by David Hair
‘No!’ said Alaron sourly, ‘not if I have any say in it, anyway.’
‘Which you won’t,’ put in Ramon unsympathetically.
Alaron peered at the fleshy blonde girl clinging to Jostyn Weber’s arm. His father Vann was trying to gesture him over. ‘I’m not talking to that boneheaded milkmaid,’ he grumbled, pretending not to notice. He looked down at Ramon. ‘I can’t believe you only got four dumplings for three fennik– that’s more than three times the normal price. I thought Silacians knew how to bargain?’
Ramon smirked sourly. ‘Of course I bargained! No one else was getting more than one per fennik, so count yourself lucky.’
A blast of trumpetry made further conversation impossible. Governor Belonius Vult appeared at the doors to the town hall, walking down the stairs to the sound of a low, half-hearted cheer. Some twenty more magi, Rondians attached to the occupying army, followed him. Alaron could remember previous years when Governor Vult had been loudly jeered, but dissident voices were rare now the governor had settled into his powerful role. Not that everyone now approved of him, but these days it was neither profitable nor safe to show it.
‘Look, it’s Lord Craven of Lukhazan,’ muttered Alaron to Ramon for old times’ sake.
Vult mounted a horse and led the Town Council out of the courtyard. The noise outside in the plaza rose momentarily, then fell as the rain intensified, sending a collective shiver up thirty thousand spines.
Alaron wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’
After the town leaders, came the magi, the Kore-blessed wielders of the gnosis. Seats were reserved at the front of the cathedral for them, and that included around a hundred students, mostly Noromen, but also from Verelon, Schlessen and, unusually, one Silacian: Ramon. They ranged in age from twelve to eighteen, with just nine or ten students in each year – Turm Zauberin was, after all, both expensive and exclusively male. The magi-girls of the region went to an Arcanum Convent outside of town, and all of them were here today, well-chaperoned, but eyeing the boys with interest – Turm Zauberin boys were a good catch, more so than those from the poorer provincial Arcanums.
Alaron’s year was smaller than usual, a legacy of the Revolt. As well as him and Ramon, there were only five others: Seth Korion, Francis Dorobon, Malevorn Andevarion, Boron Funt and Gron Koll. Only Funt and Koll were actually Noromen, the other three present because their guardians were involved in the Rondian occupying forces. All but Koll were pure-bloods – they referred to themselves as ‘The Pure’ and treated Alaron and Ramon like dirt.
Malevorn, the most gifted of them, lifted a haughty eyebrow as they approached the procession. ‘Look what’s crawled from under the flagstones. Where have you been, Mercer, selling oatcakes outside?’
Francis Dorobon grinned and sniggered. ‘Yeah, piss off, Mercer. Your place is at the back.’ Dorobon was supposedly the rightful king of some place in Antiopia.
They’re welcome to him, Alaron thought, and good luck to the poor heathen bastards. He could grudgingly admit that Malevorn was both talented and blood-strong; Dorobon was merely the latter, and the same could be said for Seth Korion, son of the famed general. Boron Funt was a portly youth who had ‘priest’ written all over him, and Koll – well, Koll was just slime personified.
Alaron muttered under his breath and tried to sidle around them, but Malevorn laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was strikingly handsome, with a large-boned frame and tanned skin that made him look years older than he was, and he oozed rakish charisma. His black hair curled about his ears and his grey eyes were steely. ‘Hey, Mercer, I see that slut Weber is still trying to get your father to agree to a betrothal. Shame she’s no longer a virgin. I popped her cherry last year. She cried, you know. It was very touching.’
‘Piss off, Malevorn,’ Alaron snarled and shoved the bigger boy back. Malevorn went to cuff him, gnosis light flared between them as their shields brushed and the crowd about them started to look interested. Before anything could develop, a hawk-faced Magister with a flowing black hair and beard stepped between them. ‘Enough! I’ve warned you before, Mercer.’
‘Sorry, Magister Fyrell.’ Alaron bowed his head, seething. Fyrell always takes Malevorn’s side!
Ramon pulled Alaron away from their smirking classmates, keeping his hand on Alaron’s arm as moon-faced Gron Koll spat at him, making sure Alaron didn’t attempt to retaliate in front of Fyrell.
What a fine example of the divine magi we are, he thought as he stamped into place in the procession.
The walk across the plaza was fraught with discomfort, the ordinary people peering at them with mixed fear and envy. Girls made eyes at them, knowing that to bear a magi’s child was a path to wealth. Young men envious of something they would never have glared sullenly. Citizens who genuinely believed that the magi were beings blessed personally by Kore Himself wanted to kiss their robes, to have their children touched, to give and receive blessings. It all made Alaron’s skin crawl.
These poor fools see us as some kind of sacred brotherhood blessed by the Gods. Alaron might have believed that once, but seven years alongside the ‘Pure’ had destroyed that notion. What a crock! We’re more like a pack of wolves. He loathed each of the Pure, for different reasons. Malevorn Andevarion was handsome and worldly and far more skilled than Alaron would ever be – and driven, in a way none of his friends were. The Andevarions had fallen on hard times and Malevorn was to be their redemption. He worked as hard as anyone at the college, with a burning competitiveness that meant he couldn’t resist stamping down upon all of the others, to make sure they all, even Francis Dorobon, a king-in-waiting and Seth Korion, son of the greatest general of Yuros, knew that he, Malevorn, was the Alpha. But Malevorn’s particular delight was bullying Alaron, and so Alaron hated him as much as he envied him. He also despised Dorobon for his self-righteous prating about his destiny, his rights and his privileges. No silver spoon was polished enough for the prince, who complained ceaselessly, until even his friends got impatient with him.
Ramon always called Seth Korion ‘The Lesser Son’. Magister Hout, their history teacher, had once commented that great men often had weak sons who failed to live up to their parent’s deeds, and Ramon played on this relentlessly, no matter how often Seth beat him.
Boron Funt was a sanctimonious preacher, always toadying to the religion-master and pulling up the others, especially Alaron, on perceived moral failings. He ate seven meals a day and dressed in pavilion-sized robes. As for Gron Koll – well, he was the sort of boy who practised his fire spells on small animals.
It wasn’t a fun group to share seven years of life with, made tolerable only by his friendship with Ramon and weekends at home – but the end was in sight. They were within five weeks of graduation. Next week, the exams began, and in forty days he would be holding his periapt, a fully graduated mage. Then he could join the Crusade and make his fortune.
He brightened at this thought and managed to keep his temper as Funt and Dorobon jostled him as they entered the cathedral. He made it to his seat near the front without being tripped again, where he huddled alongside Ramon. Magister Fyrell appeared and Alaron braced himself to be chastised, but instead Fyrell gestured for the five Pure to follow him. Alaron was puzzled, but at least he and Ramon wouldn’t have to share a seat with them.
The next two hours of sermons and hymns were purgatory. Alaron, infected both by his father’s apathy towards religion and Ramon’s cynical views, had decided the Kore was nothing but a lie told by the magi – he’d certainly never seen an angel, and he felt nothing but his own sweat when he used the gnosis. It had never felt ‘divine’. He knew such thoughts were the sort of heresies that could get him expelled if voiced, so he kept them to himself and bowed his head dutifully as the call and response of the prayers echoed through the cathedral:
‘Blessed be the Magi, touched by Kore, the Light-bearers. May Holy Kore uphold their might.
‘Blessed be Holy Corineus,
giver of the Light, wisdom of our Hearts; may his visage light our path to heaven.
‘Blessed be the Kore, the Holy Church, guardian of the True Faith, whose light illumines the darkness of the heathen.
‘Blessed be the Kirkegarde, Knights of the True Way; may the Amteh blades falter before their charge.
‘Cursed be Corinea, sister and betrayer of Corineus. May all women repent of their sinful ways.’
He caught Gina Weber looking at him and wondered if Malevorn had been telling the truth about deflowering her. Probably lying; it wasn’t easy to get a girl alone … but then again, Malevorn could apparently do anything – and he was quite able to ruin a girl out of spite.
Well, that seals it. I’m not interested in his leavings.
The old bishop wound up his address by announcing Governor Belonius Vult. With a father like Vann and a friend like Ramon, Alaron had always been encouraged to take a keen interest in local politics. Vult was well known to all: a pure-blood magus from an old family, politically appointed as a general during the Revolt, against the famous General Robler’s wishes, and then excluded from the legendary general’s primary staff. It had been Vult’s forces, guarding Robler’s rear, that had infamously surrendered without a fight at Lukhazan, precipitating the defeat of Noros. Some said Vult had betrayed the cause, sold out to the Rondians in an act of betrayal. There had been calls for his arrest. Others insisted the war was already lost, that Vult had saved lives and paved the way for peace, even at the cost of his own reputation. Statesman or Traitor? Grateful parents welcoming home their sons from the prison camps after the war gave him respect, but others, especially those who had lost sons in vain, were less forgiving.
Vult had silken silver hair and an elegant beard. He possessed a catlike sleekness of movement and his voice was beguiling as he began, ‘People of Noros, the words I speak today are being read aloud in every town and village of this great empire, from Rondelmar, Argundy and Lantris to Verelon and Schlessen and all the way to Pontus. This is a historic address, for it concerns the coming Crusade.’
A low rumble churned through the congregation, then everyone fell silent. Outside, Alaron could hear the rain, carried on a low, moaning wind. Vult’s voice echoed about the cathedral and was repeated outside.
‘These are the words of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Constant Sacrecour:
‘My Beloved People. You are my children and I your father, sent to you by our Father in Heaven Above. I am your emperor. I speak with the voice of Kore.
‘Kore’s words are as stars to the navigator and they have steered our great empire these many years. For make no mistake, we are one nation. Though some may look upon the men of Rondelmar, Bricia, Argundy, Noros, Schlessen and elsewhere on the great lands of the empire and see differences, I your father see only similarities. We are one people, despite the differences of language and custom.
‘For I have looked upon the Dark Continent and seen what we are not.
‘We are not heathen. We are the children of Kore, the one true God.
‘We are not dark-skinned as the gutter-born of the East. The whiteness of our skins marks the purity of our souls.
‘We are not barbarians, who have as many wives as whim takes us, who rule despotically in lavish palaces while nine-tenths of the people must sleep beneath the stars. We are not heathens who dress salaciously and make idols of beast-gods born of dark imaginings. In short, we are not as they.
‘You all know that we are at war with Antiopia. We have led two Crusades to chastise the heathen, and twice, great victories have been won.
‘In nine short months comes the Moontide, when the Leviathan Bridge will rise again from the sea. Once more, we will march, and Yuros steel will ring again in Antiopia. Once more the Kirkegarde will raise the banner of Kore in the Dark Lands.
‘Every morning our brothers in our fortress in Hebusalim scan the skies for windships bringing supplies. Every day they throw back the heathen from their walls. Their need is great. So I say to you, my brothers in Kore: let the Great Muster begin! Let us once more gather and march to Pontus. Let us once more tread the Bridge of the Moontide, the songs of Kore on our lips. Let us bring blessed relief to our sons fighting even now in Hebusalim. Let us give of our blood, our will and our money, to make this Third Crusade the greatest and most glorious of all.
‘Let the Third Crusade begin! This is the will of God!
‘Thus speaks our Guide, the God-Emperor of Pallas, Constant Sacrecour.’
Vult paused for applause, at first hesitant, which swelled in fervour as the soldiers about Cathedral Plaza drummed their spears against their shields, then the roar of the people rose above even that clamour. In the pulpit Vult gave a satisfied smile, enjoying the moment. After a minute, as the noise was just beginning to falter, he raised a hand, and silence fell, at least within the cathedral. Outside the noise of the rain-soaked crowd did not subside until he began to speak once more.
‘People of Norostein, those are the words of the emperor: a call to arms from the lips of Kore Himself. How can we do otherwise than to heed it?’ He leant forward. ‘There is one true war on Urte, and it is eternal. It is the war of Good and Evil: the struggle of Kore against the false idols of the heathen. The Bridge was wrought for this – to enable the victory of Kore! And should any of you believe that our war is not just, that friendship with the heathen is possible, let me point out these facts.
‘First, it was they, not we, who struck the first blow, massacring traders in Hebusalim. Our war is just! Second, it is written in The Book of Kore, penned by the Scribes of the Three Hundred themselves, that only those who walk in Kore are worthy of Heaven. Therefore the heathen must perish!
‘Third, there is a source of power here in Yuros that brings tyrants, despots and false priests to their knees. The gnosis is that great strength of our people, the gift of Kore, his reward for the sacrifice of Corineus. I speak as one of the descendants of the Blessed Three Hundred: we alone are the wielders of the gnosis. The heathen gods have given no such gift; the heathen have no such shield, and this is proof of our rightness, the instrument of our dominion. The gnosis, in the hands of the magi, will light the path to victory and secure our place in Heaven.’
He had to stop, drowned out by the drumming of iron-clad staves on flagstones and weapons on shields. Alaron looked about the old grey cathedral at the other faces around him, all caught up in a fervour of patriotism. He glanced back at his father. Vann Mercer was giving every outward sign of cheering vociferously, but Alaron knew his father better. Watch the eyes, he always said. Now he winked at Alaron, who twitched half a smile and then did some cheering too, in case any of the teachers were watching.
When the tumult quietened enough, Vult told them recruitment for the legions would begin that afternoon in the plaza, to replenish every Noros legion, then raise five new ones. The ceremony seemed to be over, but Vult, like a master showman, had saved his best trick until last. With a wave of his hand, he announced: ‘A gift, from The Most Holy Emperor Constant to his beloved people of Noros.’ Everyone leant forward as Vult smiled benevolently and gestured again with his right hand.
From behind a pillar emerged Malevorn Andevarion, effortlessly regal, bearing the standard of the Noros IX Legion, the beloved ‘Mountain Cats’ of Robler’s command, one of many lost in the Revolt. The people gasped. Malevorn strode to the front, and the congregation first fell silent, gaping, then let loose the biggest, most genuine cheer of the day. Alaron glanced at his father, and this time his cheers were real: Vann Mercer had fought under that very banner. Behind Malevorn came Francis Dorobon with the ‘Silver Hawk’ of the Noros VI, Gron Koll with the Noros III’s ‘Grey Wolf’ and Boron Funt bearing the Noros VIII’s ‘Alpenfleur’. Bringing up the rear, Seth Korion returned to the people of Noros the ‘Waystar’, the banner of Vult’s own Noros II, lost at Lukhazan.
When the five youths bore the standards outside, onto the steps of the cathedral, the rain and cold were forgotten. The pr
ide of Norostein had been restored; the emperor did love them, his loyal subjects. Vann Mercer was crying unashamedly now, as were many of the older men – the veterans, Alaron realised. These were their banners.
Now Vult could do no wrong. The crowd cheered him to the hilt as he joined the banners on the steps of the cathedral, watching as men fought to be first in line for the recruitment stations. A true festival atmosphere prevailed, though the rain continued to pour down, but no one cared. The five flag-bearing students were caught up in the adulation, and Alaron heard grown-ups calling them ‘our pride’ and ‘the Hope of Noros’, though three of them weren’t Norosborn. Even he and Ramon became minor celebrities for a time as they walked about the square, young men asking them which Legion they would sign for. They stayed a while, but the attention became tiresome and Ramon was getting waspish about this overwhelming display of patriotism. ‘These morons probably got this excited about the Revolt too, and look where that got you,’ he muttered. As soon as they found Vann Mercer in the crowd, they persuaded him to leave.
‘Da, what did you think of the governor’s speech?’ Alaron asked as they wound their way home. Tomorrow he and Ramon must be back at college, but tonight they were permitted to stay at home.
Vann Mercer stroked his chin. He was a tall, strong man still, despite a slight broadening around the midriff as he settled into middle-age. ‘Well, I know what I think. But what about you, son?’
His father was always telling him to think for himself. Alaron collected his thoughts. ‘Well, Vult said that the emperor loves us – but we revolted just a few years ago, so how can he love us?’
‘I bet he loves to collect your taxes,’ put in Ramon.
‘You’ve been in Kesh, Da – you’ve always said the people there are a lot like us, and that skin colour has nothing to do with goodness. But Master Fyrell says when two races collide, they fight until one is eradicated. He says it’s a law of nature.’ He wrinkled his nose with distaste.
