The Obsidian Heart

by Mark T. Barnes

  “Best move us away,” Corajidin suggested. “Now, if you please.”

  “I’ll not argue,” Wolfram gasped as the spear struck them once again, before returning to the Stormbringer’s hand. Her smile was a wild thing. She was about to throw again when a handful of witches in their nightmare Aspects bore down on her. Nima turned the skiff and put some distance between Corajidin, Mahsojhin, and the Stormbringer.

  “So the Sēq lied about Femensetri, too,” Corajidin mused. “My ancestor, Zadjinn, has proven to be something of a disappointment. There’s nothing I can do here. The Sēq and the witches seem to be keeping each other busy as planned. Nima, take us over the city.”

  Nima guided the skiff away from the battle, over a saddle between the mountains and dropped gently down the sloping shadows between Skyspear and World Blood mountains.

  Corajidin leaned over the rail to watch the madness below. Several fires had started in the city, though he doubted they would make the kind of demonstration he wanted. What point in stepping in to be the hand of mercy, when there was not enough suffering to make people truly thankful? Even so, Nix’s elemental daemons—the ones the Sēq had not banished, destroyed, or imprisoned—had wrought the kind of destruction only ever heard about in histories and legends. The other beauty of the powerful spirits was that for each one released from a Dilemma Box, it drew a handful of Sēq away from the Mahsojhin each time, thinning their numbers further.

  There came a great screeching sound as yet another of Nix’s Dilemma Boxes was opened. A monstrosity stuttered into existence, tentacles thick as oak trees, batlike wings stretched wide, and rainbow-coloured beak protruding beneath a cluster of coal-spark eyes. Within moments smaller shapes appeared from bubbles of melted air—more Sēq, drawn away from their battle with the witches to defend the city. Corajidin smiled to himself.

  “Has there been any sign of Jhem, or Nadir?” he asked.

  “Nothing I’m aware of,” Kasraman replied. His eyes lost focus for a moment and Corajidin saw once more, if only for a second, the shadow of his son’s Aspect: a muscular and daemonic thing, wide-shouldered, long-horned, a face all sharp planes scored with tattoos of fire around deep angular eyes with slitted pupils, and the galleon sail wings with their feathers of indigo and smoking shadows—then it was gone and only his son remained. Though he wondered from what he had seen of the other witches, which was Kasraman’s real face? “Apologies, Father. Sanojé, Elonie, Ikedion, and those they’ve chosen are ready whenever you are.”

  Corajidin took another look at the chaos he had sanctioned. Yes, many would see what happened tonight, but few civilians would die. The elemental daemons would kill some—such was the way of these things. Others would be slain in some tragic fight, which they could have avoided had they simply stayed in doors. And this was despite the fact that no small number of the witches had avoided the fight with the Sēq altogether, preferring to raze parts of the city instead, still thinking they fought a Scholar War against people mostly three centuries dead.

  “It is time,” Corajidin told his son. “Nima, take me to the Tyr-Jahavān. I will address the Teshri. Then together we will show the people of Avānweh how much we care, our outrage at their plight, and then liberate them from the evil scourge that assails them.”

  “But how do we stop it?” Padishin asked, fists clenched around the sheath of his dionesqa. The Secretary-Marshall was smudged with soot and there was the spray of dried blood on this clothing and in his hair. Ha had taken the time to don a leather hauberk, studded with rivets that gleamed in the infernal light from the city below. It, too, was speckled with blood. “I care less—for now—where these things came from as I do preventing them from causing further harm.”

  “This reeks of Humans—” an elderly sayf said tremulously.

  “Yes!” Another stood, fist slamming into palm. “The Humans! They’ve been killing people in the streets and summoning dark spirits from—”

  “Then let’s act!” Rahn-Narseh’s voice cracked across the mostly-empty Tyr-Jahavān, as she slammed the butt of her long-hafted pickaxe onto the stone floor. “The Sēq seem inadequate to the task. We are the ones who should be defending our people!”

  “There’s no evidence it’s the Humans,” Ajomandyan said, only to be hissed and shouted down. The Sky Lord eyed his opponents darkly. “Shut it, the lot of you! Doesn’t it seem convenient the Humans would attack us at the time the militant Imperialist faction is about to assume control of the State and Crown?” More hissing and shouts, even from some of the Federationists.

  Corajidin hid his smile and made a great show of looking around the Tyr-Jahavān. He did not have to hide his disappointment at how many of the sayfs were missing, Imperialist and Federationist alike. He gave special attention to where Roshana, Nazarafine, Siamak, and Vahineh should have been seated, as well as the empty space the Scholar-Marshall should have filled.

  Ajomandyan was flanked by his grandchildren, Neva and Yago. Both wore their flying leathers and armour, looking like the young and doomed heroes one read about in serialised adventure novels. Both were bloodied, and somehow seemed enhanced by their wounds and dirt rather than diminished by them. Corajidin gave Neva a frank appraisal, causing the statuesque beauty to blush, but she never looked away. Yes! This was the kind of woman Belamandris needed, and an alliance between the Erebus and the Näsaré would bring some definite advantages. Ajomandyan scowled at Corajidin, his eagle eyes fierce. The Sky Lord leaned forward on his gryphon-headed cane, his expression one of disdain. Corajidin ignored it, standing up to address the Teshri.

  “I agree with Rahn-Narseh in that we need to take the defence of the city into our own hands,” Corajidin said. “But will we have enough? I have my own soldiers, as do Rahn-Narseh and those brave enough, caring enough, to be here. But against… whatever it is… we are facing?”

  “If I may speak?” Sanojé sounded as lost and innocent as she looked, her massive brown eyes wide in her doll-like face. “My name is Pah-Chepherundi op Sanojé, one of the last daughters of the once Great House of Chepherundi. We have seen things like this in Tanis, fought them, in the Conflicted Cities. These things are daemon elementals, much stronger than the creature released by the Humans in your beautiful city only days ago. They are notoriously difficult to banish, or destroy. The Humans use them as often as they use Nomads, ghuls, spectres, and vampires.”

  “Are you saying you think the Humans summoned these things?” Corajidin asked.

  “Yes, Rahn-Corajidin,” Sanojé replied earnestly. “The witches of the Golden Kingdom of Manté are most skilled in that regard… as you saw here recently. I’ve also heard of the many brutal murders in Avānweh since the Assembly began. These, too, are common in Manté and other parts of the Iron League, such as Angoth and Jiom. They believe in sacrifices, in the binding of souls—”

  “We don’t know it was the Humans,” Ajomandyan shouted over the tumult. “Though they do become a remarkably useful villain, don’t they, Rahn-Corajidin?”

  “Ajo, please!” Padishin said. “Now is not the time. Pah-Sanojé, how do we deal with these things?”

  “Of late there seems to be little time for looking into the causes of things,” the Sky Lord replied before Sanojé could speak. “We seem to spend our time putting out fires, never finding out who really caused them.”

  “There will be time enough for blame, Sayf-Ajomandyan,” Narseh almost shouted in her parade-ground bellow. “But it is neither here, nor now.”

  “Blame?” Corajidin mused into the dwindling echoes of Narseh’s voice. “I could lay blame at the feet of Roshana for trying to kill me under a banner of truce. But I do not. I could lay blame at her people for the carnage they wrought in denying me the ability to arrest Vahineh, which resulted in the murder of Ravenet of the Delfineh. But I do not. I could even lay blame on Roshana, Nazarafine, and Siamak for not even bothering to—”

  “And now is not the time for your grandstanding either, Rahn-Corajidin,” Padishin cut him off w
ith a shake of his head. “People are dying in Avānweh, during the time of year we should be celebrating peace. I won’t stand for it, and neither should any of you. Now, if you’ll let Pah-Sanojé speak, perhaps we can save some lives?”

  “Thank you, Secretary-Marshall,” Sanojé bowed, golden rings and strings of sapphires and emeralds glittering against her dusky skin. “We learned that might of arms is useful to a degree, but what you need is an arcane solution to a supernatural problem. Otherwise, the death toll will be high.”

  “But the Sēq—” one of the sayfs began, only to be cut off by Kasraman.

  “With respect, the Sēq have done little to help.” Kasraman walked to the centre of the floor, where he looked even the most belligerent of the sayfs in the eye. “They’ve done little since the Scholar Wars, other than to live on past glories and abuse laws that have little relevance to us in modern times.”

  “And you can do better, I suppose?” Ajo asked sourly. There came a hair-raising shriek from outside and the snapping of great leathery wings. A dark shape flashed past the gaps between the tall columns of the Tyr-Jahavan. It was brutish, vast, and wreathed in flame. Pungent smoke oozed between the columns, smelling like burned fat. Those sayfs who smelled it retreated, pale faced and shaking.

  “I certainly can’t do worse,” Kasraman said into the stunned silence.

  A score of voices broke into panicked argument. Ajo tried to keep the peace, while Padishin sat heavily on one of the cold, uncomfortable spheres. The one-time soldier rubbed his face with one hand, while the other firmly held his sword.

  Kasraman came to stand beside Corajidin and Sanojé. He leaned close, though his caution was hardly necessary given the background noise.

  “Father, we’ll need them to make a decision soon. If Nix keeps opening his bloody Dilemma Boxes, we may have a fight on our hands we can’t win.”

  “How many of the damned things does he have?” Sanojé asked. “And I have to ask how he came by so many.”

  “The Maladhi made much of their fortune as traders,” Corajidin said, “and perhaps more as adventurers, stealing treasures from ancient cultures we have barely even heard of. And so, to answer your first question: I have no idea how many he has. It does make me wonder what else they have managed to hide from the rest of us, though.”

  “Nix may be your mad dog for now, Father, but soon or later he’ll need to be put down.”

  “True enough, and in time.” Corajidin cast a glance over the squawking flock of his distressed peers. “But not until he has served his purpose.”

  He then stepped forward and held up his hands for silence. In truth he had no idea what the sayfs had been saying, though their high colour told him they had not agreed on anything.

  “We are not all of us friends, that much I will admit.” This produced as many chuckles as there were snorts and shaking heads. “But we can all agree we need to act together to save the people of Avānweh—the people of Shrīan—as there’s no telling where the Humans and their mystics may strike next.”

  Ajo went to object, but Padishin waved him down irritably. The Secretary-Marshall stood. “What do you propose?”

  “The Avān are a proud people. A warrior people who conquered half a world before the Humans—the Starborn as they remember themselves from antiquity—betrayed us. I say we should look to the strength of our roots, before we allow time, apathy, and—dare I say it—fear to rule us.”

  “Talk of empire again, Corajidin?” Kiraj, the Arbiter-Marshall, said wearily. “Don’t you think—”

  “I am not talking of empire, Arbiter-Marshall,” Corajidin interrupted smoothly, “rather of our most ancient traditions. We were conquerors before we were politicians and warriors before we were conquerors.

  “And we were witches, before we were scholars.”

  “You can’t seriously be suggesting we turn to witches for help?” Ajo looked like he was about to laugh, but the look in Corajidin’s eyes forestalled him. “You are! Is there no depth to which you won’t sink?”

  Kasraman and Sanojé bristled. Corajidin gestured for them to be calm.

  Ajo looked at his peers in the Teshri, then back to Corajidin. “It’s no secret you’ve trained Kasraman as a witch, Corajidin.” There were a few muttered outbursts. Even one or two sayfs who rose to their feet in surprise. Ajo gave a false cough. “Well, at least not a secret to all of us. You know the law against a witch becoming a rahn—”

  “A Sēq law!” Corajidin shouted. “A law that—”

  “A law that was drafted because of the insane century we remember as the Scholar Wars.” Ajo looked at the two Erebus men with some pity. “The same war that took your Ancestor’s life, Corajidin. Even she tried to stop it! But it’s a law, regardless of who originated it and it’s a law for good reason.”

  “And if Indris had been awakened as the Rahn-Näsarat?” Kasraman asked reasonably. “What then? There is little difference between witches and scholars, truth be told, save that a witch is reviled for something that happened centuries ago, while people have conveniently forgotten it was a Mahjirahn—a trained Sēq Scholar—who sank the Seethe beneath the sea to end the Petal Empire. A double standard, don’t you think?”

  “What do you propose?” Padishin asked again, looking at Kasraman with renewed interest.

  “Give my son and his witches a chance to prove they can do for you what the Sēq will not,” Corajidin said plainly. “If he fails we are no worse off, save me who will have lost his heir. None of you risk half so much as I.”

  The room remained quiet for a while, before handfuls of conversations broke out. Groups converged, hands gesticulated as voices were raised and lowered, backs were turned, and jaws set. Padishin and Ajo moved amongst them, listening, speaking, moving on.

  After almost ten minutes Padishin and Ajo approached Corajidin, their faces set and grim.

  “We will give you your chance,” Padishin said. “But if we find you’ve done anything to manipulate us into this, Corajidin, you’ll regret ever letting the words escape from between your teeth.”

  “You’ll not regret this,” Kasraman said proudly.

  Ajo fixed Corajidin with his eagle’s stare. “For the sake and future of your Great House, you’d best hope not.”

  Corajidin, Kasraman and Sanojé met Wolfram, Elonie, and Ikedion on the steps outside the Tyr-Jahavān. The witches looked at the sky speculatively.

  “I hope you’ve good news, Your Majesty,” Wolfram said. “Because at the moment it’s going to be hard to end this without getting ourselves too badly burned.”

  “Then we will need to get burned,” Corajidin snapped. “But however we do this, we do whatever is necessary to succeed. Do I make myself clear?”

  The witches nodded their assent.

  “Then find Nix and get him to stop with the Dilemma Boxes,” Corajidin said. “He’s done a lot more than was asked of him—”

  “He’s a mad little bastard—”

  “Thank you for the observation, Ikedion. I suggest you focus your attention on the brethren of yours you will need to reign in. If there were witches who caused havoc in the city, show them no mercy. No survivors. No witnesses. No confessions. Make sure you kill enough of your Human brethren to sell the drama and make sure there is no connection with the Mahsojhin. Take no chances. All our futures rest on this.”

  Elonie and Ikedion nodded, then rose into the sky amid a snarling gale. Soon they were lost to sight, shooting away in the direction of the valley behind the Mahsojhin where their chosen army, the most powerful and promising witches they could trust of all those they freed, sat waiting for their chance.

  “Sanojé, your liches understand what must be done?” Corajidin was hesitant to use the liches, though Sanojé had assured him they were the best weapons against the daemon elementals.

  “They know what is at stake and the future here you offer them. They will do as they are bid, Rahn-Corajidin.”

  “Then go. But remember, none must ever know we h
ave used Nomads! We are undone if there is so much as a hint of their involvement. If one your liches is killed, it must be shown to have come from Manté.”

  Sanojé bowed and like the witches before her, took to the sky.

  Only Wolfram and Kasraman remained. Corajidin gave them both a long look, then rested his hand on Kasraman’s shoulder.

  “This is another step on the journey, my son. Show those weaklings in the Tyr-Jahavān what it means to be an Erebus and a witch. Set them an example they will not forget, for when the time comes for you to rule them all.”

  “ANY HEART THAT KNOWS THE JOY OF TRUE LOVE IS UNLIKELY TO FORGET, REGARDLESS OF THE TRAGEDY THAT MAY COME OF IT.”

  —From The Nilvedic Maxims

  DAY 358 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION

  “Anj?”

  Indris felt his chest constrict, and the blood seemed to drain from his face. His mouth was suddenly dry. He wanted to speak, but no words rose from the panicked, joyous, confused, wounded, and stunned miasma of his mind.

  “It’s me,” she reached out a tentative hand to touch his cheek. His flinch was involuntary, as was the hurt in her whiteless, sapphire eyes. “It’s me, Indris.”

  “But… how?” A witch flew howling overhead, long comet tail trailing behind her gargoyle Aspect, until she ploughed face first into the ground nearby, and was still.

  “That is a very long story, and one I doubt I’ll have the time to tell here. But I’ve missed you, hero,” Anj said breathlessly, gaze flicking between his eyes and Changeling, as if the sword was going to unsheathe itself and strike her. Indris reached out to wipe away the dirt smudging Anj’s cheek, only to find himself rubbing his thumb from her lips to the edge of her jaw. Yet there was something odd, a sensation of static. Did he imagine it, or did his skin feel oily with her so close? He stared at her, trying to see past the faint blurring of her face to fathom the miasma around and through her Disentropic Stain. Changeling moaned uncertainly, sending fingers of worry into Indris’s mind.