away.”
“He has gone to Neprokhodymh. You know that as much as I. He used sorcery to escape. His allegiance is to the Autarch, and he is taking her Grace there for whatever purpose.”
“That’s as may be ...”
“It’s my duty, sir. I have to go. My honour—”
“Is not at fault, Leste.”
“But it is, sir.”
“You did what you could.”
“Rather than what I should have done, sir. I should have stayed in the room with the King and Khale.”
“Then you would be dead also, and I could not bear that.”
“The King—”
“ Is not the child I raised! ” Murtagh shouted. “Don’t you understand, Leste? I love you. I raised you, though you were not my own. Death has taken Maerysa and Neal from me, which is why I have done what I have to.”
“Sir?”
“You are forbidden to leave the boundaries of Colm. The order has been given. The men and women of the Watch know that you are not to cross through any of the city gates until further notice.”
“Sir ... Murtagh … you can’t do this to me. I won’t be able to live with myself.”
“You will, Leste, you will. Someday, you will learn how to. We all do, eventually.”
“Father ...”
“You will not go after Khale, Leste.”
“He is only a brigand.”
“Enough. Go home, Leste. Yrena and Osta need you more than the dead and honour do. Go, now.”
“Sir.”
Leste left, and Murtagh closed the door after her, letting out a long, tired sigh. He hoped she would listen to Yrena, if not to him. A lover’s words often bear more weight than a father’s.
She would hate him, he knew that, when she found out about Lord Barneth and when Colm became a part of his kingdom. But she would be alive to hate him, as would every other person in the city who would have died otherwise. Murtagh could live with that, just about.
Better alive and hating me than lying dead on cold ground far from home with the crows as her pall-bearers and worms to bury her , he thought.
He knew what Khale was, though he knew Leste did not believe it. She was still young, she did not understand how strange the world had become.
The old stories told of a great battle long ago, the battlefield it was waged upon stretching for a hundred leagues. On that ground, from dawn to dusk and then well into the night, men, women, beasts and demons fought until the earth was an ordure of blood and churned entrails. Many fell that day and night, more than could ever be counted, and such was the scale of the slaughter and bloodshed that Death himself walked corporeal among the fallen, harvesting their souls.
It was dawn of the following day when Death came upon Khale.
He was the only one left standing, alone, wearied and bloodied. He was only a mortal man back then, a soldier trained and experienced in the arts of war, but still a darkness clung to him; it coloured his blood with a bitter lust for the kill, a lust none of his fellows shared. His fellows now lay about him, carved into pieces, torn apart.
Death came to him at this moment and raised his blade high to lay Khale low. And Khale raised his sword in kind and met the sword of Death with a thunderous crack. The air shook as he turned Death’s blade aside. But Death was tireless, as all Gods and Goddesses are, and he swung his blade down to cleave Khale’s skull again. Again, he was parried. Again, he was denied.
For a further day and night, Khale fought with Death as mongrels and vultures feasted on the rotting slain. No words were spoken. No sound was uttered by either of them. There was only the relentless song of steel ringing out across the reeking battlefield. On and on the duel went; each thrust parried, every riposte answered by counter-riposte.
Only when dawn rose once more over the scene was the struggle decided. Judged a weary mortal by his immortal foe, he was able to take advantage of the arrogance born in all Gods and Goddesses. As Death saw Khale slowing and finally tiring, the God’s gestures became grander,
“He has gone to Neprokhodymh. You know that as much as I. He used sorcery to escape. His allegiance is to the Autarch, and he is taking her Grace there for whatever purpose.”
“That’s as may be ...”
“It’s my duty, sir. I have to go. My honour—”
“Is not at fault, Leste.”
“But it is, sir.”
“You did what you could.”
“Rather than what I should have done, sir. I should have stayed in the room with the King and Khale.”
“Then you would be dead also, and I could not bear that.”
“The King—”
“ Is not the child I raised! ” Murtagh shouted. “Don’t you understand, Leste? I love you. I raised you, though you were not my own. Death has taken Maerysa and Neal from me, which is why I have done what I have to.”
“Sir?”
“You are forbidden to leave the boundaries of Colm. The order has been given. The men and women of the Watch know that you are not to cross through any of the city gates until further notice.”
“Sir ... Murtagh … you can’t do this to me. I won’t be able to live with myself.”
“You will, Leste, you will. Someday, you will learn how to. We all do, eventually.”
“Father ...”
“You will not go after Khale, Leste.”
“He is only a brigand.”
“Enough. Go home, Leste. Yrena and Osta need you more than the dead and honour do. Go, now.”
“Sir.”
Leste left, and Murtagh closed the door after her, letting out a long, tired sigh. He hoped she would listen to Yrena, if not to him. A lover’s words often bear more weight than a father’s.
She would hate him, he knew that, when she found out about Lord Barneth and when Colm became a part of his kingdom. But she would be alive to hate him, as would every other person in the city who would have died otherwise. Murtagh could live with that, just about.
Better alive and hating me than lying dead on cold ground far from home with the crows as her pall-bearers and worms to bury her , he thought.
He knew what Khale was, though he knew Leste did not believe it. She was still young, she did not understand how strange the world had become.
The old stories told of a great battle long ago, the battlefield it was waged upon stretching for a hundred leagues. On that ground, from dawn to dusk and then well into the night, men, women, beasts and demons fought until the earth was an ordure of blood and churned entrails. Many fell that day and night, more than could ever be counted, and such was the scale of the slaughter and bloodshed that Death himself walked corporeal among the fallen, harvesting their souls.
It was dawn of the following day when Death came upon Khale.
He was the only one left standing, alone, wearied and bloodied. He was only a mortal man back then, a soldier trained and experienced in the arts of war, but still a darkness clung to him; it coloured his blood with a bitter lust for the kill, a lust none of his fellows shared. His fellows now lay about him, carved into pieces, torn apart.
Death came to him at this moment and raised his blade high to lay Khale low. And Khale raised his sword in kind and met the sword of Death with a thunderous crack. The air shook as he turned Death’s blade aside. But Death was tireless, as all Gods and Goddesses are, and he swung his blade down to cleave Khale’s skull again. Again, he was parried. Again, he was denied.
For a further day and night, Khale fought with Death as mongrels and vultures feasted on the rotting slain. No words were spoken. No sound was uttered by either of them. There was only the relentless song of steel ringing out across the reeking battlefield. On and on the duel went; each thrust parried, every riposte answered by counter-riposte.
Only when dawn rose once more over the scene was the struggle decided. Judged a weary mortal by his immortal foe, he was able to take advantage of the arrogance born in all Gods and Goddesses. As Death saw Khale slowing and finally tiring, the God’s gestures became grander,
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