Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides

by David Hair

  Funt tore his eyes from the Acolyte’s dead body, trying to work out why he couldn’t feel his left foot. Then he saw the reason, and he felt a sob bubble up his throat. The foot was gone and blood was fountaining from the stump in great gouts, soaking the ground. This isn’t happening, his brain told him.

  Just as suddenly, it wasn’t. He was in the training ground at the Turm Zauberin. I’ve fallen off my horse, that’s all. ‘Fetch Magister Yune,’ he called, the words coming out oddly high. ‘I think I need a healer.’ He looked around for someone to help him.

  Oddly, his friends were nowhere to be seen. There was only Alaron Mercer, of all people. ‘Help me,’ he whimpered as the merchant’s son stumbled towards him, smiling inanely. ‘Mercer, help: I think I’ve hurt myself.’

  A dozen alien faces loomed over him: bestial faces that had no place in this dream. He erased them, focusing only on Mercer, who was carrying a leather scroll-case, one he vaguely recalled as being important. But it wasn’t as important as his poor foot.

  ‘Help me, you cretin,’ he snapped at Mercer.

  ‘I blocked both his attacks,’ Mercer said, his voice sounding distracted. ‘I’ve never done that before.’

  Imbecile! He has to help me! I fell off my damned horse! Or … something … ‘I seem to have hurt my foot,’ he groaned, wishing he sounded a little manlier just now. But he could, couldn’t he? He could order Mercer to do it. He was a pure-blood, after all. ‘Stop babbling, Mercer,’ he snapped. ‘Fetch Mistress Yune! I’ve hurt myself.’

  ‘Two spells at once … and I blocked them. It was as if the danger cleared my mind of doubt. I felt … fantastic.’

  He felt the numbness climbing his leg into his midriff. ‘Please, Mercer,’ he whimpered. ‘My foot—’

  Mercer seemed to notice him at last. ‘Why are you here, Funt?’

  ‘To find you, you moron! Where’s Magister Yune?’ Agnes Yune had always been kind to him. She’d given him sweets, especially when he was homesick. He’d been homesick a lot. He’d always thought of her as a kind auntie. ‘Please, it’s beginning to hurt.’

  ‘Can we eat him yet?’ something growled.

  Funt cringed away from the fierce voice and focused on the merchant’s son again.

  ‘What happened to Poulos?’ Alaron Mercer said in his ear. ‘He went missing three weeks ago. Did your friends find him?’

  Poulos? I’ve never heard of any Poulos. What happened three weeks ago? ‘Where’s Magister Yune, Mercer? I don’t feel well.’

  ‘Poulos looked like Hypollo here: with snake-hair and lizard-skin.’

  ‘Oh, that thing? Dranid killed it and we fed it to the venators. Hel’s sake, Mercer, fetch Aggy Yune!’ His voice was faltering. Somewhere close, a lot of somethings were gorging on fresh meat. He could smell the iron stink of blood; he could hear the ripping of flesh. ‘Where are my friends?’ he asked plaintively.

  Mercer said softly in his ear, ‘You never had any.’

  He opened his eyes as Mercer straightened and walked away. He was surrounded by reptilian faces, creatures from nightmare. His fantasy of Turm Zauberin evaporated. Filius was being torn apart limb from limb and devoured raw. So was the pilot-mage. He could hear the human crew pleading for mercy.

  ‘Mercer, please …’

  ‘He’s all yours,’ said Alaron Mercer, without looking back.

  *

  The venators had flown south that morning, so Alaron and the lamiae took the stolen windship north first. They flew very low, to keep out of sight of Veiterholt Bridge and its fortresses, then turned northeast, aiming for the coast south of Pontus. The remaining crewmen worked the sails under the close supervision of Naugri and a dozen other lamiae who were proficient in Rondian. They were made to describe everything they were doing, instructing their captors as they went along. They had the look of men trapped in a nightmare, wanting desperately to wake up as soon as possible.

  Alaron took the tiller. Windships were much tougher to fly than skiffs, but the same principles applied. The lamiae barely fitted aboard, but somehow they managed, filling the cabins and crews’ quarters with the females and offspring while the males stayed on deck: thirty-four adults and two dozen children on a ship that would normally house no more than two dozen people. They had no pilot-mage, but many of the lamiae had Air-gnosis; they were already stationed below and constantly feeding the keel gnosis-energy.

  Their first priority was to reduce the chances of being followed. Alaron ordered anything personal to be chucked straight into the Cut, to cut down the Inquisitors’ ability to scry the ship. It meant disposing of a treasure-trove of weapons and armour, not to mention diaries, prayer-books and jewellery, but the Elders were rigorous in scouring the ship of anything the Inquisitors might be able to trace. The only thing they kept was one of the pilot-mage’s charts. The ship itself could be shielded using energy from the keel, and Alaron ensured those were fully empowered.

  It was hard to erase Boron Funt’s final screams, but Alaron was determined not to forget these were the bastards who’d killed Muhren and Mercellus and Ferdi and Poulos and all those helpless Rimoni. He’d lost his breakfast into the Cut, and after that, he’d shaken himself and done his best to pull himself together. He’d not been able to stop himself from feeling sorry for poor delusional Boron Funt at the end – he’d never expected that – but he couldn’t Chain-rune a pure-blood. There had been no choice.

  If he’d shown any remorse for the death of poor Poulos, I might have tried to stop them, but he didn’t even care. Poulos was just a freak to him …

  Once all the personal effects had been disposed of, Alaron turned his attention to rendering the ship itself proof from scrying. He worked with Ildena and the strongest of the Air-magi to create wards, leaving Cym to use the main cabin as a surgery, repairing the worst of their injuries.

  We defeated two pure-bloods and a mage-pilot who must have been at least a half-blood. He smiled grimly. He was proud of the lamiae. They’d lost eight warriors, but considering what they’d been up against, it was a stunning victory. We could even have taken down a couple more … Then he smiled at himself: ‘We’ was a man-made race of constructs. His people.

  ‘Something amuses you, Milkson?’ Kekropius called from his position near the stern, where he was watching over Seeker, trailing the windship on a long rope.

  ‘I was just thinking that I feel more akin to your people than to those Inquisition bastards.’

  Kekropius acknowledged his words with a faint tilt of the chin. Pride.

  Above all, he thought of the moment when he was shielding from the pure-blood Acolyte. He’d known that he was likely to be attacked, had already imagined the ways he might shield, but there was only so much one could anticipate. When the Acolyte had used both fire and pure energy together, sheer terror had crystallised his mind, and somehow he’d managed to deflect both attacks.

  I wish I could remember exactly how I did it. That must be how a trance-mage feels all the time …

  Cym emerged from the cabin, looking shaky, and went to the rail. The Vlk tattoo on her brow was more prominent than ever against the pallor of her face. She’d been trying to help burned lamiae all morning, but he could see it wasn’t going well. She looked utterly drained, and completely distraught.

  As he watched, she shuddered, gripping the rail, and stared down at the rolling lands below. This high up, they could see for miles, but there was still no sign of the sea. There was a big compass set below the tiller, with a gnostic map made of shifting lines of light set into the crystal face. The Elders were poring over the device with great excitement. Their goal felt tangible to them now, for the first time more reality than dream.

  Alaron walked over and stood next to her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I can’t save his other eye,’ she murmured. ‘He’s half-blind, and just wants to die.’

  He winced, wishing he could do more, but healing was something he had no affinity for at all.

  ‘What no
w?’ she asked dejectedly.

  He forced an encouraging smile. ‘We’re going to the Promised Land.’

  ‘And where is that, exactly?’ Cym asked, not unreasonably.

  ‘Pretty much wherever in Antiopia we like. It needs to be somewhere coastal, within reach, so that means Dhassa or Javon, maybe.’

  Cym might never have had geography lessons, but her well-travelled father had taught her the shape of the world. ‘The coast of Javon,’ she suggested.

  ‘Just what I was thinking. Kekropius agrees. He’s going to persuade the Elders.’

  ‘Can you find it?’

  ‘That compass and map device will take us right there.’

  ‘The Inquisition will follow us,’ she said tiredly.

  ‘If they can – but I’ve heard venators can’t stay aloft for long. If we go out over the ocean, there will come a point where they can’t follow us, even if their scrying can find us.’ He couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Until they get another ship,’ Cym reminded him.

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’ He felt foolish all of a sudden. ‘Hadn’t thought of that.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Sol et Lune! All this competence you’ve been showing has had me worried. It’s nice to know the old Alaron is still in there.’

  ‘Cheers. So, what are you going to do about finding your mother?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m a Hermetic Water-mage with a very limited education, remember? I’m no good at Clairvoyance.’ Everything Cym had learned was down to Alaron and Ramon slipping out of the college at night to go through their own lessons with her. There were huge gaps in her skills. ‘I’m going to start trying, though.’

  ‘That’s dangerous,’ Alaron warned. ‘A poorly cast scrying can attract all sorts of things – it could lead the Inquisitors straight to us. Your mother and grandfather will most probably be in Hebusalim, and that’s occupied by the Rondian Army.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  ‘We take the lamiae to Javon, then you and I take Seeker to Hebusalim. Once we’re closer, it will be easier to find her. I’ve got some ideas.’

  ‘You always do,’ she said fondly. ‘You’re nothing if not tenacious.’ She turned aside, as if complimenting him made her uncomfortable. She jabbed a thumb towards the human crewmen. Four of them were sleeping fitfully, but the other two were talking to a small cluster of lamiae, demonstrating knot-tying techniques. The men were so petrified of their captors that they obeyed all commands instantly with glassy-eyed obedience. ‘What’s going to happen to them?’

  Alaron shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know. They want to go home, obviously. But I don’t think we could survive a storm without their experience, so we have to keep them with us for now.’ He gestured at Mesuda and Reku, huddled beneath the masts, watching the humans with glinting eyes. ‘Ask them.’

  ‘I did earlier,’ Cym replied. ‘The Elders won’t risk news of their existence getting out. ‘ She shuddered. ‘I think they mean to kill them once we reach safety.’

  Probably. Alaron felt helpless. ‘I suppose you can’t blame them. The lamiae had human souls grafted into specially grown lizard bodies: they were created to be slaves. They were penned up and bred like animals; they were experimented on. They are what the Pallas magi made them.’

  ‘I know.’ Cym dropped her voice. ‘I understand all that – I’m Rimoni, I know what it is like to be an outcast. But these sailors are just men who were in the wrong place. They’re not even in the Inquisition. They’re just windshipmen whose ship got requisitioned.’

  ‘My Da says the Inquisition only uses fanatics.’

  ‘For soldiers, maybe – but look at them: they’re petrified, but when they talk about sailing the skies, their eyes light up, just like yours did. If they’re fanatical about anything, it’s flying.’

  Alaron swallowed, watching the animated expression on the face of the sailor speaking to the listening lamiae. ‘I suppose. It’s not my decision.’

  ‘But you have influence.’

  He exhaled. ‘All right, I’ll talk to Mesuda.’

  Cym rubbed at the ridged lines on her brow. ‘Thank you.’ She forced a smile. ‘You’re more like a man every day. It’s unnerving.’

  Alaron grinned. ‘Just don’t tell me I’m like my Da.’

  ‘Your father is a good man,’ Cym said seriously. ‘Where is he, do you think?’

  ‘Somewhere in Dhassa? Safe, I hope. Da’s pretty smart.’

  ‘He and Papa were such good friends,’ Cym said sadly. Her eyes misted over and she turned away, wordlessly.

  Alaron knew to let her go.

  *

  Malevorn knelt with what was left of his fellow Acolytes. They were just five now: Dranid, Raine, Virgina, Dominic and himself. Commandant Vordan knelt a few paces before them as Adamus lit the pyre to burn the gnawed remains of Brother Filius, Boron Funt and the windship pilot-mage.

  All of them had been slaughtered and half-eaten. The windship was gone, including the crew – live meat for these beasts, no doubt. There were five dead venators, leaving only four. All of their personal possessions were gone.

  Their collective fury hung about the glade like a red mist.

  ‘Father Kore, take the souls of these your servants,’ Adamus Crozier prayed. ‘Forgive them their failing, and accept them in your service in the hereafter. This we pray.’

  ‘Forgive them their failing,’ they echoed. Any Inquisitor who died at the hands of the enemy – any enemy – was deemed a failure.

  Fuck that. Malevorn glared sourly at the pyre. They lost our windship! I hope demons bugger them for eternity in Hel.

  This defeat was an outrage not known to the Order since the Noros Revolt. They all felt it, the shame. He glanced sideways at Dranid’s stony face, at Virgina’s shocked pallor, at Dominic’s disbelief and Raine’s simmering fury. He related most closely to her reaction, he noted. Beneath their utterly different exteriors, he was coming to realise that they were the most alike here. They were both driven, and neither cared who or what perished, so long as they got their way. She had no airs and graces, just earthy, animal desires. They’d screwed again whilst on patrol, and he believed she might be coming round to Adamus’ faction.

  He glowered at Vordan’s sickly grey face. The disgrace lay heaviest on the Commandant himself, something Adamus Crozier had not been slow to emphasise. It was Vordan who’d ordered them to widen the search, leaving their windship so weakly guarded.

  We knew from that creature we tortured that there were more than forty adult snake-men, all with gnostic powers and some intellect. They’ve eluded the Inquisition for twenty years or more, yet you treated them like mindless savages. You’re a fool, Vordan. What happened was your fault.

  The funeral rite ended with the bloodied bones of the three dead magi ablaze. Adamus Crozier swung around to face them and thrust a stiff finger at Commandant Vordan. ‘By the power vested in me by the Church of Kore, I name you, Lanfyr Vordan, unfit for command. You have lost four of your Fist, and two auxiliary magi. You have failed in the mission set you by the Holy Church. I arrest you in the name of Corineus, and bind you over to the Courts of Piety in Pallas.’

  Vordan’s already ashen face drained of all remaining colour. The Courts of Piety had the power to utterly destroy a family, even if one person had transgressed, and they rarely showed clemency. The Vordan family would be utterly impoverished and forever dishonoured. Malevorn found his own gut tightening: not from sympathy, but in remembrance that this fate had almost been his own. When his father, Jaes Andevarion, was disgraced in the Noros Revolt, only his suicide had prevented the Courts from taking such retribution on the family.

  ‘My lord Crozier,’ Vordan croaked, ‘this command was yours, not mine.’ A hush filled the glade, as if even the rushing waters below had faded into silence.

  Adamus gripped his crozier and lifted his head contemptuously. ‘We’ve all heard you claim eminence over me in the field, Commandant. Mine the guidance, yours the command
: you’ve said so in hearing of us all. You cannot hide behind another, and it shames you to try.’

  Vordan looked about him: at Elath Dranid, his friend and champion for twenty years. Dranid showed no emotion. His eyes went to his lover Raine, who slowly and deliberately stroked Malevorn’s arm. Any hope the Commandant still might have harboured winked out.

  Adamus spoke again. ‘Lanfyr Vordan, I discharge you from command, and appoint Elath Dranid in your place.’

  Malevorn hid his disappointment. Dranid was always going to be appointed; he had the seniority. Any other outcome was unrealistic. My time will come …

  Vordan’s eyes glassed over as Adamus ripped the badge of command from his tunic and handed it to Dranid.

  The new Commandant kissed the Crozier’s ring, then growled, ‘Fist, to me,’ as he came to his feet. He lifted his fist to his breast, and thumped it once. ‘Farewell your former Commandant.’

  The Acolytes made the salute as Vordan drew his sword, kissed the hilt, then held it out for Dranid. The former Second took the Commandant’s blade, kissed it also, and replaced his own blade, which he sent spinning over the edge of the cliffs into the maelstrom below.

  As Vordan drew his personal dagger, his family blade, Adamus Crozier stretched out his hand for the weapon. Malevorn held his breath. This was Vordan’s last chance to redeem himself – to save his family from the powers of the Courts by taking the same path as Jaes Andevarion.

  Death or dishonour.

  Vordan reversed the blade and rammed it into his own heart.

  Raine sucked in her breath, her eyes eager as her lover swayed, blood blooming around the blade’s hilt. Dominic gasped girlishly. Virgina and Dranid remained stony-faced. So did Malevorn, though the moment had been oddly chilling.

  This is how powerful men lose.

  Adamus Crozier smiled as the iron-faced Commandant crumpled at his feet. He bent and made a gesture that only a mage would recognise, burning away Vordan’s soul so that there was nothing left to pass on to Kore’s hands. There would be neither Paradise nor Hel for Lanfyr Vordan.