Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet)

by David Hair

  Elena had been right: Coin had supplanted Solinde, but lost control during sex with Fernando Tolidi, and killed him to preserve her secret. Coin claimed to have no idea whether the real Solinde was alive or dead, nor what Gurvon’s plans were. No wonder, having been effectively removed from the game. But now … what a bargaining chip! In the right hands in Pallas, this piece of information could bring down the Fasterius-Sacrecour dynasty.

  Elena’s mind reeled as she explored the possibilities. The night crawled past. She had bricked up the windows of the tower to prevent any Air-magi entering, and had warded the entire stonework, to prevent someone simply bombarding it. The doorways were protected with wards and bindings and gnostic traps, so right now, Jade Tower was the most impregnable place in Brochena. But who knew what resources Gurvon had?

  Hours passed. She sensed the descent of the moon and the distant throb of power that was the approaching sunrise; dawn was coming, and still the enemy had made no move. Perhaps Gurvon doesn’t know Coin is here after all? Perhaps I really am a step ahead this time …

  Footsteps climbed the stairs outside and turned the door handle and Elena stood and strode to the door. ‘Cera?’

  The door opened. It wasn’t Cera. A robed figure faced her, bearing the iron cross-staff of an Inquisition Grandmaster. The bland-faced man was expressionless as he took stock of the room, not moving his head or his eyes, which he kept focused on her.

  A Grandmaster, and therefore an Ascendant – but I’d have felt it if he broke my wards … so someone let him in …

  Always have a plan – but how could I plan for this?

  The Grandmaster gestured with a finger and a wave of force threw her against the walls of the cell. She twisted in midair and struck feet-first. Beside her, Coin too was slammed against the brickwork, screaming soundlessly, helpless within the Chain-rune.

  Elena kicked off the walls and somersaulted to the centre of the room, then, leaving an image of herself there, she blurred left and fired off an energy-bolt whilst triggering the six crossbows she had hung from wires attached to the ceiling. Each crossbow turned and tracked the Inquisitor as he lifted his staff, ignoring her illusion and shielding her gnostic-bolt effortlessly.

  He slammed another pulse of force at her, hammering her against the wall again and she hit hard, her lungs emptying in a bellow of pain. Something cracked in her ribcage. Then a wave of fire washed towards her as she struggled back to her feet and she flew sideways. The blast of heat ripped past her shoulder and charred bricks in one of the blocked windows.

  The six crossbows discharged at once, hammering impotently into his shields, but before she could trigger them to reload he blasted them with flames, snapping bowstrings and setting fire to the wooden stocks. Elena flowed on, circling faster, her blade in hand. More fire washed through another illusion she spun, roasting empty air. She cloaked her form in darkness and went at him.

  Let’s see if you know how to fight—

  But she never got close; he turned straight towards her, piercing her cloaking spell so effortlessly she realised that he’d been tracking her all along. He raised an open-palmed hand and clenched it shut and the air about her congealed, gripping her as if in a giant fist, then it snatched her up and hammered her head-first into the ceiling.

  Plaster and wood splintered about her shields, and she flailed about desperately, but she couldn’t gain purchase – then she was mashed feet-first into the stone floor before she could realign her shields. Her right ankle shattered in a burst of white-hot agony that jolted through her. The sword flew from her hand as she splattered against the floor like a squashed bug.

  She fought for air through a mist of pain as the Ascendant, his face now showing utter contempt, moved his right hand again, this time picking her up and flinging her at the far wall. Her left shoulder-blade cracked as she battered into the stone. Her head struck hard and the room dissolved in stars for a few seconds as she flopped helplessly, still trying to breathe. Above her, Coin watched with a gloating smile as the Inquisitor walked towards her leisurely, as if she were no more threat than a dormouse, and never had been.

  One last try …

  She triggered the release of the Chain-rune on Coin—

  —and leapt—

  —not with her body, so badly broken, but with her soul—

  Abruptly her perspective changed: she was hanging from the wall on gnosis-bound manacles, naked, in a strange body, and staring down at the blanket on the floor, which had been blasted away by the Inquisitor’s Air-gnosis. The blanket was lying beside a motionless body: Elena’s own. She felt Coin’s panic at her intrusion, trying to resist, but she was overmatched by Elena’s desperation and experience.

  The Inquisitor – Coin knew him as Fraxis Targon – turned towards Coin as he saw Elena Anborn’s body go limp. He lifted his hand and the bindings on her wrists fell away. His eyes finally showed an emotion: concern, for the child of Mater-Imperia Lucia. ‘Yvette,’ he said, bending to pick up the fallen blanket to cover the prisoner.

  Got you.

  Elena stole control of Coin’s body from its owner just long enough to turn Coin’s right hand into a multi-taloned claw that she drove into the Inquisitor’s chest. He stared, goggle-eyed, into her face as the claw burst through skin and sinew between his ribs to grasp the pumping muscle beneath.

  She wrenched.

  The still-beating heart came out in the gore-soaked talon as the Inquisitor crumpled, disbelief and horror etched into his face as his fingers clawed for life, his eyes turning molten as he tried to seize his own heart from Coin’s hands. Coin roared inside her own head, fighting for control with renewed intensity.

  This time Elena didn’t resist …

  She let go and in an eye-blink was back in her own pain-racked body, staring up from the floor as Fraxis Targon blasted lightning from one flailing hand into the unshielded face of Mater-Imperia’s freakish child. The hermaphrodite’s scream vanished beneath an explosive crack of blinding light.

  The Grandmaster sought his squirming heart, but missed as the gore-soaked organ slid from Coin’s hands and flopped wetly to the floor. Targon struck the ground beside it, both hands going to the hole in his chest, and Coin fell beside him, spasming and jerking, writhing like a worm in water before falling still.

  The Inquisitor’s face rolled sideways, the eyes staring glassily at Elena. She smiled grimly back. A mage could survive much, but not the loss of heart or head.

  Got. You. Bastard …

  Then the awareness of her own battered body kicked in, the pain a wave of fiery darkness that rolled over her and pulled her down into oblivion.

  Footsteps. She lifted her head, dimly aware. Lorenzo … Thank God!

  He hurried to her side, bending over her, and she reached out with her gnosis to caress his familiar mind.

  And encountered someone else.

  No!

  ‘By the Kore, you live!’ the mage in Lorenzo’s body said in Rondian, looking at the ruined bodies of Fraxis Targon and Coin. He exhaled in wonder. ‘Unbelievable!’

  No – not after all I’ve endured!

  ‘Lorenzo’ drew his dagger. It flashed silver as he stroked it, right to left, cutting her throat. She flailed weakly, staring at the gushing blood that was spraying over his chest and face as he held her down. Her hands flew to her neck as her legs spasmed, her hips jerking uncontrollably, her mind screaming

  ‘Elena Anborn,’ laughed ‘Lorenzo’ cruelly, ‘you were so close and yet so wrong.’ He caressed her cheek. ‘We were waiting for your lover as he rode back from the Krak, Gurvon and I. Can you guess who I am?’ He laughed and opened his mouth, and the head of a necromantic scarab bulged from his mouth and vanished inside again. ‘Yes, it is I: Rutt Sordell.’

  She threw all that remained to her into trying to stem the flow of blood from her open throat, to sucking air through the severed windpipe, but Sordell laughed and jerked her hands away from the wound, spraying fresh blood as she wheezed
and bubbled her last breath away. ‘No, no healing allowed. It’s time to die, Ella. I’m sick of playing second fiddle to you. Gurvon made you his number two by dint of your whoring, but I was always the better mage.’

 

  ‘No you don’t!’ Sordell scowled, his presence lending a hideous malice to Lorenzo’s face. ‘You’re not going to get the chance to beg his mercy. He’s going to find you dead, with no regrets.’

  He wiped his blade on her thigh, stood up and stomped his foot down into her belly, and her healing-gnosis fell apart in another burst of pain.

  ‘Farewell, Elena. You can die now.’

  37

  Beneath the Surface

  General Leroi Robler

  Leroi Robler was already old in 909 when his country summoned him to war, but he was a veteran of the First Crusade, and he had the respect of his men. That respect became adoration after victory upon victory against the much larger armies of Rondelmar in the Noros Revolt. Unbeaten in the field, General Robler was the banner of Noros, and only when he laid down his blade did his country surrender.

  MAGNUS GRAYNE, THE GLORIOUS REVOLUTION, 915

  Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros

  Junesse 928

  1 month until the Moontide

  Alaron bellowed in fright as Muhren lurched out of the torrent of fire, his shields flickering, Ramon convulsing in his arms. Langstrit raised his hands and shouted, and chains of emerald light flared around him, then shattered with a deafening roar that any mage would have felt ten miles away. Alaron staggered from the force of it, but he stumbled forward to try and reach Ramon, Cym beside him. Muhren sealed off the hatch with a warding of blue light, even as it started to shake from the blasts striking it.

  Cym pulled Ramon, choking for breath, from Muhren’s arms and shouted at him to lie still, to just hold on. Alaron offered up his own gnosis-energy to Cym, to to aid her healing-gnosis, trying to let his power flow cleanly. Desperation lent him clarity, and he cradled Ramon, trying not to gag on the seared meat smell as he stared at the feathered bolt jutting from his best friend’s belly, and the charred skin around it. Breathe, Ramon, just breathe. He felt Ramon convulsing faintly, his heartbeat erratic.

  Muhren stood over them, straining to keep his barrier on the hatch intact. The pulsing light and flaring about the warding showed the forces he was fighting, but his strength was buying them precious seconds. Jarius Langstrit eased Alaron to one side. ‘Lad, let me.’ The old man gently laid Ramon on the stone and raised his hands, which began to drip pearls of liquid energy: Ascendant power, unchained: he’d broken from the Chain-rune that bound him. The bloody crossbow bolt disintegrated and liquid light poured into the wounds, soothing the seared skin. At last Ramon went limp, groaning, and Langstrit cocooned him in a web of gnosis, shields and wards.

  The general turned to Alaron. ‘Lad, we have to go.’

  ‘Ramon’s still alive – we have to take him!’

  Langstrit’s gaze was patient, despite the urgency. Behind him, Muhren was pulling Cym to her feet, his eyes on the warded hatch. ‘You can’t help him now. He will live, if he suffers no further harm, but I can do no more. But he cannot be moved, and we must go, or Vult will have us all. You can stay if you want, or you can come with us and fight. I’m sorry.’

  Alaron flinched from that intense stare, looked helplessly at Ramon. ‘But we can’t leave him for Vult—’

  ‘If we all move, Vult will follow us. If we triumph, we will return for him. But if even one of us stays, both will be taken.’

  ‘My father said that you would never leave a wounded man on the field!’

  Langstrit winced. ‘That’s just ballads and poetry, boy. In war, all choices are evil.’

  Above them the ground shook and dust and small pebbles fell from the ceiling. ‘Sir, we must go,’ Muhren shouted from beneath the hatch. His voice was strained as his hands wove new shields. Coruscating light boiled above, casting garish hues about the cellar. ‘There are at least four magi up there.’

  Cym grasped his hand. ‘Alaron, come on.’ Her face was as hard as diamonds. ‘Ramon is out. Are you with us or not?’

  He snatched his hand away, feeling torn in two. A true hero would know what to do: he would stay with his friend, if that was right – or he would see out this quest to the bitter end, if that was right. But he would know. ‘I don’t know—’ he started.

  ‘Rukka mio, Alaron – decide,’ Cym shouted.

  The floor shook again and Muhren cried out. Langstrit put a hand on Cym and Alaron’s shoulders. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to use Earth-gnosis to get out of here. I’ll draw Vult away to the south – he’ll believe that I’m making a break for where I’ve hidden the Scytale, and he’ll follow. You two stay with Jens and retrieve the Scytale. We’ll meet in Bossis next week, at the Blackwater Chapel. Don’t wait longer than a week, understood?’

  Cym nodded, her eyes boring into Alaron. ‘Yes!’ she snapped, then to Alaron, ‘Let’s go!’

  Alaron looked at the cocoons of light about Ramon and then met her ferocious gaze. ‘Okay,’ he said at last.

  Langstrit looked at him sympathetically. ‘Go with Jens. Farewell!’

  Then his face hardened and he gathered his powers. The air about him swirled until he was at the eye of a tiny storm. He looked at Muhren and grinned, then thrust his left hand upwards and his right hand sideways. A concussive force flew from either hand and the general drove upwards, soaring through the earth as if it were paper. The burst of energy as the ground ripped dizzied them, and they heard the screams of at least three men. Then the general was gone, his presence receding in a blaze of gnosis like a comet.

  Muhren pointed to the northern wall, where Langstrit’s right hand had blasted a hole into another chamber beyond, and cried, ‘This way – come on!’

  Cym gripped Alaron’s hand and yanked him after her, but he looked back at Ramon and whispered a prayer, he had no idea to whom: Be safe. Be safe. Please, be safe.

  Muhren closed the hole behind them with a pained effort, in stark contrast to the Ascendant general’s effortless explosion of might. He might be a Hero of the Revolt, but he was only a half-blood – And we’re probably going up against pure-bloods, Alaron thought fearfully.

  Gnosis-light glowed in Muhren’s left hand, illuminating the chamber: a small cellar full of broken barrels, generously festooned with spider-webs. The captain spotted stairs in the corner and stormed up them. He burst the locks of the door at the top and they followed him into the house, ignoring the frightened cries of the owners as they thundered out the back door and into a yard.

  Muhren spoke into their minds as they vaulted the low fence and sprinted down an alleyway.

  Movement drew his eye and Alaron glanced over his shoulder, but it was gone before he could react. They ran down another alley and into a small square lit by the half-moon, their feet thudding on the cobbles as they flew across the open space. Then a crossbow sounded, and a bolt flew past Cym’s shoulder. Muhren threw a gnosis-bolt down the alley behind them and was rewarded with a shriek. He pointed towards a street opposite and cried, ‘Run!’

  They ran.

  When Norostein Council extended the reservoir at the western end of Lake Tucerle, they botched the job – or deliberately got it wrong, depending upon who you believed. One spring morning in 887, seventy rickety buildings on the northwest tip of the lake were swept away when the flood-banks gave way under the first flush of the thaw through the newest aqueduct. More than two hundred people lost their lives. An error in the peak-flow calculations was blamed, though the engineers were not fired, nor even reprimanded. It was just coincidence that the council had tried to evict those same tenants and had been blocked by the courts. Despite the rumours of conspiracy, the council finally had their extended reservoir, and new flood-banks were established to contain it. Wh
en the water was particularly clear, anyone standing on those flood-banks could see the decaying buildings below.

  Alaron and Cym ran, panting, to the edge of the lake and almost collapsed. Their gasping breaths rose like clouds. Muhren joined them, far less distressed by the mile-long run. They had paused only once, when they ran into a Watch patrol, but Muhren had sent them off with a cock-and-bull story about robbers in Old Town.

  Now the tenth bell of night chimed through the city. The half-moon was westering, its face beginning to turn pink, and the eastern sky was softening towards dawn. The flood-bank was capped by a promenade, complete with a bronze statue of Jarius Langstrit himself, posed as he’d been in the Revolt: shouting orders whilst pointing with his sword.

  Cym patted it as if for luck. ‘Is this where we go in?’ she asked, peering at the black water. It radiated cold. Her face was all fierce purpose and she frightened Alaron right now; her almost callous dismissal of Ramon’s plight bothered him. Only the prize matters to her now.

  ‘It is as good a place as any,’ Muhren replied, looking up at the statue of Langstrit. Alaron wondered if the general still lived. He was an Ascendant, but he was old and outnumbered.

  Cym touched Muhren’s arm: shadowy shapes as large as ponies had emerged from the alleys, dark things that reflected the moonlight as they stalked across the green towards them. Alaron gulped as their forms became clear.

  There were five of them, moving with jerks and bounds. They were shaped like hounds, but with carapaced bodies, each with six legs. The heads seemed to be pure insect, except for the inches-long teeth in their maws. Instead of tails, some kind of stinger rose from their hindquarters and swayed like bobbing bulbs above their heads. The head of each was about chest-height. They had probably three times the bulk of a man.

  ‘Constructs,’ Muhren cursed, and Alaron scowled; animagus constructs were warped products of nature and you couldn’t banish them as you could a spirit. You had to kill them. ‘Fyrell’s work, I warrant,’ Muhren added, edging his blade with gnosis-light. ‘Get behind me.’