Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides

by David Hair

  Vordan and Adamus took Malevorn and Funt off to brief Funt on who he was to seek.

  ‘Alaron Mercer?’ Funt laughed uncertainly. ‘Is this some kind of jest?’

  ‘No joke, Boron,’ Malevorn told him with utter sincerity.

  Funt straightened. ‘I remember Mercer,’ he told Adamus and Vordan. ‘Do you wish me to start now?’

  ‘As soon as you’re settled,’ Vordan told him. ‘He must not detect your scrying. He has eluded us thus far, so I suspect he may be more skilled than you credit him. Of course, he may be dead, but I think not. So proceed with caution. Am I understood?’ His iron gaze transfixed the plump young priest.

  ‘Absolutely, perfectly, completely!’ Boron blathered. ‘You can rely on me, Commandant.’

  ‘Excellent. Then proceed.’

  When they were alone in their suite, Boron plucked at Malevorn’s shoulder. ‘Kore’s codpiece! Alaron Mercer?’

  ‘The same.’

  Boron’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s going on? Your Fist was pulled from the Crusade for this. I heard gossip that Governor Vult is dead. Gron Koll too,’ he added, unable to resist a smirk. ‘What’s happening?’

  Malevorn considered. Boron might be a glutton and a coward, but he had always had a nose for secrets. ‘I don’t know, my friend,’ he lied. ‘But I’m sure you’ll sniff it out.’

  Boron laughed, his first sign of genuine pleasure. ‘Oh, I shall, Mal. You can’t keep a good plot from me.’

  *

  ‘Cym? Cym?’ Alaron shouted, heedless of danger, but no one replied. The empty island mocked him, echoing his cries back as if teasing him. He looked about him wildly, but no one answered. He bent over the wreckage, gripping it with shaking hands, and fought to hold back his tears.

  Ildena touched his shoulder tentatively, which made the watching Fydro hiss. ‘Alaron?’ the lamia asked softly. ‘This was hers?’ She was wrapped in a blanket, at Fydro’s insistence, despite the heat of the sun.

  The lamiae had taken his advice to travel to Phaestos to shorten the journey, though for Alaron it meant swimming under a water-breathing spell again, clinging to Kekropius’ back for dear life as they fought the deadly waters. But the lamiae were strong swimmers, and he managed.

  They’d made their base in the ruins of the mining town, a ghostly place that looked like the aftermath of a young god’s temper tantrum. The peaks of the triple volcanoes at the core of the island smoked menacingly. The vegetation was stunted and there were no animals, only birds by the thousand, though the seas were alive with seals, thriving in the warm waters.

  They’d found the wreckage of Cym’s skiff on a rocky plain.

  ‘She and I built it,’ Alaron said hoarsely. It had been such a wonderful time, just the two of them alone, working together in harmony. Of course, he’d been in constant torment from his longing to kiss her, but apart from that, it had been bliss.

  ‘Is it repairable?’ Kekropius asked, slithering about the broken hull.

  Alaron’s first impulse was to scoff, but he made himself look more closely. ‘The keel is cracked, and so is the mast – look, she’s tried to repair it, but couldn’t. She’s probably better at sylvan-gnosis than me, but neither Ramon or I knew enough to teach her.’

  ‘Some of our people can perform these feats,’ Kekropius mused aloud. ‘We could rebuild this for you.’

  ‘Would you be willing?’

  ‘You are leading us to Hebusalim, the Promised Land,’ Kekropius replied. ‘We will do anything for you.’

  Apart from letting me go off alone, Alaron noted to himself, and immediately felt ashamed. The lamiae had saved his life; to criticise their protectiveness was unworthy.

  ‘It’ll take time,’ he warned.

  ‘But it will be worth it, I deem,’ Kekropius replied. ‘We are all tired. This is a good place to rest and regain our strength.

  So Alaron and the lamiae spent Septinon on Phaestos, hunting, fishing and repairing the skiff. It was a community project; to Alaron’s amazement, everyone wanted to contribute, and show off their burgeoning skills. The more Arcanum training he passed on, the more they learnt, and they used his skiff as a means to compete, as well as to give something back. Raw materials were plentiful, and so was their enthusiasm. Wards of all sorts were worked into the timber. They added a bowsprit with a snake-haired head that could twist and turn like a real snake and spat fire or lightning at the pilot’s command, using the gnosis reservoir in the hull. They made new sails with animal hides, and bound them with spells he taught them to prevent them shredding, and to catch the air better.

  The repairs all hinged on the keel though: unless it could be re-bonded as good as new, the Air-gnosis needed to lift the craft would not be trapped, and it would be unable to stay aloft. Anyone with sylvan-gnosis worked on it constantly, regrowing the broken timber into a whole. Alaron watched the snake-creatures chant over it day and night for weeks, and it gradually fused again.

  Those who didn’t aid the repairs scoured the island, but there were few other signs of Cym’s passing; just a couple of camping sites that might have been hers near the northern coast. It was tempting to stay here – indeed, some suggested it – but it wasn’t safe; windships passed overhead most days, and Imperial couriers riding winged constructs too. So they worked and rested and readied themselves for the journey onwards.

  All Alaron had to do was direct their efforts. It was strange to be in charge of something, to have these people taking his orders and listening attentively to his advice, but he was the only trained mage, so he had to step forward. Though his knowledge of many Studies was limited, he soon found that if he could explain the theory of a spell to them, they could invariably work out how to make it real.

  When his skiff was finally ready, the lamiae celebrated with a feast of fish and birds held in the lee of the volcano slopes. They danced their eerie, snaky dances and played alien, strangely haunting flute music. Alaron flew the skiff about the glade to demonstrate, and they all shrilled out cries of triumph. He managed to avoid crashing into any buildings too, he noted wryly to himself.

  ‘What is its name?’ Kekropius asked him after he landed.

  Alaron blinked. He’d never named the craft, as it had been built to sell. His first instinct was to call it after Cym, but he suspected that would annoy her. ‘Seeker,’ he said, eventually.

  ‘A good name,’ he said. Next morning, the name was emblazoned on the stern.

  They left Phaestos near the end of Septinon, as the moon waned. Alaron flew and his companions swam. He sensed some worry among the lamiae, that he might fly off on his own, but he owed them. They hit the coast of Verelon near the falls of the powerful Maeglin River, west of Cypinos during the Darkmoon. Sometimes they saw scavenger folk, but not many; the cliffs on this side of the Gulf of Silium did not have the same tidelands as the western shore. The greater risk was the Imperial road, which at times passed within a few miles of the coast, but they were careful.

  Alaron stayed close to the lamiae and flew only at night. During the day, when not sleeping, he would continue scrying. Ildena grew more and more proficient and more confident. Fydro lost some of his wariness after he got her with child, and as her belly bulged, it took away some of her delicate grace. The lamiae’s gestation was rapid, and he was vaguely horrified to realise that they gave birth to proto-eggs, though the eggs remained outside the body for only a few days, allowing the newborn to form properly outside the confines of the womb before breaking free.

  But that was all still to come for Ildena, who continued to scry with him. They made some progress, beginning to pick up vague traces that teased him back to a conviction that Cym was alive after all, just out of reach. Scrying the Scytale gave him nothing: he’d barely seen it, and it was probably heavily warded. But as hope grew, his main war was with loneliness. He missed Ramon and Cym and sometimes daydreamed of Anise, the way her lips had tasted, but she was a vague memory and he struggled to recollect her fac
e.

  The new moon of Octen rose as they skirted the islands east of Thantis, the last major city in Verelon before the South Sydian plains. Without Alaron to slow them down the lamiae moved swiftly, and they had traversed Verelon swiftly, covering more than a thousand miles in two months. Seeker proved fast and resilient; with its armoury of spells woven into it, it felt like he was flying a tiny warbird. Ramon would have drooled over it.

  The breakthrough came as the full moon rose on what was becoming an increasingly rare clear night. The days were shortening, autumn hues were tinting the leaves and the wind was increasingly from the colder north. Alaron was scrying with three lamiae whilst the clan breakfasted at sunset, before the day’s travel. Ildena was glowing with pride: she had reached the point where she could scry the ways ahead and help them avoid danger. Two other females, fierce Nia and sharp-tongued Vyressa, jealous of Ildena, had demanded the same training. No one questioned why he was seeking this girl, but ‘Cymbellea and Alaron’ had become a romantic tale for the fireside and they were willing helpers.

  Working together, holding Aggi between them, their scrying range was enhanced. They sent their mind’s eyes out, seeking the spirits and ghosts, the myriad eyes of the otherness that saw so much more than human eyes ever could. They noted the windships and wagon-trains and cavalry patrols that were near, and guided the clan by ways unseen. They mapped paths to pass the coastal farms and scavenger villages. They saw the campfires of the Sydian horse clans, bringing the new yearlings to the cavalry buyers near the Imperial Road.

  And one night they found her.

  Black hair framed a finely chiselled face. Dancing eyes were wistful as she sat beside a fire, whittling at a piece of wood, carving it into a doll just like the one they held. Alaron’s heart almost burst with wonder, and his eyes welled up. The lamiae women shrieked, ‘It is her!’

  Alaron’s eyes were still upon the tiny image in the water. She was wrapped in wards, but they were not well-set. He found a gap and sent a single word into her mind.

  Her eyes jerked about, her expression going from panic to hope.

  The connection snapped. But it didn’t matter. She was alive, and he knew where she was.

  *

  ‘Got her,’ Boron Funt beamed. He reached for a sweetbread.

  Malevorn stared. It had been weeks, and he’d almost given up. Their room was strewn with food and drink. The rest of the Fist were dining in the main hall, and outside the venators were swarming about two steer carcases like a flock of gulls. ‘You’ve found the gypsy girl?’

  Boron stabbed a greasy finger at the map. ‘Somewhere here, northeast of Thantis, near the coast.’ He swallowed noisily. ‘Mercer has found her: it was his scrying that led me to her. I was able to lock onto his scrying and follow what he saw.’

  ‘Kore’s Blood, we’re hundreds of miles away! Do you have a fix on Mercer?’

  Boron shook his head. ‘I don’t know, exactly. You can’t follow a competent scryer back to their position, and it appears he’s somehow become vaguely proficient. She was shielded too, but the spell locking her down was poor, otherwise neither Mercer or I would have found her.’ He frowned. ‘Mercer’s search was surprisingly strong. There were other presences, with strange mental signatures. He has help.’

  ‘I have to hand it to you, my friend,’ Malevorn said with grudging respect. It was easy to forget that beneath the gross exterior, Boron Funt was no fool. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you.’

  It was true. Boron might not be able to walk one hundred paces without losing his breath, but he could work with his mind for hours on end. He’d been hunting the aether for weeks. A skilled mage could follow the mental traces of any other magi in his range, and Funt was undoubtedly skilled. Most magi in the empire had gone east, so if someone was out here scrying, Funt reasoned it was probably Mercer. It’d taken time, but he’d come though.

  Malevorn peered at the map. ‘She’s more than a thousand miles away,’ he breathed. The windship could make around twenty miles an hour with good winds, so two days’ travel to where Boron had made the connection. Malevorn patted Funt on the shoulder. ‘Well done, my friend. I’ll go and tell the Crozier.’

  He found Adamus in his office, speaking in a low voice to beautiful Virgina. When he went to leave again, Adamus waved him inside. ‘Later,’ he told Virgina. She wouldn’t meet Malevorn’s eyes as she left, leaving Malevorn wondering exactly what he’d interrupted.

  The Crozier regarded him with hooded eyes. ‘So, my young Acolyte,’ he said into the ensuing silence.

  Malevorn found his voice. ‘Your Worship, Boron has found the girl Mercer is hunting.’

  Adamus came alive. ‘He has? Excellent! Tell me.’

  Malevorn reported as swiftly as he could, his words running together as the eagerness took over. When he was done, Adamus stared into space, then stabbed a finger at the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Sit.’

  Malevorn sat warily. ‘Your Worship?’

  ‘Master Andevarion, I like you. I think we share a dedication to the empire and an unwillingness to tolerate fools.’ He poured two cups of wine and offered one to Malevorn. ‘We must find an understanding.’

  Malevorn took the cup, his mind racing. ‘What understanding, my lord?’

  Adamus Crozier cocked his head. ‘Do you know what it is we seek, Malevorn?’

  ‘Alaron Mercer, lord.’

  ‘You are a warrior. Your skills do not lend themselves to conspiracy.’ The Crozier looked at him with reptilian eyes. ‘Do not lie to me again.’

  Malevorn swallowed and decided that honesty was the only policy here. ‘There is an artefact involved.’

  ‘Do not name it.’ Adamus sipped his wine, then smiled. ‘Good, we understand each other. He who finds this thing has the opportunity to become great, but that requires knowledge. The artefact is a key; it is not the treasure. Those able to make full use of this thing are few, and clearly Mercer does not have access to such a person, for all he does is run and hide.’

  Mercer is a cretin. I’m going to roast him alive.

  ‘Vordan knows about the artefact, but he and I do not see eye to eye. He wishes this thing to be returned to the Church, when his loyalty should be to the emperor.’

  ‘Commandant Vordan is a renowned warrior,’ Malevorn commented cautiously.

  ‘He is. But I chose the Eighteenth Fist for this mission because you and Elath Dranid know Norostein, not because I wanted to work with Lanfyr Vordan. And your Fist was selected before we realised that this Mercer boy might be crucial. It feels like fate: I sense Kore’s hand upon us. So it is important that we are allies in this matter. In my eyes you are a future Commandant, perhaps even more.’

  The Crozier needs my help. He felt a surge of pride. But who says I couldn’t work the Scytale out myself? I can swing a sword and use the gnosis, yes; but I can also think. ‘Dranid and Vordan are skilled swordsmen and more senior than me.’

  ‘Indeed – Elath Dranid is the best swordsman in the Fist, I’m led to believe.’ His voice left a trailing question. ‘But I think they have peaked. You are still on the rise.’ The Crozier toasted him with his goblet. ‘When the time comes, this artefact will lead to conflict. Vordan will want it for his faction and I for mine. Already they see you as being aligned to me.’

  No doubt why you’ve been sliming around me in the first place. ‘I see.’ Sometimes you just have to pick a side. ‘In this, my lord Crozier, I’m your man.’ He took a first sip of the wine. Brician chardo, like nectar. He smiled slowly.

  Adamus lifted his wine cup. ‘Excellent. See that your friends Funt and Brother Dominic know which way the wind is blowing.’ He frowned. ‘We must get to this Alaron Mercer first.’

  15

  Dissent

  Theurgy: Illusion

  Men surround themselves with illusions. Most find reality just too hard. Only the great are prepared to deal with what truly is.

  SERTAIN, ASCENDANT MAGE AND FIRST EMPE
ROR

  OF RONDELMAR, PALLAS 421

  North Javon, Antiopia

  Rami (Septinon) 928

  3rd month of the Moontide

  ‘Come in, Magister,’ boomed Octa Dorobon, and Gurvon Gyle winced at the sheer loudness of the woman. How does she keep any secrets at all, when she is audible across half a city? But he kept his expression composed as he entered the Dorobon suite at this latest palace on the road to Brochena. Apparently Cera had stayed here on her way north. Now she was locked in a dungeon below. Instead, Octa, her son Francis and daughter Olivia shared the main suite. All three were arrayed before him now. But they were not to whom he bowed first.

  In the centre of the darkened room, the transparent image of a woman’s head and shoulders floated above a bowl of scented bubbling water, the image formed of steam, light and the gnosis. Lucia Fasterius, Mater-Imperia of Rondelmar. ‘Your Holiness,’ he greeted his patron, while his mind leapt through the implications of her gnostic presence.

  ‘Magister Gyle, welcome.’ Lucia greeted him with a warm smile, her image rotating to face him. Her voice echoed from the relaystaves. ‘My favourite Noroman. Again you have come through for us.’ Kind words, but at the back of her eyes lingered the memory of their last conversation, when he had brazenly demanded more money, having supposedly slain Fraxis Targon.

  ‘The plan worked perfectly, Holiness,’ he responded cautiously. He sat in an empty seat beside Francis Dorobon. Both son and daughter looked awestruck to be in Lucia’s ethereal presence.

  ‘A pleasing change,’ Lucia replied with the faint hint of sarcasm. ‘My good friends the Dorobon are now free to occupy Brochena and bring Javon to heel. You may return to Pallas and collect your many rewards.’