Light of the Radiant (The Reckoning Book 2) Read online

  Matthew Ward

  Next to friendship, the greatest of all gifts is time given freely.

  This book is dedicated to Lisa, Mum, Ceri, Greg, Gareth, Tal, & Toby, for helping catch all the foolishnesses and incomprehensibilities (apart from those necessary to the plot).

  This edition copyright © 2016 by Matthew Ward

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictionally.

  Dramatis Personae

  Part One

  Out of Darkness

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Part Two

  Immortal Favour

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Part Three

  Into Light

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Tribute

  A Matter of Belief

  Shadow of the Raven

  Queen of Eventide

  Edges of the World

  Dramatis Personae

  Of the Hadari Empire

  Edric Saran

  Hadari Crown Prince, & Ambassador to the Tressian Council

  Calda Cadvar

  Hadari warleader

  Halvorn Jamar

  Edric's bodyguard

  Emperor Eirac I

  Ruler of the Hadari Empire

  Of the Tressian Republic

  Arianwyn Trelan

  Member of the Tressian Council

  Commander Edrevor Torev

  General of the Tressian army

  Lady Emmeline Orova

  Torev's squire

  Koschai

  Gone, but not forgotten

  Lord Mikel Karov

  Member of the Tressian Council

  Dravko Magorian

  Member of the Tressian Council

  Captain Erika Nierev

  Master of the Tressian City Guard

  Lord Solomon

  A fugitive

  Zorya

  Seneschal of the Tower of Stars

  Jaspyr & Fredrik

  Loyal guardians

  Of Skyhaven

  Azyra

  Highest of the high

  Adanika

  The Speaker of Truth

  Myrzanna

  The Speaker of Retribution

  Irina

  The Speaker of Compassion

  Elynna

  Flighty, but sincere

  Edina

  A humble servant

  Of Complicated Allegiance

  Elspeth

  A Daughter of the Moon, and a Mother of Scorn

  Morecet

  A roguish fellow

  Torvald Korag

  A cold soul, seeking warmth

  Divinities

  The Radiant

  Goddess of the Sun, and of Justice, also known as Astarra

  Ashana

  Goddess of the Moon. A light in the darkest places

  Astor

  God of the Abyss, Lord of Forges and Flame

  Sidara Trelan

  Tressian ancestor goddess

  Malgyne

  Lord of Otherworld. Known as Death in Tressia

  Jack

  Lord of the Living Realm. Known as Jerack in Tressia

  Deceased, but Relevant

  Constans Reveque

  Gentleman of resource and wit

  Aldor Saran

  Edric's Father

  Quintus

  (ex)Master of the Tressian City Guard

  Part One

  Out of Darkness

  What fools we are.

  We plot and plan, scheme and soldier, dreaming of legacy.

  But there is no mortal purpose the Great Powers cannot subvert.

  In the end, we all dance to their tune.

  ~ Eldor of Kyme ~

  One

  Arrogance is more dangerous than a sword.

  My father had been a wise man, as befitted the emperor of a great nation. He taught me many things – more, I suspect, than I can readily recall – but that particular phrase remained with me in a way that others had not. Perhaps because they were his last lucid words before the sickness claimed him. I've seen their truth played out so many times since. Arrogance cost my elder brother both his life and his throne. I've seen it bring low a god.

  Six months ago, Malgyne, Lord of the Dead, had escaped his ghostly Otherworld and invaded the living realm, his goal to unite the lands of the living and the dead as a single twilit kingdom.

  He'd run us close, so terribly close.

  Thousands had died in the city of Tressia alone. Countless others would have joined them had we of the Hadari Empire not put aside ancient enmity and marched to the Tressians' aid. I don't doubt that Malgyne could have prevented this alliance had he only cared to do so, yet arrogance blinded him to the danger. It was I who'd brought the Hadari to Tressia's aid, and I'd even battled the God of the Dead blade-to-talon. In the eyes of Tressians and Hadari alike, I was a hero.

  But even heroes fall prey to arrogance.

  "Why do I ever agree to anything you propose?" Even as I spoke, I knew I was being unfair. But fairness wasn't exactly at the forefront of my mind. Being marched at sword point has that effect on me.

  "Because Edric, little brother, you're easily bored."

  Even in the dull torchlight of the tunnel, the speaker's green eyes gleamed with amusement. Her face was as familiar to me as my own. Dark hair framed delicate features that would have been the envy of any cloistered lady of the court, but for the inevitable air of mockery. Oddly, the knife-scar on her right cheek accentuated whatever expression she wore, making the rare smiles seem even more joyful, and the scowls darker than thunder.

  I jerked my head at our robed captors, marching in step to either side. "Boredom's never a problem when you walk into my life."

  She flashed a triumphant smile. We were not true siblings, Calda Cadvar and I, but we had grown up together. That shared life bound us as closely as any brother and sister; that and her proven ability to get me into trouble.

  Calda shrugged, the motion made awkward by her bonds. "We'd none of us be here if Jamar had kept a proper watch."

  To my right, Jamar stiffened slightly. His chiselled features remained as impassive as ever, but I'd known him too long to be fooled. The slight wrinkling of his brow, the twitch of the jaw line almost hidden by the neatly-trimmed beard... Calda's jibe had hit its mark.

  "I can offer no explanation, savim," Jamar said. "One moment I was awake, the next I was here."

  He sounded deeply embarrassed. I couldn't blame him. Jamar was just as proud as I, but his pride was tempered by a quiet wisdom whose depths I'd yet to plumb. Nonetheless, to be caught out by something as simple as falling asleep on watch
– even in supposedly safe territory – hurt him deeply. I'd never believed him capable of such a mistake, but then none of us were infallible. My last memory before waking was of the lodging rooms of the Jack i' the Wood, a seemingly reputable tavern in the apparently respectable village of Salkard. That we'd gone to Salkard expecting trouble made it all the more frustrating that our precautions had been for nothing.

  Arrogance is more dangerous than a sword.

  The procession's leader spun on his heel, and favoured us with a baleful glare. "Save your strength. The Burning Lord awaits."

  The golden torc at his throat marked him as a man of high status, as did the fact that he'd claimed my sword as a trophy. Before my companions and I had awoken in the filthy cave serving as our cell, our captors had stripped us of everything: our swords, our coin – even the rings from our fingers. Well, almost everything.

  The leader turned abruptly away, a man confident in his supremacy. Then again, he had every right to be. I and my companions were bound, unarmed and on the losing end of twelve to three odds. In his place, I'd be confident too. As it was, confidence was the last thing I felt.

  "What's the matter?" asked Calda, picking up on my mood. "Missing your Tressian girl, ambassador?" As ever, there was a hint of dislike as she spoke of Arianwyn Trelan.

  "As it happens, yes. Even if I wasn't, I wouldn't want to remain here any longer than I have to." I hoped my tone would discourage Calda from developing her theme. Unfortunately, she wasn't one for giving up without a fight.

  "Are you so wearied by our company already, Edric?"

  Jamar rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

  "Calda, your company is as enjoyable as ever." I chose my words carefully. "It's the accommodations. I'm used to better."

  "A soft ambassador in a soft city," muttered Calda. "You've been too long settling squabbles. If I hadn't dragged you out here, you'd have grown roots. Like moss."

  A shove from behind sent her staggering. "Quiet!" snapped a cultist.

  The leader spun round again, bringing the procession to a halt for the second time. "If she speaks again, cut out her tongue."

  The cultist put his hand to the dagger buckled at his waist. "Yes, magistir."

  I shot Calda a warning glance, urging her to obey. For a mercy, she lapsed into silence. A weight vanished from my chest. Tongue-severing aside, the last thing we needed was our captors taking too close a look at us. Specifically, I didn't want them examining the bonds we'd worked so hard to gimmick during the night. Whoever had searched Calda had missed her boot knife.

  As we proceeded, it quickly became clear that our cell had been but one cave in a gloomy labyrinth. Flickering torches cast dull light across bare rock, broken occasionally by walls of carven black stone, and expanses of cracked tiles. Wherever we were, it far predated our captors' efforts. This notion was reinforced when we passed what seemed to be a series of collapsed tunnel mouths and spoil heaps. The cultists weren't excavating new chambers. They were reclaiming the old. The sight worried me, and not just because it spoke to the scale of our captors' plans. If the cultists themselves were performing such manual labour, rather than using captives, then it didn't look good for the travellers they'd taken from the lands around Salkard. The vanished men and women we'd come to find.

  What had we fallen into? The robes had been a bit of a giveaway, of course, but I'd tried to resist leaping to conclusions. That said, the title 'magistir' strongly suggested that our captors were the kind of destructive cultists that the Tressians tried to pretend no longer existed. 'The Burning Lord' didn't exactly sound encouraging either. Once again, Calda had led me into trouble.

  Less than two weeks ago I’d been in the city of Tressia, helping coordinate our realms' efforts against the last of Malgyne’s army of the damned. As the winter weather had closed in, our armies had retreated from the field – as, fortunately, had our foes. Despicable shades of mortal men they might be, but the habits of old died hard. But the lull in my workload had not aligned with a similar cessation in Arianwyn’s. In fact, her responsibilities to the Republic’s ruling council had only grown. Most days we were fortunate to see anything of each other. All in all, it had seemed a good time to cross the border and return home to Tregard, and the Golden Court. I’d meant to do so sooner, but somehow the weeks and months had marched by without me noting their passage.

  Calda had greeted me soon after my arrival. Not that she'd told me her true intentions immediately. No, Calda being Calda, she'd hidden her scheme beneath a comradely reunion. Rivers of wine had flowed through her villa that night, enough to sweep any man away. Enough to sweep me away. The following morning, I discovered I'd agreed to this escapade.

  It transpired that people were going missing in the Contested Lands. Not in vast numbers, but enough to cause concern. Of course, folk vanished all the time in that lawless region. In this case, however, most disappearances had occurred near to the village of Salkard. Never the type to sit back and let others do the work, Calda had decided to take a look at Salkard for herself – despite the fact that Salkard was a Tressian village, rather than part of the Empire.

  In hindsight, I'd been foolish to accompany her, but it would have been more foolish to let Calda go by herself. I suppose too that I relished the opportunity to actually do something, rather than issue orders or directives for others to follow. Danger is a strange thing to miss, perhaps, but I found I longed for it all the same, especially with what the future held for me. Jamar had been less than impressed by our decision, and politely tried to dissuade us. When that course failed, he announced he'd be accompanying me, as a bodyguard should.

  So it was that we'd ridden into Salkard, not in the green silks and golden scales of the Hadari army, but in the wools and leathers of common travellers. Jamar had been particularly unhappy at that last detail – as a member of the royal guard, he hated the prospect of going into battle in any other attire, let alone the dull garb of commoners. The villagers had been welcoming enough, and had certainly given us no further fuel for suspicion. Nonetheless the three of us had agreed to share watches through the night. For all the good that had done us.

  Arrogance is more dangerous than a sword.

  We entered a vast chamber stacked high with provisions and racks of weapons. Some kind of armoury, and one intended to supply several hundred souls. There were at least thirty robed cultists practicing weapon-play. Watching over them with folded arms and a baleful eye was a man wearing a short jerkin of golden Hadari scales. He wore no hood, leaving nothing to disguise his bald pate or the livid scar that ran down from his left brow, across a glassy eye and thence to the corner of his mouth.

  The magistir led our procession through a pair of massive wooden doors at the chamber's far end. These led into another winding tunnel, this one deserted, and then to another, even grander pair of doors, still of wood, but this time bound and riveted with iron. We crossed the threshold onto the head of a stone stairway. The heavy thud of the closing doors echoed ominously over me, like the waking breath of some large and terrible beast.

  The chamber we'd entered was not merely another cavern, but a giant vault whose walls, floor and ceiling were all fashioned from enormous blocks of jet-black stone. Torches provided most of the sparse light, but not all. A dull red glow licked the lowermost stones. As we were prodded down the steps, I saw why. A chasm split the vault's floor, and a river of molten worldblood squeezed sluggishly through the breach.

  Throughout the chamber stood towering statues crafted of that omnipresent black stone. The dull red light of the cavern barely reached their chests, and did nothing to dispel the darkness about their lumpen brows. Theirs were not the likenesses of men, or at least of no men I'd ever seen. The figures' proportions were not those of men; they were broader and more heavily muscled, and I very much doubted this had arisen solely out of some long-ago sculptor's artistic vision. Their arms were upraised to support the weight of the ceiling, but something about the pose suggested worship.


  We reached the base of the steps and crossed a narrow stone bridge. A handful of cultists remained halfway up the stairs on the other side of the bridge, though whether this was part of the ritual, or to guard against our possible escape, I didn't know.

  Before me sat an altar of black stone. It too was hewn on a massive scale. It had to be in order to accommodate the enormous stone figure lying upon it. In size and form, the figure was much the same as those who held up the roof, but his arms were folded in a manner strikingly similar to the bas-reliefs I'd seen in Tressian tombs. A wounded warrior, waiting for the call to arise. Long-stemmed torches stood at the altar's four corners, and the dancing play of light and shadow made the figure's face seem alive with expression.

  The magistir, my sword still buckled at his waist, made his way to the head of the altar. He pulled back his cowl. His tone was deep and resonant, the rhythm of his words as inevitable as the tramp of an oncoming army. The sound rolled across the chamber like fog upon the shore, peculiar echoes layering whispers across his sonorous chant.

  I grew uneasy. I'd no idea as to the meaning of his words, and from the look on their faces neither did Calda or Jamar. What was desperately clear, however, was that we wouldn't learn anything else. I'd hoped we'd be moved to where the other captives had been taken, and we had been. They'd been offered up as sacrifice to the 'Burning Lord'.

  Unless we wanted to end the same way, it was time for us to leave.

  All told, I'd counted eighteen cultists. Long odds, but we'd faced down worse. Six remained beyond the bridge. That left twelve in our immediate vicinity: the magistir standing before us, and the half circle of guards to our rear. I eased my hands apart. The rope bit at my wrist, then gave. One good tug...