Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides
Page 65
—and making contact at last. Her hand touched Hesta’s wrist, her fingers locked around it and with one powerful jerk she snatched the other woman into her arms. Hesta screamed, a long, despairing wail, as Mara’s mouth opened wide, and then, impossibly, even wider.
The screams were cut off abruptly, and Francis tore his eyes away.
For a few seconds all he could hear was the sound of a beast, gorging. He ran from his corner to the balcony and tried to shut off the opening with a gnosis-wall. He cowered there, shaking and mewling for mercy, fearing for his own life, for surely he must be next on the beast-woman’s menu.
At last he heard feet pounding along the corridors and voices crying out – was that Terus Grandienne, shouting his name? Francis had never thought to be relieved to hear that man’s voice, but now he shrieked out for help, even as that immense, ghastly woman reared up on the other side of his magical wall. Her face was a leering, half-human thing of teeth and blood; her bloodlust was up, her hunger barely sated. For a moment she pawed at his wards, then she turned back into the room as Grandienne burst inside. She loomed over the knight before Francis could work out who to warn.
32
A Storm in the Desert
Thaumaturgy: Air
Is there a magic that the merchants love more than Air-gnosis? When it lets them rob whole new continents of people? Only when lead may be transmuted to gold will the traders be made happier!
SENATOR JOSS DE MOLLE, BRES 894
‘They are Djinn of the Air!’
SHEIK MALIK AL’HEBB TO GODSPEAKER FAISAL, FIRST
CRUSADE, ON SEEING THE IMPERIAL FLEET OVER HEBUSALIM
Shaliyah, Kesh, Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6th month of the Moontide
It was dawn, and the whole of Duke Echor’s army was alive with activity. From the Estella cavalry in the north to the Thirteenth, perched below a promontory in the south, in a the dried-up riverbed. Every man was sharpening his weapons, packing up his possessions, hauling provisions, shouting instructions, and waiting. There was that tang – the stench of fear, no matter how invincible the men felt themselves to be – as the army readied itself for battle. Men would face themselves today, and would learn what they were: killers, or cowards – or something better than either.
Legate Jonti Duprey strode through the milling tribunes and jabbed a finger at Ramon. ‘Sensini, what is this?’ Severine was with him, as his liaison, and she was pulling all kinds of warning faces, but she did not dare to mentally communicate with Ramon, not with the legate standing right next to her.
Ramon composed his face. ‘What is what, sir?’
‘This!’ Duprey pulled him aside, waved his tribunes away, including a worried-looking Storn, and thrust a piece of paper into Ramon’s face. ‘Why have I been given a promissory note with your name on it?’
Ah. Okay, bound to happen sooner or later. Ramon straightened up and put on his most confident mask. ‘Sir, the tribunes and I have devised a promissory system for the march so that valuable bullion is not constantly being circulated. It keeps the risks of banditry and corruption down, sir.’
‘Or at least centralises it,’ Duprey growled. ‘One of the legates used this note to settle a gambling debt.’
Ramon blinked. He’d never thought the notes would have currency outside the traders. Oh well, in for a fennick …
‘Sir, the notes are essentially just a convenient means to facilitate the movement of money. To us. The legions have used them for years.’
They haven’t, but Duprey wouldn’t know that … would he?
Duprey studied him. ‘Have they really, Sensini? And yet Nyvus believes this to be most irregular.’
Ramon threw a glance at the dapper little aide and contemplated assassination.
Duprey exhaled heavily. ‘I’m going to have to report …’ His voice trailed away. He cocked his head, looking puzzled, and said, ‘To us, you say? Who exactly is “us”?’
Got you. ‘That’s exactly the right question, sir! Since Sagostabad, the Tenth Maniple of the Thirteenth has essentially become the banking and distribution centre for the southern army.’ He put on a modest, not-quite-innocent smile. ‘We charge only a nominal fee, to cover expenses.’
Duprey cast a wary glance about him to ensure they weren’t in danger of being overheard and moved closer. ‘A fee?’
Behind him, Nyvus was visibly straining to hear. Over Duprey’s shoulder, Severine was glaring at Ramon.
I guess I should have told her before now.
‘Sir, we charge one per cent on each transaction,’ he lied glibly. He’d got his story sorted to cover this eventuality long ago. ‘The fee has of course been going into the coffers of the Thirteenth. Sir, you – er, I mean, the legion, of course – now has eleven thousand gilden in your war-chest.’
Duprey’s eyes bulged. ‘Eleven thousand?’ he said weakly.
Ramon was puzzled for a moment, until he remembered that eleven thousand gilden used to be an exciting amount of money for him too. Now I’m theoretically worth nearly four hundred thousand …
‘Sir, is there a problem?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ Duprey squeaked eventually. ‘Carry on, Sensini.’ He visibly took several deep breaths. ‘Wait – there’s a storm coming and Prenton isn’t back yet. Take the other skiff and scout the southern quadrant.’
Ramon saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Sensini—’ The thought of all that money had almost turned Duprey’s eyes to coins. ‘Carry on.’
Nyvus, standing behind the legate, heard that. He scowled darkly. Ramon winked at him and saluted his commander. ‘Understood, sir.’
He hurried away, but not before hearing Severine make an excuse and set off after him. He got into the tent just before her, but she grabbed him and when he turned to face her, hissed, ‘Ramon? What the Hel are you doing?’
‘Sevvie, calm down, will you? It’s just a little arrangement I’ve set up with the tribunes—’
‘Hah! Duprey might have backed off, but he’s not stupid, and neither am I. You’re raising a counterfeit currency while you hoard all the gold in your back pocket! You’ll be hanged for this.’
He stared deeply into her eyes and suddenly burst into a great grin. ‘You care.’
She snorted irritably. ‘I’m your lover, rodent. Why haven’t you told me?’
‘“Lover”, as in “love”?’ he asked.
‘Don’t get above yourself. It’s “lover” as in “willing receptacle for your bodily fluids”. Why haven’t you told me?’
‘For your protection.’
‘Like fuck – you’re pocketing all manner of coin and not telling me – after all we’ve done together—’
‘I distinctly recall being told how far beneath you I am – and not just once!’
She pouted, then abruptly turned on the charm. ‘You know I don’t mean that, darling. You know I care for you. Truly.’ She stroked his chest. ‘So how much have you got stashed away, dearest?’
‘“Dearest”?’
‘As in “most expensive”.’ She nuzzled his face. ‘How much?’
He shrugged. ‘The abacus doesn’t count high enough.’
Her eyes bulged. ‘You’re incredible.’
‘As in “has no credibility”?’
She smiled artfully. ‘You know I do care, Ramon.’
‘You’re a Tiseme. I don’t even exist.’
‘Shhh – that’s just not true, Ramon. I like you, you know that. You stood by me against the Inquisitors, and you’ve made this whole nightmare just about bearable. You make me laugh, and you make me come. And now you’ve got money. Doesn’t that feel like destiny to you?’
‘Cow.’ He snatched up his flying leathers and stomped out of the tent.
‘Ha! You care as much as I do!’ she shouted after him, while the entire legion stared.
‘Yeah?’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘I have no idea how much that is. Do you? Maybe you can calcula
te how much on an abacus!’
*
The wind whipped Ramon’s hair as he flew through the upper reaches of a fogbank that had stubbornly refused to dissipate as the morning wore on. He barely noticed; all he could think of was Severine. His feelings had been growing by degrees for weeks now, but every time it began to feel real, as if they were truly in love, something happened to destroy the illusion, and he had no idea what was true or not.
She’s using me. All she wants is a pregnancy and some money and that’s the extent of her feelings, he told himself – but was that all?
Half the time they were battling it out as if they were punishing each other for being the wrong race, the wrong religion, the wrong class. Sometimes he’d go out of his way to upset her, just to prove how different they were. But other times, when they were lying curled around each other in the aftermath, their sweat drying on each other’s skin, being together was bliss.
We’ll take this damned city and I’ll find somewhere comfortable for her, slip her some coin before I run away. Her visions have stopped. There’s not going to be a battle. She’ll be fine.
Shaliyah lay to the north of him, a pile of white stone shimmering in the sunshine, but beyond it, the storm clouds were gathering, growing darker by the minute. Thunder rumbled overhead.
Other Rondian skiffs were flitting above the city, and he could dimly make out the mental calls of the pilots, marvelling at the architecture below them. But the fog was getting thicker around him and low clouds were drifting into his path, and it wasn’t long before he realised he’d lost sight of the city and the army and everything else. Normally just being up in the sky soothed away all his worries, but today he just kept refighting his argument with Severine, only this time working in his best insults.
It didn’t make him feel any better.
Occasional gaps in the clouds revealed glimpses of the dirty brown ground, rock-strewn wastes interspersed with areas that were pure sand. Despite the fog, heat radiated in the air.
He wiped at his face, then started as a dark shape skittered through the mist away to his left. As it dipped towards him, he realised it was another skiff.
There was no reply from the newcomer. He peered at the other craft as it circled closer; it had a rakish look, and a triangular sail, which was unusual. The pilot was wrapped in dun-coloured desert robes, with only a slit revealing dark eyes. He thought the pilot-mage might be female.
The other pilot started visibly, then waved at him tentatively. She was definitely female. He pulled his craft into a parallel trajectory to hers and edged closer, until they were only a few yards apart, skimming the top of the fogbank.
‘Hey,’ he shouted out. ‘Which legion are you from?’
She looked him up and down, then glanced up, and he followed her gaze to see two more windskiffs closing in on them from the south, the direction of the city. They both had that same triangular sail, and he wondered if it made them faster.
He gave a thumbs-up to show he’d seen them, then looked down as a momentary gap in the fog revealed an expanse of desert floor—
—which was crawling with men: white-robed, steel-clad men, rank upon rank, marching in serried columns barely fifty feet beneath them.
They were heading towards the southern end of the Rondian lines.
Shit! Salim’s got a whole rukking army out here! He swore violently and gestured wildly at the other pilot-mage to make sure he had her attention.
She met his eyes, raised her hand as if to confirm—
—and blazed a mage-bolt at him.
*
Rashid Mubarak stood with Salim III, Sultan of Kesh, in the high turret of the gatehouse of Shaliyah, staring out across the narrow plain, which was fast filling up with ranks of Rondian soldiers. The heathen had never come so far east before, right into the very heartland of Kesh. But this was no accident. Whenever the Keshi had given battle before, it had been an act of desperation, little more than throwing men into the path of the invader, and it had been like piling kindling on a fire.
This time, the strategy was different. This time, they had deliberately lured the enemy to their doorstep.
‘They have come, as you predicted,’ Salim noted. ‘Our gamble takes shape.’
Salim was tall, and in his mid-twenties. He was a soft-spoken, cultured man, a man of principles, but capable of swift and ruthless action. He was not a mage, of course, but he was nonetheless formidable: his body had been trained for battle and his mind to resist mental assault – though if he did come under direct attack, the day was probably already lost, for Salim’s value was in his intellect, and the love all his men had for him.
Rashid had never lacked ambition, but he knew full well that becoming Emir of Halli’kut was the highest station to which he could realistically aspire without becoming a tyrant. Though he was a three-quarter-blood mage, he knew he would not last a day should he try and usurp Salim’s throne; his own people would cut him down before Salim’s even reached him.
He had realised this at an early stage in his career and curbed his ambitions accordingly. He served Salim, wholeheartedly, and unto death. To be finally free of the Ordo Costruo and able to do so openly was a gift in itself.
‘We are ready, Great Sultan.’
‘This is Shaliyah,’ Salim reminded him. ‘After Hebusalim, Shaliyah is the holiest of holies, the refuge of our people. This is where the Prophet first began to teach. Failure is not an option.’
Rashid gestured towards the Rondian lines. ‘They have taken our bait. The city is ready. We have enough food and water stored to last three summers. We have enough arrows to slay them all twenty times over.’
‘Lack of arrows and provender has never been the problem in the past,’ Salim reminded him. ‘It is the lack of the gnosis.’
Rashid bowed again. ‘I am here, and all of my Ordo Costruo. All of those we have bred who are old enough to serve are here also. Each and every one stands ready to give their lives, Great Sultan.’ Rashid studied his overlord. Was he truly ready to dare the unthinkable and take on the Rondian army head-on?
‘Our scouts report that Duke Echor has sixteen legions: eighty thousand men with two hundred and forty magi. Can we defeat so many?’
‘My lord, we have thrice their number, and a horde of Ingashir, and even Lakh elephant-borne warriors. They are all attacking from inside the storm itself. We almost match them, mage to mage. It has to be enough.’
‘They say you must outnumber them five to one,’ Salim replied steadily.
‘If you have no magi, lord. Many of ours may be weaker in blood, less well-trained, but they will keep the Rondian magi busy. Trust in the storm my Ordo Costruo have conjured; such workings, once begun, cannot be stopped. It will be devastating.’ Rashid hesitated. ‘And we have our allies, Great Sultan.’
Salim studied the emir in return. ‘These – what did you call them? – these “Dokken”. These “Rakas”. We can trust them?’
Rashid was slow to respond, but eventually he said honestly, ‘The Dokken have been the secret enemy of the magi since the gnosis was gained – and that includes our own magi. Sabele would as soon destroy me as any Rondian mage. They may aid us now, for this shihad, but eventually they will turn on us. Eventually they will have to be dealt with.’
‘I would like to meet this Sabele.’
‘She is away in the north on some errand, Great Sultan, but her warleader is here. Arkanus is of Yuros, as most of them are, but he has been living in secret in Mirobez for many years. He has brought more of his Rakas here than I ever knew existed. There are hundreds.’ Rashid couldn’t keep the worry from his voice when he admitted, ‘Some may be more powerful than I.’
Salim looked at him and smiled. He placed a hand on Rashid’s shoulder. ‘You have my
trust, my friend. You know that. You will find a way to contain them. This will be our greatest victory.’
Rashid bowed low. ‘We will not let you down, Great Sultan.’
Salim looked out over the plains, at the distant lines of the enemy. ‘We have brought Echor here. It is a gamble, but that is the nature of war.’
Rashid’s mind went back over a year, to that dimly lit room in Pallas, when his enemies had agreed to place a third of their own forces beneath his blade. He could still scarcely believe that Emperor Constant – or more particularly, Mater-Imperia Lucia – could be so ruthless. He shuddered a little as he recalled the callous way she’d asked, ‘Emir Rashid, if we give you Duke Echor and all his men, can your people destroy him?’
And now we are about to find out.
‘This is our hour, Great Sultan,’ he said confidently.
‘Then let us unleash our fury.’
*
The gnostic attack took Ramon utterly by surprise, and only the training imbedded into him at Turm Zauberin saved his life. As the brilliant energies crashed into him, his shields rose instinctively and repelled the worst of the blow, though it still scorched clothing and skin and seared his vision. For a few seconds he found himself dazed, and the windskiff faltered and started drifting aimlessly, only the gnosis already imbued in its prow keeping it from tumbling towards the earth.
He shook himself, tried to rattle his brain back to awareness, and poured more energy into the little vessel. It started to rise, but still he could see nothing through the shifting fogbank.
Another bolt hammered into his back, but this time he was ready and easily repulsed it. The women pilot-mage shouted aloud, and this time he recognised the language.
Sol a mio, she’s Keshi! His mind reeled at the sheer impossibility of it all: They’ve got magi! They’ve got the gnosis!