Days Of Light And Shadow (20 page)

Chapter Twenty Nine.

“My lord we are losing. The humans have destroyed all our border towns, they have crushed the cities of Shadow Breath, Heartwood Grove and Whitefern. Our army is routed, and falling back before them. Forty thousand of our finest soldiers at least are dead, the rest are broken, and within weeks the humans will be here in Leafshade.”

“We must sue for peace while we still can.” Y’aris hated giving the high lord the bad news, mostly because it was his failure. He’d always suspected that they would lose, the humans were numerous and possessed some terrible weapons. But he had thought in terms of years not months. Years in which he could slowly destroy the last of the high lord’s family and manoeuvre himself into position. Years in which he could take the throne for himself and finally begin the cleansing. Years while his master’s shambling army slowly grew and took the fight to the utra for him.

It wasn’t to be. Despite his dreams the utra were simply too strong, and no matter how fast he recruited, his soldiers fell faster. Those accursed utra cannon. Why hadn’t he known that they could wheel them? And Finell, no matter his terror at being consumed alive by vermin, he refused to allow a conscription. Why? Y’aris didn’t understand, but he knew in the end it didn’t matter. Three weeks, a month ago the conscription might have let him turn the tide of the war. But no longer. Now they faced only abject defeat, and a new design had to be set in motion.

But even out of failure could come opportunity as the sages said, and though the battle was lost, the war continued. Not that Finell the child as he thought of him, would understand his plans. He still thought this was all about his sister. About his vengeance. He really was a simple child. Evil, but simple. Unworthy of the throne.

“Do not say it!” Finell of course, was still very dangerous, and with his youthful temper, deadly. One single wrong word from him and all of Y’aris’ plans would be lost, his dreams of taking the Heartwood Throne, dashed, and possibly his life with them. Children on the throne, surely it was a poor jape.

“I am sorry High Lord, but we must face the truth.” He went down on his knee before the rotten little brat and bowed his head. He hated doing it, but from time to time it was necessary to show his loyalty. Finell appreciated such displays.

“They killed my sister! They violated her! Then the filthy utra chopped off her head!” Finell’s voice was nearly a scream as he let his rage fill him. It was the only emotion he had known for a very long time. Ever since Y’aris had given him his enemy. And it had been a useful tool. While the high lord lived in his rage, he didn’t care that Y’aris’ watchmen broke every law of the ancient codes. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted was blood. “And you want me to make peace with them? No!”

“It does not have to be forever my lord.” Finally the chance had come to lay out his new plan. To set Elaris on a new course to purity that the high lord would come to believe was his own. To show him a strategy that would destroy all of his most hated enemies in time.

“We sue for peace now. We offer a carrot to them to show our sincerity. A wedding perhaps. It is traditional. Your cousin Sophelia perhaps. And then we rebuild our armies. We uncover the ways to destroy these terrible cannon of the utra from afar. And then when they are asleep and comfortable in their beds, we strike. We kill them all.”

“My cousin!” Finell was outraged, but not truly hurt by the idea. He and Sophelia had never been close, he had never been close to anyone save his sister, and before her father had confined her to the house Sophelia had been strong enough to tell him he was wrong from time to time. He hated that. So giving her away as a sacrifice to the humans would not be such a terrible blow. It was only the name, that she was of his family, of House Vora, that bothered him. Still even that could be turned to Y’aris’ advantage. It would drive a wedge between Finell and House Vora.

“Then perhaps not her High Lord. But it must be someone of an important name, an important family, for the humans to believe it. They would not be convinced by the offer of a baker’s daughter. And Sophelia is the only cousin you have left of marriageable age.” And it was fortunate that she still lived. Y’aris had been ruthless as he’d slowly destroyed the high lord’s family, and in time he would have killed her too. A hunting accident like her uncle and aunt in Heartwood Grove perhaps. She spoke too often and too well against her brother’s plans, the plans he had given him. But now she could serve another purpose instead. Bringing the much needed peace to Elaris, and disgracing House Vora and the high lord in the same act. She would live though she would still be destroyed, and her family would blame Finell. The high lord would find himself even more alone than before, and only he would be there with him to keep him company. It was a brilliant plan.

“And you would offer her to that utra king? A Vora?” Finell still seemed outraged by the thought. Or maybe he even had a glimmer of decency left in him. A tiny sliver of affection for his family. If he did though, it wouldn’t last long. Not when his own family turned on him. And they would. It was only a matter of time.

“Not him High Lord. King Herrick is old and married already. His two sons are also married as is his daughter. And his grandchildren are not yet old enough to wed. But we are fortunate in that we have a lord of his court here. One who even has Herrick’s ear. The son of his old friend.”

“The envoy!” Finell spat the words out like poison, venom in every syllable as he realised instantly who he meant. “No! Never! You jest!”

Finell hated Iros with a passion. He had long before the death of his sister. At every step in his short reign, the human had been there to thwart his plans as he saw it. He had stopped Finell dead in his plans to raise trading taxes and limit the numbers of merchants visiting the land. Twice. He had prevented him from closing the doors of the colleges that took outside students from the uncivilised races. He had successfully spoken against his dreams of demanding gold from the nearer human border towns in return for protection. And always he did it with a honeyed tongue, so that none could even suggest he was impertinent. The man had a tongue of pure moon silver. Until he had foolishly let his anger rule him on that day in the court. A day that Y’aris still looked back on with fondness as he had so easily turned the court against him.

Convincing the high lord that the human mission had to be destroyed had been easier than he had dreamed. And it had all but guaranteed that the war would burn brightly. Especially when he had his agents send messages to the human lands telling the utra king of what had been done. Of the burning of the mission, the killing of its staff, and the slow torture of its envoy. Finell and Herrick both had fallen into his hands perfectly.

“I’m sorry my lord, but it must be him. There is no other.” And that was another measure of how badly their soldiers had failed. He had expected to take at least a few human cities before the end. He had expected to have a few lords and ladies to use as he needed them. Bargaining pieces for when the war had finally had to end. But his armies had fallen woefully short. And with that failure Ander’s words from that dark night had echoed through his dreams each night for weeks. That he would lose badly. Grief how he hated that savage.

The only good news he’d had was that the human’s family were dead, and with their deaths Iros had become Lord Drake in his own right. A minor lord from a minor province but still a lord.

Time passed as the high lord thought on his words, weighing them up and looking for alternatives. Anything that saved a member of his family from being disgraced. Anything that allowed him to finally kill the envoy. But there were none, and eventually he had to accept it. If he had one emotion stronger than rage it was fear, and he did not want to be killed when the humans marched through Leafshade. He did not want to be fed to the rats.

“Does he still live?”

“Yes. He is gravely injured, and may die of his wounds in time. But as of this morning he still lives.” Y’aris had made sure of that when he had realised he would need him. Though he too was irked by the man. Too often he had argued against him in the court, and too often he had won. And more than that he had not only endured his inquisitor’s most terrible punishments, he had laughed at them, unsettling his loyal soldiers. Finell was right in that one thing at least. The utra should die. There was just no justice in letting him live. But there was no choice either.

Y’aris didn’t like it, but when he had spoken to his master and advised him of his troubles, there had been only one solution given. Sue for peace and regroup. It was a defeat, but it didn’t have to be the end. And at least his master was feeding on the souls of so many for once. He was not likely to forgive him for disobedience. Finell had to sue for peace, and from that moment on the annoying envoy had become his best hope.

But just because the envoy had to live for the moment, it didn’t mean that he had to keep living. Just long enough to wed, to disgrace the high lord’s cousin, to turn Finell’s family against him, and to bring peace to the land. But when he went home. When the war was ended. Then his value would be ended. And there were ways to make sure that he lived not too many more months. Ways that would leave his realm in disarray. And ways that the high lord would also enjoy hearing when he whispered them into his ear. And when he did, Finell would be ready to forgive him any failure.

And in that moment a council of gloom became one of pure sunshine.

Chapter Thirty.

He was dreaming, though what he dreamed he didn’t know. What Iros did know was that he was at peace. And he didn’t want to leave that peace. So he let the bangs and thumps go away as they always did. But the voice. When he heard it, something about it refused to go away so easily. Maybe because he knew whose voice it was and he hated the speaker with all his heart.

“Wake him up!” Iros heard the high lord screaming, and for a moment it seemed to bring some part of him back to life. A part of him that hated and raged. But it wasn’t much of him, there wasn’t much of him left, and it couldn’t keep him awake for long. The endless buckets of water, shaking and slapping didn’t help either. But then being dragged from his cell, across the grass from the stone dungeon to the Royal Chamber and dumped unceremoniously on the hard wooden floor hadn’t really woken him either. So what use would a little water be? Nothing could seem to rouse him.

Yet as he lay there like a corpse, a part of him was finally working again. A part of him that could listen at least. A part of him that could even take joy in the sound of hysteria in the high lord’s screaming as he ordered the servants about, demanding that they do the impossible. He gathered that things were not going the high lord’s way. That was good. If he could have laughed he would have. If he could have stood up and plunged a dagger in the foul high lord’s heart he would have.

“Filthy utra.” Naturally Finell soon resorted to insults. He had never been sparing of them even before the war. And so it came as no surprise to Iros when he started abusing him for everything from being born to messing up the polished wood of his royal chambers with his blood. In fact it was almost soothing. Familiar.

“Does he live?”

“For a while.” Iros recognised the sinister tones of Y’aris, instantly and knew a terrible need to slay him on the spot. He was a man who spoke like death, and who had brought it to so many innocents. He was the man who had thrown him in the dungeon and killed his friends. Iros truly hated him, even in his darkness. He would have slain him where he stood if he could only have moved. But he couldn’t do even that little. Despite the best efforts of the inquisitors and their endless buckets of brine the demon Corpus had taken hold of his body and it no longer obeyed him. Soon Corpus would take his life as well.

Still as the priests claimed so often, for each of the nine hells there was also a divine, and maybe Duran Timos, the god of fate and chance was with him as well. Because even as he lay there racked with disease and dying, he was also somehow awake to hear what was being said. He should have been dead long ago. He knew that. No one should have survived what he had endured. But not only was he still somehow breathing, he was awake. That seemed unlikely enough in itself, but to add to the unlikely chance, he knew that something important was being discussed. Something he had to try and pay attention to. The high lord and his war chief both there, both there for him. That had to be important. As did making certain that whatever dark plans they plotted, were told to the right people before he passed. So maybe someone from above was helping him, just a little. After all, even if he didn’t have a lot of time for the Divines, that didn’t mean they might not have some purpose for him.

“Send for the healers then. We will need him to live a while longer yet.”

“And send for my cousin.” Finell almost shrieked the last and Iros wondered why. Was the high lord’s cousin in desperate trouble? And which one? But did it really matter?

As he lay there and someone kept throwing water over him, the high lord became silent again and Iros started losing interest. He didn’t want to and he knew he had to keep listening. But the call of the quiet was too strong for him and it started dragging him away again. If only Finell would say something, anything to help him hold back the darkness. But he didn’t, and soon the darkness was welcoming him once more.

All he could hope for was that sooner or later it would release him again, if only so he could hear what he needed to, and make certain that his king heard it too. Anything to ruin Finell’s foul plans. Anything to see him hang.