone of the noble House Ateres. I thought you were the honourable sort?”
“I’ve never claimed such a thing. Though Harsted didn’t scream nearly as much as the thousands you let burn at Stormwatch.”
Loren’s lips curled downwards before he gave Dayne a fleeting smile. “I’ve no idea what you did with that Draleid – Sylvan Anura. She just vanished. The dragon’s corpse was found south of Catagan with a spear formed entirely of stone jutting from its right eye. That was you, I presume? I’ve watched and listened through the eyes and ears of others for the past decade or so. You leave patterns, you know? Markers. A trail to follow. And what a trail you’ve left in your wake, you and that companion of yours – the Narvonan.”
Dayne tightened his grip on his spear.
“Did you think I would be so naive as to think you would never come back here? You are your father’s blood. All arrogance and pride. You would never let the honourable House Ateres collapse, no matter how many need die. Once I heard of Harsted’s death, I knew. And now here you are. I’ll give it to you, Dayne. You came close. You did more than your mother and father ever did, and even those before them. But how many Valtarans have died for your words of freedom? Tens of thousands. At Myrefall, and Skyfell, and let’s not forget the Lost Hills. There is not a soul beneath the banners of House Thebal who would follow you after that act of butchery.”
“You talk a lot, Loren. When I kill you, it’s your tongue I’ll take first.”
Loren smiled. “And when I melt that crown over your sister’s severed head after she is executed for treason, I’ll hang her body next to yours in Skyfell’s plaza, right where they hung. It would be poetic, don’t you think?”
Loren walked closer until Dayne could smell the scent of oranges on his breath. “I bet you’ve dreamt of this. Of being so close you could drive a dagger into my heart. How does it feel now, knowing that if you do, if you take the vengeance you seek, it will cost not only your life, but that of your brother and your sister…” He leaned closer. “And your sister’s child.”
Dayne froze, almost dropping the spear from his grasp, his stomach sinking.
“I thought that might get your attention. How do you think I came by your brother?”
“Every word that leaves your mouth is a lie.”
“When have I ever told you a lie, Dayne? Not once. I admit, I can be short tempered, stubborn, unforgiving, and at times cruel if there is a need for it. But I am not a liar.” He turned and gestured to his guard. “Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. You will see soon. You have come this far, Dayne. Won’t you come a little further?”
The guard stepped forwards with a pair of iron shackles. As he did, Dayne felt the mages pulling on threads of Spirit, preparing to ward him.
This was the point of no return. He could kill them all right then and there, peel the flesh from Loren’s bones and cut out his heart. The cost would be Baren’s life and that of his nephew – if Loren truly wasn’t lying. And even then, the war would still not be over. The Lorians would still hold Achyron’s Keep, and reinforcements would likely arrive through the Hot Gates. Loren would be dead, but Valtara would still bleed. The only victory to be had would be a personal one.
No, patience would be his friend. There was a path on which he could keep his family whole and lessen the cost of freeing Valtara. That path required shackles.
“I assume it’s easier if I get on the horse first?”
“I’d prefer watching you climb up with your hands bound, but if you insist.”
Dayne mounted the bay mare, then allowed Loren’s guard to place the shackles around his wrists. The hardest part was doing nothing as the Lorian mages erected a ward of Spirit around him and the Spark was pulled beyond his reach.
As they rode along the dirt track that led towards Achyron’s Keep, Dayne spotted Belina sitting above him in the branch of a densely-leaved tree, balancing like a kat. She smiled at him as they passed.
The Warrior and The Sailor. By blade and by blood. I will end the line of House Koraklon. I will see Valtara free.