by Glenda Larke
Next to him stood the man in charge, a one-time Trician called Zeferil of Overton. He’d been excluded for blasphemy and was now Meldor’s ley-lit commander, in charge of Havenstar defences. Right then there was a glazed look of shock to his eyes, but he’d held himself under rigid control.
‘A major invasion, Margraf,’ he said. ‘On all fronts, but it seems to be concentrated on the Channel. Elsewhere there are smaller numbers. I suspect they aim to have a number of skirmishes along the Writhe border and even south of the Riven just to keep the guard there busy enough so that we can’t bring them to support our forces at the Channel. I’ve ordered a full alert,’ he added. ‘All trained men and women are to report for duty, with mounts where possible. Couriers have been sent to warn all the border corps, although I imagine they’ll all know by now. Margraf, I’d like your permission to go to the Channel area.’
‘No. you stay here with the maps. Here you will have an eagle’s view of what’s happening. What more could a commander ask for?’
‘The opportunity to fight, damn it,’ he said. ‘We are half a day’s bloody ride from the Channel here! How can I give orders that can’t be carried out for six or eight whole blasted hours? Margraf, I didn’t expect a challenge on a scale like this! Fuck the encoloured bastards, they’ll swamp us.’
Nablon looked scandalised at his language, but Zeferil had been a Trician, and he did not perceive of himself as being innately inferior to a Margrave who was not Trician born. Consequently, he saw no need to moderate his language—or didn’t until Meldor said, in the kind of voice that did not invite discussion, ‘You stay here. If you were at the middle of the Channel, it would be three or four hours to either end of it. And what about other places along the borders? Here you can see what is happening everywhere and send orders everywhere. And it is not half a day’s ride to the Channel if you make use of relays of runners with good tainted mounts to take those orders as I know you have long since arranged. I also know you’re using wildbells for the first leg. Right now I want instructions sent out forbidding anyone at all to go beyond the borders of Havenstar for any reason whatsoever. Not by as much as a footfall, and that includes Havenguards.’ He nodded dismissively and Zeferil drew himself up smartly, made the kinesis symbol of obedience and subordination, and turned away to bark out instructions.
Meldor grasped Nablon by the elbow. ‘And now, I want you to describe to me exactly what it is you see on the maps, without too much excitement, please.’
~~~~~~~
Davron, on guard duty that morning, had heard something just before dawn. A faint scrabbling in the darkness, somewhere on the slope below him. Outside of Havenstar he went armed again, so he slipped one of his throwing knives out of its sheath, then crouched, trying to see who or what was approaching. They used no stealth. Their advance was steady and far from noiseless, as if they were unaware of the camp, or felt themselves to be in no danger from it.
Restless, he peered into the darkness. The sigil on his arm felt tight and he scratched at it absently. Something gleamed. A glimpse of starlight on armour, a man’s breastplate perhaps, or even the shiny hide of an animal. Only one, nothing he couldn’t deal with. He scratched again. He could have sworn he felt his sigil move, which should have been impossible. It was melted into his flesh, after all. Gripped by a sudden fear, his heart contracted.
Sweet Maker. Not now. Not so soon.
A purple gleam came out of the darkness, a single beam of light. It stabbed fitfully, then bent to home in on him. It hit his arm even as he moved, and pain flared under his sigil, searing. He knew then, and half-turned to yell into the camp, but stopped with the gesture half-made and the words frozen. He could not do it. He couldn’t call for help, couldn’t retreat, couldn’t resist. The purple light drew him.
He walked towards it, ensnared, reeled in like a fish on a string. Yet he could still think, still feel. He knew exactly what was happening to him, and why, but there was not a thing he could do about it.
His mind screamed his rejection. No! Not now— Not yet.
He knew it was useless. This fate was all he had, and he’d chosen it when he’d elected to save his wife and child from the curse of tainting. He was heading towards a destiny so terrible it was beyond his comprehension, and there was not a thing he could do about it. For five years he’d lived knowing this moment would arrive. He’d hoped to die when it did, killed by his friends. Instead he was walking coolly out into the night, unable to raise the knife in his hand to defend, or kill, himself.
Reaching deep inside his being, into his reserve of courage, he tightened his barrier to any feeling of regret. He prayed as blind Meldor prayed, without kinesis. He sent words—not symbols that had lost their depth of meaning—out into the night, knowing the Maker probably could not hear, yet saying them anyway. He smothered the shame he felt and tried to stand tall even as he attempted to cast around for any solution that would save Havenstar from his obliterating hand. In the face of crushing despair, he still looked for a sliver of hope, because he would not surrender. When he prayed it was not for help or forgiveness, or even for death—but for victory.
I will not give up… Keris found a way to make the Unstable stable; couldn’t he find a way to defeat the Unmaker? Meldor believed it possible. I know Carasma better than any man alive …
It was short walk into the darkness. Every step was torture. Every memory tainted with guilt. I will not give in!
The Minion who waited for him had the appearance of a middle-aged man, a tough and wiry fighter with flat eyes that held no mercy and no compassion, or even interest. The pet that slobbered at his side was a horror of scales and spines, with a face of an obese hog and a horn in the middle of its forehead. It had a rudimentary intelligence and he heard it say hopefully, ‘Eat, Master. Sogol want eat man.’
The beam of purple shone from a ball of ley the Minion grasped in his hand. When Davron confronted him, he asked, disinterested, ‘Are you Storre?’
‘I am.’
‘Lord Carasma the Unmaker wishes to see you. He says to tell you that your time has come.’
The words dried out the insides of Davron’s mouth, so that he had to lick his lips before he could reply. ‘I guessed as much.’
‘My name is Galbar. You are to go back and get your horse and saddle, quietly, without waking the camp. Then return to me and we will ride for the Writhe.’
‘My packs?’
‘You won’t be needing anything where you’re going.’ The Minion’s lack of interest in his captive was as chilling as inhumanity would have been. ‘Go,’ he said, and Davron went. He could do nothing else.
He didn’t rouse the camp, or leave a message. He did nothing except what he’d been told to do. Refusing to expend his energies on useless regret, he quelled his frustration. When he returned with his horse, Galbar was already seated on his tainted mount, waiting. He gestured for Davron to saddle up.
‘Eat,’ said the pet, eyeing him hungrily. ‘Master—Sogol want eat man,’ it said. ‘Want now!’ It sounded petulant, like a spoiled child, and bent to sharpen its horn on a nearby rock..
Galbar ignored it. ‘Follow me,’ he said when Davron was ready. He turned his mount without bothering to see if he was obeyed. So confident of his mastery over his prisoner, Galbar had not even bothered to disarm him. Davron thought of lunging for the ley ball generating the light that tethered him, but the idea was stillborn, mired on the coercion.
They rode in silence. Galbar set a swift pace and he followed. He touched his knives and fingered the handle of his whip, even as he shut his mind to the numbing despair threatening to overwhelm him.
~~~~~~~~
On the Channel side of Havenstar, Heldiss the Heron was the first to see the Minions coming, not surprising since he was two foot taller than anyone else thanks to his elongated stick-thin legs. Heldiss, one-time Havenbrother and guardian of a rope-bridge in the wilds of the Unstable, was now a Havener like his two sons. One of them was a baker in Shie
ld, the other now stood beside him, watching the Minions stream towards them. The long horizontal line of attackers was continuous, as far as the eye could see in either direction, and it was five or six deep. Worse even than the Minions were the Pets that accompanied their masters. They ranged from human-like fauns and satyrs with horns, to lumbering monsters the size of a small hut on legs. The number of teeth, fangs, talons, claws and other needle-sharp prongs they had between them would have supplied enough cutting and chiselling and slicing power for all the carpentry shops of the stabilities.
‘Middenshit,’ Heldiss muttered. ‘We’re dead unless the Margrave comes up with something new.’
He and his men stood behind an earthen rampart bordering the ley-soaked water of the Channel. Both the ditch and the rampart would provide some sort of obstacle to the invasion, especially as most of the attacking force would not be expecting the water. The Channel had the appearance of a small ley line, but it was newly seeded with sharpened caltrops. Heldiss was hoping that in spite of the ley, they’d last long enough to do some damage to the enemy.
In the meantime, he surveyed the approaching forces and wondered why the midden he’d listened to the Margrave when the blind man had suggested it was time for all Havenbrethren to come to Havenstar. They’d been standing by the canyon containing the Deep at the time, just before that girl had been attacked by the manta ray, and the Margrave’s deep sonorous voice had been hypnotic. It hadn’t occurred to him then to refuse…and now here he was standing waiting to be slaughtered. He glanced at his son. Well, there was one good reason for returning, right there, he supposed. His sons, his grandchildren—they had a home here, a future, if only these corrupted bastards could be defeated.
‘Pass the word,’ he said to his son, ‘to hold arrow release until you’re sure you can hit the target, then loose at will.’ As the words went down the line of defenders, he wondered just how it was he had ended up giving orders. He had a sneaking suspicion his officer status had a lot to do with his towering height. He knew damned little about arms and fighting a war, nor was he ley-lit and primed with ley like most of the officers, but he was rather imposing to look at. Damn it.
‘Holy taint, Pa,’ his son said, his eyes fixed on the advancing lines, ‘have we any hope at all against that lot?’
‘Steady, lad. Remember, arrows have a better range than ley. And those bastards are so used to hiding behind their pets and their ley, they’ll have forgotten a well-aimed shaft can feather you before you say midden-heap. And then again, their ley doesn’t last forever. They have to renew it. We have a hope,’ he concluded. A hope, but not much else.
His son eyed the advance, raised his bow, notched the first arrow…
And the battle began.
~~~~~~~
‘Minions behind us!’ Scow shouted. ‘Ride!’
Automatically Keris kicked Tousson into a gallop without glancing behind. When someone shouted in the kind of voice Scow used, you acted first and looked afterwards. She grabbed the pommel when she did turn, and it was just as well because what she saw jolted her with shock. There was a flood of Minions and their pets pouring out of a side valley and they rode as if they were intent on obliterating the three of them beneath the thundering of their countless hooves.
Beside her Quirk swore. ‘That looks like every Minion that’s ever been corrupted in the past three hundred years.’ He ducked his head low, a scared expression on his face, and clung to the saddle as he rode at her side.
She hunkered down, her cheek brushing Tousson’s mane, and a dozen random thoughts crowded her mind. This was the threatened invasion at last. She was going to die soon, probably today. Did it matter anyway, with Davron gone? Dear heaven, was it only this morning he’d vanished? He was probably already performing his task for Carasma. When the Chaos was Meldor going to start burning trompleri maps and fry these corrupted sods to cinders? Chaosdamn, what will happen to us if he does it now?
She glanced across at Scow. He was concentrating on chivvying the two horses to run faster. Whenever one of them began to flag he brought Stockwood up on its flank; one glimpse of the swinging horns on the tainted beast was enough to frighten any horse to renewed effort.
The border to Havenstar lay half an hour ahead. If they were lucky they would get there before the Minions caught up. She looked back again, and decided they were unlikely to be lucky. Although the Minions on horses were not gaining, those who rode tainted beasts were steadily overhauling their quarry, while several low slung pets with loping legs had outstripped their masters and were coming up even faster. She moaned. A shaft of ley slamming into her back might not have been a bad death, but she dreaded the idea of being torn to pieces by a beast that had teeth like axe blades and claws like curved upholstery needles.
As the lopers approached she gestured to Quirk and Scow to go ahead. Quirk did not need a second invitation. Scow hesitated momentarily, but then realised what she was going to do and nodded. He made a kinesis in her direction, forefinger and thumb held in a circle against his cheek. Victory to the Maker. She guessed it was his way of wishing her good luck, and she returned the gesture.
Assessing the half dozen lopers approaching, she waited until the last possible moment before letting her ley free, ripping it out of her fingers, feeling it slip through the spaces of her body to flow wild and free in a coloured blast. The ley hit the first of the lopers and sent it spinning away into the second. They were downed in a tangle of legs and torn flesh. The third received the ley in the eye, and curled up, screaming, into a ball. The rest dropped back a little, more circumspect now.
She urged her horse on. Ahead of her, Quirk—unarmed and deciding discretion and speed were better than any heroic gestures that would help no one—was still racing for the Writhe. Scow, on the other hand, had swung Stockwood back to face her. He sent a couple of arrows into the lopers, causing more confusion. She raced past him and he wheeled his mount again to follow her.
‘Good work!’ he shouted. ‘That gave ’em something to think about!’
But she’d seen the host behind her and there was no way she could tackle them all. Minion after Minion on their tainted beasts, still more pets. Worse, the Unmaker’s servants also had ley and undoubtedly more experience with its use. The thoughts that directed the ley would be more malicious, increasing its destructive power. They were a bare few minutes behind, and gaining all the time.
She heard a bellow ahead and turned her attention that way, to see Quirk waving with such enthusiasm that he endangered his seat on his horse. She looked to the left and saw a patrol riding in: Haveners. Nine or ten of them, all armed. They had seen the chase and were cutting across to intercept. Still not enough, of course, but it would mean they could make a fight of it…
Tousson raced on, neck to neck with Stockwood.
And then the two of them were in the midst of friends, ploughing through them, wheeling back to shoot arrows and ley at oncoming pets. Confusion all around her. She strove to obtain an overall view of what was happening, but just heard screams, animal yaps and yelps of rage and pain, saw her own blasts of colour in showers of sparks, smelled the horror of burning flesh. People milled around, the first of the Minions arriving, Haveners burning, bloodied, screaming. More ley, Haveners with pikes, Minions with ley. Not a fair fight, surely, we are so outnumbered…
And suddenly there were more arrows than ley, more Minions falling then Haveners.
She looked around to see that they had been reinforced by Havenguards from across the bridge over the Writhe, tens of them, and at least two officers, who’d also evidently imbibed ley. Relieved, she disengaged and rode on towards the bridge, now only ten minutes away. Drained of ley, she was exhausted. Her bow was still on her back, untouched, but the palms of her hands were raw and aching. Her whole body ached, reacting against the sudden emptiness within. She scorned the bridge, and dismounted to walk instead into the ley line, drinking in the ley to restore herself, absorbing it the way Davron had taught her,
replenishing it. It felt good, refreshing.
A drug, Keris. You can never live without it now. Maker only knows what harm it did her.
Then, still tired but more in control, she led her horse up on to the bridge. Quirk was there and together they surveyed what was happening. The Minions were pulling back, while the Haveners were collecting their dead and wounded and withdrawing as well. A skirmish rather than an invasion, but a nasty one. There will be homes in mourning tonight because of this.
‘Sorry I rode off and left you,’ Quirk said. He sounded only mildly contrite.
‘Just good sense. I never did think a dead hero was much use to anyone.’
‘Just as well, because I’ll never be a hero, and I intend to take good care that I’m not a dead anything. Are you all right?’
‘Fine. Here comes Scow—’
The Unbound man seemed in one piece, his large face lit with a grin like a happy mastiff. ‘Nice bit of battle, that,’ he said. ‘If this is what war is like, I think I might find I have a taste for it.’ He wiped his axe casually across his boot and hooked it on to his belt.
Speaking to the Havenguards a few minutes later, they discovered the officers had kept a close watch on the trompleri map in the guardhouse and as soon as they’d seen three people riding for the border pursued by what looked like a horde of animals, they’d sent men to the rescue. Ten minutes later, an order from the Margrave had arrived, forbidding anyone to cross the border. Scow grinned when he heard that.
