by David Hair
Cym could only just make out his words as he bent his great head to Huriya’s ear. ‘The Inquisitors came here seeking an artefact – you have Sabele’s memories; you will know the Scytale of Corineus.’
Huriya’s eyes went round as saucers. ‘You’re sure?’
Zaqri’s hand gripped Cym’s chin. ‘This girl has held it in her hands.’
Cym’s heart sank as she looked from Huriya to Zaqri. The Keshi girl was unnerving, with her aura that was both ancient and corrupt. But Zaqri frightened her more. Her mind went back to something she’d said to Alaron recently, an articulation of all her girlish longings: ‘I want someone who walks like a king and shines like Sol. I want someone with poetry on his lips and majesty in his voice. I don’t know if I will ever meet him, but when I do, I’ll know. There won’t be any doubts or questions. I’ll just know.’
And I do know, for he is Zaqri.
But he killed my mother. So I must do the same to him.
Under her breath, she whispered the sacred oath of vendetta.
*
The Fist – what was left of it – knelt in a prayer-circle on the foredeck as the windship crawled east on a cold breeze, heading towards the distant cliffs. There were more ghosts than survivors now, and even Elath Dranid’s usually stolid face was haunted by failure and loss. He had been so certain in battle; now he looked lost. The three other survivors wore that same look of oppression, of defeat and disgrace on their faces.
Malevorn glared down at his signet, feeling the weight of his family’s need weighing on his shoulders. As a child he’d been the one to find his father’s body; now that memory blurred with Vordan’s last moments.
If we do not succeed, we will be joining them both in Hel.
That he was even here himself was a minor miracle. Realising he was trapped on the lowest level of the stone pillar, he’d had to clamber out, using Earth-gnosis to ascend the treacherous slope. He’d hailed the remnants of the Fist and they’d only just managed to extricate him before the winds shoved the hulk of the Magol out over the seas. But there was little comfort in rescue, and little brotherhood between the survivors gathered about him. Dranid had retreated into himself; he was clearly inadequate for the challenges of leadership, despite his martial prowess. Dominic had never seemed so much like a bleating lamb. Only Raine’s simmering fury reassured him. He knew how she felt; she, like him, would visit a world of pain on those who’d thwarted them. He didn’t care what it took, but Alaron Mercer and that mudskin with him were going to suffer.
We’ve had our arses thrashed by Souldrinkers. We let Alaron-Kore-be-damned-Mercer escape us with the greatest prize on Urte. There will be a reckoning.
They had jury-rigged a sail to the stump of one of the Magol’s masts. Dominic’s only notable contribution so far to this whole damned trip had been to start the masts regrowing, using his otherwise useless sylvan-gnosis. Nonetheless, they still were crawling landwards at a walking pace. Of the two dozen men-at-arms they’d taken into the fray they had only half a dozen left, and only one pilot-mage. All the venators were dead too. Malevorn Andevarion’s fury was barely containable.
Faces swam before him: Vordan, dead by his own hand. Brothers Alain and Jonas, both cut down by Jeris Muhren. Seldon and Filius, butchered by constructs. Boron Funt, brought in to scry a college-mate and slaughtered by those same creatures. And porcelain-faced Virgina, skewered on a broken mast. Had Mercer done that, or had it been the mudskin girl? She’d hurled him backwards like a toy, he knew that, and he’d have her guts for it. But who was she?
Adamus Crozier joined them. He stood beside them and laid his hands on Malevorn’s and Dranid’s shoulders. ‘My brothers and sister in Kore, we have been punished – not by our enemies, but by Kore Himself. We have been weak, and we have strayed from purity. Spiritual weakness has led to martial weakness. No more. We have a clear goal before us: the capture of this thief Alaron Mercer, who has betrayed the empire and thrown in his lot with Rimoni and mudskin scum. We are going to find him and we are going to make him sorry he was ever born.’
Kore, let it be so.
‘Now listen. You all know we hunt the Scytale of Corineus itself. You know what it does, and what it could mean: a rival Ascendancy; leading to the destruction of all we hold holy and pure. We have no choice: we must not stop until we have regained it.’
Mount Tigrat, Javon, Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6th month of the Moontide
Elena set the sails of the skiff so they were poised to unfurl as soon as they’d risen high enough to catch the wind. Kazim stood in the bow, surrounded by their possessions – some clothing, their bedrolls, all their stores, weapons and armour.
She met his eye.
Time to go.
They could not stay here on Tigrat, of course: the monastery was compromised – and she just wanted to be away from the place. No matter; she had another refuge in mind. Shepherds kept huts on the high summer slopes; they went deserted through winter and she knew of one less than a day’s flight from here. They’d laboured throughout the rest of the night, gathering everything they would need and piling it into the skiff. Staying busy helped to keep the horrors at bay too – and kept her from crawling back to the sanctuary of Kazim’s strong arms and hiding there forever. It was his very solidity that gave her the courage to go on – but it also reinforced their growing mutual dependency.
Kore help me, I want him. But it shouldn’t be now. Not so soon after … all this blood.
How they’d not fallen into each other in the aftermath of the battle she scarcely knew. Perhaps because of the stink of death that hung in the air here; the miasma of destruction. But the bond between them was as palpable as the winds that whistled through the old ruins.
‘Where are we going?’ he called.
‘I’ve another hideaway set up northeast of here,’ she called. ‘It’s not far – or so nice, I’m sorry.’
‘Why are we flying in daylight?’
She held up two fingers. ‘One: the Hadishah might come back sooner than we expect. Two: we’ll be flying through the hills in winter; there’ll be no one around to see us.’
‘What will we do next?’
Her mood became grim. ‘We’re going to wage war on the Dorobon. Training is over. It is time for us to join the fray.’
He nodded, accepting her words easily.
He saved my life. He killed his sworn blood-brothers for me. I’m in his debt for ever. Her eyes drank in the rakishly heroic face and the sheer size of him, and reflected that he was still a boy despite his size and power. He was barely twenty-one. She could see the man he might become, though: someone she could come to care for. They’d shared too much, forged bonds neither could now put aside.
Ella, Ella, Ella … you’ve got maybe ten years of relative youth remaining, and then what?
It doesn’t matter, she told that chiding inner voice. Ten years is a long time when you don’t know whether you’ll even survive this rukking war.
That thought didn’t make her sad, though; she’d always felt most alive when everything was up for grabs – even her heart. Especially then.
‘Are you ready?’ she called. ‘Then let’s go!’
*
‘Hold on!’ Kazim shouted, and called the winds. The sails billowed as the hull lifted, and at last they were on their way. He felt his heart lift as the skiff rose under his – his! – power. The Air-gnosis churned from him like blood pumping from a fresh wound. The faces of the colleagues he’d killed last night haunted him, drawn on the backs of his eyelids, although the only regrettable death was Jamil. Gatoz he would have killed a thousand times over, and Haroun … well, the Scriptualist had exchanged his humanity for dogma somewhere along the way. The others he’d barely known, but they had been complicit in Gatoz’s crime. They were not fighting the same shihad that he was; they were nothing more than brute killers and that was all. They would have killed for any cause.
He was differe
nt. He needed an ideal. He needed his personal shihad to be pure.
There was a giddy feel to the day as they uprooted themselves and moved on. They had burned the enemy skiffs, and he was relieved to see Molmar had not been one of the pilots, though they barely knew each other. There was no one left in the world now who cared about what he did. Except Elena. In the end, he’d done it all for her.
When he’d cradled her against him and helped her through the shock of what they’d experienced, he’d desired her more than any other, even Ramita – but they’d been so caked in blood, and he wanted things between them to be pure too.
We will find a place where a mountain stream flows and I’ll wash her clean.
He didn’t know where they would end up, or what they would do when they got there – kill people, probably; Dorobon soldiers, certainly. And people like Gurvon Gyle or Gatoz, as many of them as they could take down.
Faces popped into his head: Ramita, of course, bringing with her a regret and guilt that would never leave him. Jai, her brother, and his, by blood-bond: Where are you, brother? If I could do this clairvoyance thing Ella talks about, maybe I could find you? And Huriya – But do I even want to find you, little sister? He paused, and then thought, But if there’s a way back for me, maybe there is for you, Didi?
He had never been one to dwell on the past. This past year he’d crossed the world to do something terrible, and it had been worse than he’d thought it ever could be. It had been the darkest time of his life – but now he could see a way out: a path to follow, like looking at the trackless wastes and seeing a star. For now, that was more than good enough.
He looked back at Elena. Her face was alight with a glow he’d not seen before. She was still utterly unlike everything he’d ever thought a woman should be, but that didn’t matter any more. For now and for the foreseeable future, they would face the world together. They would find a way to set it to right.
The sky was calling. His shout echoed through the ruins: ‘Let’s fly!’
Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6th month of the Moontide
Francis Dorobon sat on his throne, staring down at the three figures kneeling before him in chains.
Fenys Rhodium, Terus Grandienne and Eternalus Crozier hung their heads.
I’ve got three of the most powerful men in the world on their knees before me. He was exultant.
‘Mercy,’ Magister Rhodium begged.
Francis looked at the fat magus and was reminded only of his mother. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. And the world still turns!
He glanced at his two queens: Portia, a vision of loveliness on his right, and Cera, a dour presence on his left. He decided that he would have them both tonight, right after the banquet, to remind both who was master.
If Gyle wants the Nesti girl, he’ll have to earn her.
Pleased at the thought, he glanced sideways at his Chief Councillor. Gurvon Gyle was resplendent in the purple of an Imperial Envoy, though Francis thought his furtive face looked strange under the bright lights of the court. He was moving awkwardly, the result of the severe beating he’d been given.
‘Are there grounds for mercy, milord Gyle?’ he asked, just to hear the answer out loud.
‘There are none, my King,’ Gyle said solemnly. ‘These men connived to usurp your just rule and to make you into a puppet of their convenience. They have all confessed.’
They had indeed, after being captured with the loss of scores of men, then Chain-runed and tortured until they were ready to confess to anything he desired. None of them could walk now, and their fingerless hands were still dripping blood on the marble floor of the throne-hall. He had had to use Endus Rykjard’s mercenaries to secure their capture, and there were now as many condotiori here as Dorobon legionaries, and more mercenaries were coming up from the south; Gyle had promised there would be enough to properly secure Javon in Francis’ name.
‘Then let there be no mercy,’ Francis shouted. ‘Bring out the executioner!’
This kingdom belongs to me.
Then he remembered Olivia, and turned to her. ‘You don’t need to watch this, dear sister.’
For an instant, Olivia stared back at him, her face blank, as if she wondered why he thought her so squeamish. Then she surprised him by shaking her head. ‘I’ll stay, brother,’ she said, her eyes on Gurvon Gyle, as they had been ever since she had entered the room. Seeing Mother die had doubtless been traumatic for her, but she was showing an inner strength he’d never suspected of her. And the eyes she cast on Gurvon Gyle were full of devotion.
It’s a whole new world for us both.
*
‘Gurvon, my friend.’ Endus Rykjard’s bright teeth shone in the twilight. ‘Imperial purple looks strange upon you.’
Gyle shrugged. ‘I’m adaptable, Endus; surely you know that.’ He struck a pose. About him were gathered his depleted circle: Mara and Rutt, both deadly, and both apparently devoted to him. Pretty little Maddy Parlow, who’d kept Timori safe from Octa’s clutches. Coin was already in place, secure in her newest role. She too looked at him with needy eyes. Perhaps they all just needed someone to channel their talents? All some people ever want is a purpose; they’d sell their souls to the man who gave them one. They were each, in their own way, followers rather than leaders. They needed him to lead, and so they were his.
Rykjard poured wine for each. ‘So, my friend, you are now the most powerful man in Javon. My congratulations.’
‘It is also thanks to you, Endus.’
The mercenary captain shrugged self-deprecatingly. He’d been exceedingly well rewarded for his steadfast treachery. ‘Deliver on your promises, Gurvon. That is all I ask.’
Gyle smiled. ‘What news from the south?’
‘Adi Paavus has left Korion’s army and marches for the Krak, and the other mercenary commanders are deserting and racing to join him. We’ll seal ourselves in Javon, then put the squeeze on little Franny.’
Gyle smiled at that, and they shook hands. ‘To the Kingdom of the Condotiori,’ he said.
Rykjard raised his cup in a toast. ‘I’d drink to that.’
Gyle grinned about his circle of subordinates. ‘My friends, we’re going to ransack this kingdom.’
Shaliyah, Kesh, Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6th month of the Moontide
Ramon Sensini stared through the narrow windows of the ruined fortress. The men of the Pallacios XIII and the remnants of half a dozen other legions huddled all around the courtyard and filled every bit of room in the place; each one of them was wrapped in cloaks and cowls and veiled like the Keshi against the sand-storm that howled amongst the ruins. Those who were trying to sleep did so sitting up.
Ramon had woven an Air-gnosis barrier over the window to allow him to use it, but it was draining him and he knew he’d have to take it down soon. Though it was mid-afternoon, it might as well have been midnight, so dark was it outside. A dirty brown gloom filled the air, clogging his mouth and nostrils, eyes and ears with grit. His eyes were weeping sand and his throat was scraped raw, though that was as much from shouting as the desert storm. But at least there was no chance of an enemy attack right now.
‘Anything?’ Severine asked, her voice hollow.
He shook his head.
‘We got away,’ Renn Bondeau repeated dazedly. ‘I can’t believe it.’
Ramon glanced from the white-faced Palacian to the equally stunned Schlessen. Kip’s face was red-raw from the sand blasting at his fair skin. He shook his head again, this time in disbelief. We got away this time – but for how long?
He looked across at Seth Korion. The general’s son had brought his cavalry in the very nick of time, driving back their pursuers and allowing the Thirteenth to reach this temporary haven. He was now the ranking mage, and that made him by default Legate of the Thirteenth. Not that there was anyone to ratify that promotion, for Severine had been unable to contact any of
Duke Echor’s magi. They had no way of telling whether the army was simply hunkered down beneath the sand-storm, or if it had been swept away, massacred by the unexpected Keshi legions. But the air had that unmistakeable reek of death and disaster.
‘Got away?’ Severine echoed dully. ‘They slaughtered us like sheep. We’re thousands of miles away from the Bridge, and the enemy have magi. We haven’t got away from anything.’
‘My father will save us,’ Seth Korion said, attempting defiance.
Ramon stared at the young man, and found himself unexpectedly filled with pity. Your father probably set this up, he thought – but he couldn’t voice that thought, not when they had so little hope to cling to.
‘Now what?’ Bondeau asked hollowly.
Korion looked helpless, and so did Severine. Even Kip shrugged. They all gazed about the room, and then, strangely, their eyes settled on him: Ramon Sensini, the Silacian guttersnipe. He had never even dared dream such a day might come when people looked to him for answers.
‘What now?’ he answered slowly. ‘Now we have to get home.’
‘But how?’ Korion breathed, as if Ramon might actually have a workable plan.
Ramon rolled his eyes. ‘Lesser Son, you’re going to have to take command. You’re the senior officer.’ He noticed Bondeau open his mouth as if to dispute this, then he closed it. No doubt the Rondian would be trouble at some point, but for now he looked too stunned to argue.
Ramon forced a faint smile. ‘But don’t worry: I’ll do all the thinking. I have a plan.’
He’d thought they might argue, shout him down – but all he had to say was: I have a plan, and that was enough; he was, unofficially, in charge. The details could wait.
There was little said after that. They were all drained and exhausted, and they needed to rest, even if sleep was going to prove impossible with the horrors of the day still fresh in their minds. He found Severine a blanket and covered them both with it as they sat with their backs against the wall. Eventually she stopped shaking. He stroked her cheek and thought how lovely she still managed to look, even begrimed by dust and sweat. ‘Are you all right, amora?’ he whispered.
