Chapter The Prismatic Cuirass

My neck hurts…have I not moved an inch this whole time? They could have replaced me with a snowman and no one would have been the wiser. So much easier to stare at my hands and avoid eye contact than spouting stupid questions and getting told how stupid they are.

Not what I signed up for, being a snowman…yet it is comfortable to be silent and still.

Haylis suddenly speaks up, her voice light and conversational.

‘Oon’Shang says there’s...’ She cups a hand to her ear, ‘...people, a huge group of people, gathered on the highway. We have to slow down.’

Arkai dashes to the front of the carriage without another word.

Five seconds of silence. With a shaky sigh Kathanhiel rubs her face with both hands. ‘What am I doing – why did I –’ without acknowledging either of us she goes after him.

I look at Haylis and she at me. Suddenly my tongue is capable of moving again.

‘Nice.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘So…what do you think we should do? Keep going in the coach and have the dragons chase us, or try and find a boat at the Ford?’

She scoffs. ‘Stupid question. Didn’t I say I’m sticking with Aunt Kath? I wasn’t going on your stupid ferry ride in the first place.’

‘Don’t say anything if you’ve got nothing good to say.’

‘Just tell her you don’t want to leave. She won’t make you.’

That’s not true though. Unlike her, my name, initials, and blurry thumbprint are on a contract that says I have to do whatever I’m told.

The carriage grinds to a halt. The rooms begin to echo with the fleshy banging of panicky hands slapping against steel. Muffled shouting seep through the walls, louder than rain.

Arkai and Kathanhiel return, and lo and behold, they’re arguing again.

‘It’s not safe, the crowd is too agitated,’ Arkai says.

‘I will not leave them. Haylis, fetch my ceremonial set. Kastor, get into gear and herald my presence to the people – no more objections Arkai, I shan’t cover like some criminal.’

‘The cultists are here for certain. They’ll take advantage of the chaos –’

Kathanhiel silently points to the next room, her face set in stone. With an undisguised growl Arkai storms away, and for the first time ever I hear the clap of his boots on the floor.

‘You too Kastor, don your armour.’

I grab my bags and scamper after Arkai as the carriage rocks from left to right as if riding a high tide.

One peak through the window shows that Arkai is being quite reasonable. Thousands of people have gathered around the coach, a sea of grey faces shrouded by the downpour and the feeble sun. Their mouths are all moving wildly, yelling words that are yet indistinct, but the moment we open that door –

‘What’s happening?’

‘Refugees from the north,’ Arkai replies as he wraps a black scarf around his head, ‘or at least what appears to be.’ A swish of his cloak reveals two dozen throwing knives slotted into various pockets. ‘Keep your eyes on the crowd. If anyone suspicious get close don’t hesitate to strike first. Don’t get in her way if she decides to…’ He adds in an undertone: ‘No. No she won’t.’

With that he vaults to the ceiling and flings open a hatch that I didn’t even know was there, then slips out silent as a cat.

Leather cuirass. Studded gauntlets. The hilariously oversized pauldrons…no, should’ve put on the gauntlets last – tying knots in these is a nightmare. Fine, gauntlets off, shoulders on, then the greaves – nope, can’t bend over in these shoulders. Should’ve put on the greaves before the shoulders. Why is this so difficult?

Didn’t know we would run into so many people. Could have prepared a script if only someone had told me – no, no no no that’s shameful, what kind of esquire needs a script for an announcement that totals two short sentences?

Doesn’t sound good: too short and lacking context. If I was a listener I’d be disappointed. Got to add unnecessary flourishes, long words that don’t mean much but contain an abundance of syllables.

no that sounds moronic –

– absolutely not, that line is for preachers and cultists –

What?! Where did that one even come from –

‘Hurry up Kastor!’ Haylis calls out from the other room.

Gauntlet still half-tied, I fling open the door like a gladiator charging into the arena, ready for a fight to the death.

Light.

Kathanhiel’s ceremonial cuirass is stars crystallised, emanating a serene white glow. Angular arcs flourish from the ends of her glowing gauntlets, almost claw-like, and the silver-woven chainmail on her thighs – atop winged greaves – is a constant shimmer of trapped rainbows. She wears no helmet, only a pale circlet adorn with a rose-tinted diamond the size of a thumb.

She turns in my direction, and it’s immediately apparent that she’s naked underneath. Those paintings that attempt to capture the forms of heroes of legend, they are but doodles without imagination. This sight cannot possibly be put into drab paint; no palette is worthy of it.

Kaishen hangs unsheathed at her side, its blade ember-red.

‘Haylis, the heraldry. Give it to him,’ she says.

A metal stick with a piece of cloth hanging on one end materialises in my hand. I shove it to one side because it’s blocking the view. A hand reaches in and not-so-gently pushes my jaws shut. Haylis is giggling.

‘Quit it idiot.’

‘I-I-I’m…you…how…wow…’

Kathanhiel is not smiling.

‘Kastor, as my esquire it is your duty to herald my arrival to the people. If you’re not ready for it Haylis can take your place.’

Of course I’m not ready. To speak in front of thousands of people is hard enough, let alone having them ready to tear my face off…but what am I to say? That I can’t do it, that I can only sweep and wash dishes and not speak two short sentences in front of strangers? Who knows how many infinitely harder trials are going to come up later, and what will be my solution to them then? Say I can’t do it?

Basking in the glow of that heavenly cuirass, I could only nod.

‘I’m ready.’

‘Haylis, please get the door.’

One moment the crowd is distant thunder, rumbling far away; the next, high tide crashing onto a rickety pier.

Frenzied faces, crying faces, faces desperately clinging to sanity, swarming forward in a wave of writhing flesh. The heat of thousands of bodies pressed together, the stink of sweat and mud, the incoherent wave of noise, the earth trembling under ten thousand pairs of feet –

There is no distinguishing one person from the next. They’re all grey, all drenched to the skin and shouting at the top of their lungs. ‘Get off!’ ‘Give us the coach!’ ‘My son, he is dying, please save him!’ ‘Don’t leave us!’ ‘Not that way!’ ‘Take us south, please!’ ‘The carriage, board the carriage!’ ‘Scum! Filth!’

The little giants have positioned themselves on either side of the door, and in between them stands Arkai with two daggers in hand. Not two steps separate them from the mob, who are only keeping their distance because the little giants are each swinging around a javelin.

The crowd surges as soon as soon as I take one step forward. One catches himself on the handle of Oon’Shang’s javelin and is sent flying. Two others grab her legs like ants trying to fell a tree, but she simply picks them up by their tattered collars and tosses them as one would sprinkle seeds into a field.

‘Keep away! Mind yourselves!’ Arkai yells into the sea of voices. A man grabs him by the arm, trying to shove him aside. A flash of steel. Screams. Severed fingers. ‘I warned you! Keep away!’

‘Get him! Grab him!’

The mob piles onto Arkai, yelling and jostling, but the man is a shadow. Two hands slap onto his shoulders only to slip off as if they’ve grabbed a flopping fish. Someone charges at him, head lowered like a bull, but a swish of cloak later Arkai’s knee encounters his face. Blood flies, but many of them are caked in red to begin with.

‘Stop! Stop!’

Can’t even hear myself. Their eyes – bloodshot and angry, so many and so mad – belong to a pack of wolves.

The little giants exchange a look. As one they stomp the ground with their left foot.

BOOM.

A shockwave ripples outward, etching cracks onto the highway and stumbling everyone on the spot. Creaking, the carriage begins to tilt sideways, but Oon’Shang holds out a massive hand and grabs it by the chassis.

There is a lull as the crowd staggers, briefly forgetting themselves.

Now or never.

With one decisive jab I plant the heraldry into the ground, only to encounter solid pavement. Dumb move. Got to keep holding it now; got to talk too, can’t hesitate one second longer.

I open my mouth.

Please, let words come out.

If I was alone I would be hiding under the wheels, head buried in dirt, wondering when these people would just leave and stop looking at the ignorant young man who has no idea what he is doing. Kathanhiel is here, however – watching, waiting for me to say my two lines so she can start performing miracles.

Better get on with it.

‘People of the north, I see your anger! I feel it! But it is needed no longer, for our saviour is here – our Lady Kathanhiel, hero of the Realms, slayer of the Elisaad Dragon!’

In her upraised hand Kaishen glows a fiery red, shrouded in a sheath of steam that rises in a billowing cloud; its ardent light effervesces through her cuirass of myriad stars, spinning sun-weaved ribbons into the white balm. She descends in a great wave of heat, puny rain vaporising upon contact with her shoulders; beneath her heels the pavement cracks in spider webs of dull yellow.

Arkai is the first to kneel. Casting his daggers on the ground, he drops onto one knee and lowers his head. Then the little giants go to their knees and put their arms across their chests. Oon’Shei fumbles for a moment as the javelin snaps in his hand; he throws it away, carefully so as to not hit anyone with it.

My turn now. Her light is so bright that feeling the cold wet earth under my knee is almost a relief.

Silence, then a soft swooping noise; the lost thousands, so obliviously angry a moment ago, have prostrated themselves before her. A woman is weeping, and never have I heard anyone weep so happily.

‘Why do you cry?’ Kathanhiel asks.

A shaky reply. ‘M-my lady Kathanhiel, I cry because you’re here at last, here to save us.’

The crowd murmurs in agreement.

Kathanhiel speaks softly yet her words carry easily above the rain. ‘I am sorry to have come so late. Your disheartened faces, they bring me pain unbearable, for it is my fault that you were exiled from your homes. It is right that you’re angry. I am angry at myself.’

Many voices rise up in denial. She shakes her head.

‘Though I deserve it not, this failure of a hero will give her all to regain your trust. The Apex will be slain, and all your holdings shall be reclaimed; this I swear upon my sword and my life. Do you believe me? Are my words still of worth to you?’

The answer is yes. Men and women whisper it in reverence.

‘Thank you, kind folk. In time an army will come thither in aid of the north, and if you remain here they might render you harm in their haste. Will you continue south, for my sake? The King will provide for you. If he refuses, tell him that Kathanhiel still has the knife in her boot.’

A few laughs. Everyone knows that story.

‘Will you go? Will you weather this storm in solidarity, with compassion in your hearts?’ More murmured agreements. ‘Good. I am glad, and so very thankful, that despite all that have come to pass we are still fighting, fighting in defiance of all that is cruel and unjust. You may rest easy now, for I am here, and I will not stop until these lands are free of the winged plague, and your homes returned to you. Upon the name of Kaishen this I swear.’

Someone begins cheering, and in seconds everyone is on their feet whooping and clapping with hands possessed. A chant begins in the middle of it, driven by voices that have long shouted themselves hoarse.

Kathanhiel smiles and raises Kaishen above her head. A shower of red sparks fly from its tip.

The bards could never convey such a spectacle no matter how prettily they sing. In two short minutes Kathanhiel has turned the rioting masses into worshippers. Of course she did. She is Kathanhiel. I could have said anything, really, and she would still win over every heart in an instant.

As the crowd disperses, many come up to kneel at her feet and kiss her hand. While that carries on and on I stand awkwardly to the side with the heraldry, trying to keep my back straight and the smile on my face not so terrifying.

Arkai joins me, the scarf removed from his face. People still draw a wide berth around him.

‘You did well,’ he says.

I can’t believe it – a compliment. ‘I…don’t think I did anything.’

‘You get used to feeling that way,’ he says, looking at Kathanhiel with a soft expression. ‘Her brilliance outshines us all.’

‘What’ll happen to these people?’

He sighs. ‘Years of vagrancy, of living from one meal to the next, of being ostracised by the people of the heartlands…but they have hope now. She has given it to them. She is very good at giving.’

‘What do you mean?’

Arkai shrugs. ‘It’s her job.’

‘Her job?’

He looks at me. ‘Kastor, do me a favour.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Keep your questions to yourself.’

A few uneasy murmurs from the crowd. I look up just in time to catch a swish of olive-green cloak disappearing between two elderly ladies. It was a man…I think.

Kathanhiel has turned away, storming back to the carriage as the light of her cuirass dims in dizzying flashes. Arkai frowns, his scouring eyes immediately catching the green cloak; his body jolts as if struck by lightning.

Never have I seen anyone move their hands so fast. Before the crowd could find their surprise two knives are already soaring through the air, fast as arrows and completely silent. In an impossible display, the man in the green cloak snatches them up by the blade without turning around, as if eyes grew on the back of his head. He then wags his finger once, twice:

.

A second later the crowd reacts with exhausted panic. Not knowing why he did what he did, I put a hand on Arkai’s arm before he can draw his daggers.

‘Let go,’ he says.

‘Not now! Everyone thinks you’ll hurt them!’

He throws me off hard enough to stumble an elephant, but though his hands are twitching on the grip he is not drawing. ‘Here, now…well played you bastard,’ he mutters.

People look scared; they are one flying knife away from finding their insanity again. Cursing under his breath, Arkai retreats to the carriage without saying another word. His right food stomps right in the middle of a puddle, drenching the tail of his coat…but he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

The green cloak is gone.

I dole out half-hearted assurances to the throng that yes, everything’s fine, but the lady’s time is short and we really should be moving on. Soon as they relent I hurry inside, shutting all the doors and pulling curtains over the windows; would not do for others to see her like this.

Kathanhiel is pacing the room bare-legged, her crystalline greaves tossed carelessly into a corner. Her still gauntleted hands are clutching Kaishen by the blade and holding it against her chest. In the far corner sits Arkai, turning in his hands a charcoal-coloured broach shaped like a coiled dragon. He stares at it intensely, as if by doing so the little trinket might cease to exist.

‘Three chevrons, the mark of their leader.’ Kathanhiel says. ‘And their leader is Talu. Talukiel. I saw his face. Have you been hiding this from me, Arkai? Or will you feign ignorance?’

He struggles for words. ‘I didn’t know he would –’

‘No. It’s too late for that. Just tell me.’

A flaky ; Arkai has crushed the broach to pieces. ‘We...I...lost track of him three years ago, in the Ranges. Had I told you it would’ve engendered an unnecessary distraction –’

‘How very kind of you to decide what I need and need not know,’ Kathanhiel says. ’All this time I have waited for your word, deceiving my better judgement, thinking that you’re still hunting him down, that his capture is but an inevitability, but of course I’ve been the fool all along and you had no idea where he was – yet you had the gall How come he is leading the Cult?’

‘They rooted out our agents without fail,’ he replies with eyes downcast. ‘Even the ones only I knew about. Somehow they always figure out –’

’Grand, Arkai. Excellent,’ she says softly. ‘Ten years it’s been since I asked you to kill him, the only favour I’ve ever asked of anyone, and all you can give me are excuses.’

Arkai’s stands up, the right side of his face twitching. He is angry…but I know that despairing look; he is angry only at himself.

‘I shall go after him at once,’ he says.