Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  Can I . . .?

  And then it was gone and he sagged backwards on the furs, groaning in despair.

  When next Valdyr woke, there was light glimmering through the tent flaps and something rich and meaty was roasting. Flat, alien faces framed by braided white hair peered down at him. Thoughts were oozing sluggishly through his mind, unable to connect to each other; his only constant was Kyrik beside him, watching him with a wondering expression.

  He drifted back into a reverie, wandering lost in a forest of thoughts until he found a clearing: there was a bowl in his hand, filled with steaming meat and gravy, a mounded roll of hot bread slowly soaking into it. Only when he took a mouthful and chewed, almost weeping at the taste that filled his senses, did he realise he was awake. Then he saw a cup of ale and swept it up, swallowed it fervently and savoured the dark, heavy brew, as filling as a meal in itself.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

  Valdyr turned and found that Kyrik was sitting propped up, also eating, and watching him intently. ‘I’ve not had a good Mollach beer in . . . how long? I’d steal sips from Father’s cup, that last year before we marched. So much better than the legion muck . . .’

  Valdyr’s eyes stung at the memory. ‘So did it work? Do you have your gnosis back?’

  ‘Ysh.’ Kyrik kindled a spark of fire on his fingertips in satisfaction. ‘You?’

  ‘I felt like I touched it.’ Valdyr grimaced in frustration. ‘I know it’s there, but I can’t reach it – I was under a Chain-rune before I ever gained it so I have no idea what it even feels like.’ He slapped the ground in frustration.

  ‘Give it time,’ Kyrik advised.

  ‘We don’t have time! These men expect something of us, Kyrik, and they expect it now—’

  ‘No, Brother, Dragan understands. He’s a patient man, and he’ll make sure his men understand too.’

  Understand that I’m useless, Valdyr thought morosely. He peered outside and saw daylight. ‘How long did I sleep?’

  ‘It’s the next day, nothing more. Iztven and Ghili are outside.’

  ‘They’re the Sydians?’

  ‘Ysh. I spoke to them earlier. They’re old Sfera magi, past breeding, so they got the tribe’s permission to leave to investigate the legend of a Sydian hero named Zillitiya. They’re on what they call a dream-quest, following his footsteps as best they can.’

  ‘Zillitiya?’ Valdyr scratched his chin, remembering what the Vlpa had said. ‘Like Zlateyr?’ He sniffed. ‘They’ve heard our tales and stolen them. But it’s good they broke the Chain-rune, eh? Good for you, anyway.’ Please, Lord Kore, give me your gift – give me the gnosis!

  *

  Kyrik looked around at his companions, sitting cross-legged on hide cushions in Dragan’s tent: Valdyr, Dragan, Tibor and he had been joined by red-whiskered Nilasz and Rothgar Baredge, a hunter of the Stonefolk, the original Yothic people of the valley. There were still families in the highlands who’d never intermarried with Zlateyr’s people.

  Although the brothers were still mending, the Chain-rune had been broken a week back and spring was coming. It was time to make plans.

  ‘So, Dragan, tell me everything,’ Kyrik said, gesturing at the map spread before them.

  ‘The Rondians brought two legions,’ Dragan replied. ‘Ten thousand men, with thirty battle-magi. One legion is Delestre men; the other is Imperial, put up by Ansel Inoxion, the Governor of Midrea. He and Robear Delestre are thick as thieves – and that is no metaphor: they’ve been robbing us blind. Inoxion is supposed to deal justice, but he’s made it clear that Robear can do what he likes.’

  ‘Inoxion is exploiting the Delestres,’ Kyrik pointed out. ‘In the dungeon, when they were negotiating to kill Valdyr and me, he was wringing concessions out of them.’

  ‘Ysh,’ Valdyr added, ‘that prick was bargaining away our lives and they were kissing his arse – well, Robear, anyway. Sacrista wanted to slice his danglies off.’

  ‘Perhaps we can exploit that,’ Dragan said thoughtfully. ‘The two legions don’t mix at all: the Imperials are stationed in the western lowlands, near Lapisz, but they do nothing – it’s the Delestre men who patrol and guard all the supply trains. They’re spread all over too, not just in Hegikaro: Ujtabor on the road to the eastern silver mines, and even Rejezust, south of the river. They’ve also got most of the villages covered – they’re spread pretty thin.’

  ‘But there are barely a hundred thousand people in the valley,’ Tibor noted.

  Dragan agreed. ‘That’s true, and conventional wisdom is that only a tenth of the population can fight effectively; the rest are women and children, or too old. Mollachia’s always been different, though; life is hard here and most adults can use a bow or spear effectively – but that’s not the same thing as holding off a fully armoured legionary, let alone battle-magi.’ He emptied his mug of beer and concluded, ‘It won’t be easy.’

  ‘We’re going to need help,’ Kyrik said.

  ‘Who’d help us?’ Tibor asked. ‘The Midreans won’t, and no one else is close.’

  ‘Some of my folk have Schlessen kin,’ Rothgar Baredge suggested.

  ‘Ni,’ Nilasz replied, ‘we’re not having Bullheads here. Those basznici would never leave.’

  ‘What are you calling my kin?’ Rothgar drawled.

  ‘Big hairy fuckers,’ Nilasz replied truculently.

  Kyrik waited for knives to come out, but Rothgar just grinned. ‘Bigger, hairier fuckers than you, Ginger-balls.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. We don’t want ’em around.’ They both laughed.

  ‘You two done playing?’ Dragan asked. ‘So, no Midreans, no Schlessen . . . what do you have in mind, Kyrik?’

  ‘When Valdyr and I came west, we stopped with a clan of the Uffrykai – the Vlpa. They believe that they’re our kin – through Zlateyr.’ Kyrik noticed Valdyr looking away as the others stared at him in surprise, but he pressed on. ‘They call him Zillitiya. Haven’t you talked to Iztven and Ghili? Good Mollach names for Sydians, by the way. They’re on a dream-quest to find Zillitiya’s grave and they ended up here.’

  ‘Are you saying Zlateyr was Sydian?’ Dragan sounded disbelieving.

  ‘No – I’m saying we can use their belief. If you’d like ten thousand archers to come to the aid of “Zillitiya’s People” – well, perhaps it can be arranged? Iztven came here by journeying through the Bunavian Gap, then climbing into our lands along what he called the Sunrise Path.’

  Dragan, Tibor, Nilasz and Rothgar exchanged interested looks. ‘I know it,’ Rothgar replied. ‘A few years ago we found Schlessen hunters on the far side of Lake Jegto. They abandoned their hunt and never came back, but we tracked their route: a high trail from near the eastern tip of Lake Jegto, running due east.’

  Kyrik tapped the map. ‘If two old magi can cross it, then Sydian warriors certainly can. We could bring them into the valley without the Rondians knowing: unleash them at the right time and we could win this. They even have their own magi – Sfera, like Iztven and Ghili.’

  ‘You really think they’ll help us?’ Rothgar wondered. ‘Or will they turn into as big a problem as the Rondians?’

  ‘They’re plainsmen,’ Kyrik answered. ‘They won’t want to stay. But they’re interested in silver, so we may be able to pay them for their aid.’ He looked around the circle, his gaze lingering on Valdyr. ‘Anyone got any other suggestions?’

  *

  ‘So,’ Kyrik said, ‘I came to say goodbye . . . for now.’

  Valdyr was staring out over frozen Jegto. The bleak, chilly view mirrored his mood. He grunted, ‘I don’t like farewells, Brother, I told you that. Just go.’

  Kyrik wanted to talk though. He produced a forced grin and a pottery bottle. ‘Palinka! It’s from Dragan’s people in Lapisz. It’s very good. Try some.’

  Kyrik always wants to talk. Silence is better. ‘Sure. Leave me plenty: Tibor’s threatening to teach me the sword and I’ll need it to numb the pain.’

  ‘
You will.’ Kyrik poured two tiny cups of the clear plum brandy, the drink Mollachs had been making for centuries, and they toasted awkwardly. ‘Have you tasted this before, Val?’

  ‘Of course! You were away at the Arcanum in Augenheim, and I stole a bottle. Six of us – I think Tomasz was the eldest; he was eleven – drank the whole lot. We were dousing the walls with vomit afterwards. When Father came home from the hunt, he thrashed us all.’

  ‘Father was a hard man,’ Kyrik recalled, ‘but you couldn’t fool him for a moment. Well, except those bastard Rondian money-lenders . . . he didn’t see through them.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘I’ll bring back warriors so we have a fighting chance.’

  ‘Sydian warriors – heathen barbarians. I don’t like this.’

  ‘You said nothing at the meeting.’

  ‘You’re our rightful Lord, Kyrik; I’m “little brother”. It’s not my place.’

  ‘We had a free discussion, an open meeting—’

  ‘I’ll not undermine you in front of Dragan!’

  Kyrik let out a low breath. ‘So you think I’m wrong.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know.’ Valdyr put his head in his hands. ‘Life is never simple.’

  ‘Ysh,’ Kyrik agreed wearily, ‘especially with family. Paruq used to say, “Blood never runs clear.”’ He filled their cups again. ‘And by that, Paruq meant the family of humanity. He said we’re all kin.’

  ‘When I was in the slave-gangs there was a centurion named Nalamead,’ Valdyr replied. ‘He used to show us the creatures around us – the vultures and the jackals; the desert foxes and cats; the goats and sand-deer; the birds and insects and snakes. He would point out how they each hunted and preyed upon the other. “That is us,” he would say. “That is Man. We struggle, species against species, for the right to survive. Above honour and morality, the ultimate quest is for survival. That’s what the Crusades were about, nothing else. There is the dark and the light: Kore is the light.” Well, that’s what Nalamead believed.’

  Kyrik looked disgusted. ‘He sounds like a bigot of the worst kind. That sort of thinking just begets more misery. This world is immense: there’s room enough for everyone to live well, if only the greedy didn’t steal the lion’s share. Nalamead’s bullshit is just an attempt to justify banditry.’

  ‘Nalamead told us the world is a battleground, Kore against Shaitan, the proving place for the final battle. Those who ascend to Paradise become angels in the Army of Light; the rest are fodder for diabolos. That’s what life is: that struggle. At least I know which Army I strive for.’

  Kyrik sighed. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘What you mean is that you don’t know how to argue against Truth.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean! If Paruq were here, he would show you the error in your thinking so much better than I ever could—’

  ‘Well, I’m glad he’s not, nor any of his Amteh scum.’

  ‘You can’t survive on hate, Brother. There are good men among the Amteh.’

  And there was also Asiv, Valdyr thought, shuddering.

  Kyrik fell silent, then tossed back another measure of palinka. ‘We can’t afford to be in conflict, Valdyr.’

  ‘Then don’t speak of these things. We have the Delestres to fight. If the Sydians want to help us, promise them everything and give them nothing: it’s what Father would have done.’

  ‘I know – but I’ve always wanted to be better than that old bastard.’

  Valdyr stood. ‘You need to leave, Kyrik. You’ve a long way to go.’

  16

  Son of Zillitiya

  The Sydian Missions

  The tribes of Sydia are benighted by ignorance, savagery and superstition, Great Sultan. They are crying out for the word of Ahm.

  ALI BEYRAMI, MAULA OF SAGOSTABAD, 924

  Lake Jegto, Mollachia, Yuros

  Aprafor 935

  ‘Again,’ Tibor Siravhy said crisply. ‘And keep your temper in check, my Prince.’

  Valdyr Sarkany flexed his throbbing, leaden sword-arm and took his stance once more. The watching men exchanged comments, carefully out of his hearing. His breath was coming in great steaming rushes, billowing clouds in the chill air. Valdyr was taller and more strongly built than the lean Vitezai, but it still wasn’t a fair fight. He’d been nine when he rode to war and even in the legion, they’d only given him a dagger. The sword in his hand now was the first he’d ever wielded; the simplest feints caught him out and the drills left his whole body screaming.

  Kyrik had left a week ago; Jegto was beginning to thaw. The ice was steely-grey, reflecting the skies, and snow still encased the surrounding mountains. It was hard work, sparring on the lakeshore, but the two men flew into another bout – and yet again, Valdyr lost his self-control in the face of defeat. A right-left combination dragged his wooden blade out of line, and although Tibor declined to strike at his opened flank, Valdyr knew, and that was enough.

  ‘Hah!’ he shrieked, leaping in and thrashing about.

  ‘Stop!’ Tibor snapped. His blade stung Valdyr’s wrist, numbing his grip, and his sword went spinning away.

  ‘Basznici!’ Valdyr bellowed. He dropped to his haunches, sweating and sore and angry with himself.

  ‘Let’s take a break,’ Tibor offered, before striding away.

  Valdyr could hardly blame the man – Tibor was a perfectionist who mastered his emotions at all times, while he’d always had a short temper. His playmates had feared him at times, something he’d been ashamed of even while Father proclaimed loudly, ‘He’s got the Draken in him!’ That was Elgren Sarkany through and through.

  He was still brooding when Dragan Zhagy’s shadow fell over him. ‘You need to fight more calmly,’ the Gazda told him.

  ‘Ysh, Dragan,’ Valdyr muttered respectfully, ‘I know that.’

  ‘It’s spring, Little Draken. We must raid while we can. Will you be ready to fight with us?’

  The Rondians weren’t mountainfolk and barely ventured abroad when snow covered the ground, but the thaw was underway and soon their wagons would roll through the valley, taking all the wealth of the harvest and the mines west, to Augenheim, leaving Mollachia to starve.

  And here I am: a mage with no gnosis. A Prince of Mollachia who can’t even use a sword.

  ‘The gnosis will come when it’s ready,’ he said, praying this was so. ‘I’ll train harder, and perhaps that will bring other things too.’ He looked east, to the high passes. ‘How long will it take for Kyrik to return?’

  Dragan grunted. ‘Barring mischance, he should have found the Vlpa Tribe by now. If he can persuade them to help us, it’ll still be weeks before he can return with aid. But we can’t place all our hopes on that. We must still raid, my Prince.’

  Valdyr picked up his practise blade again. ‘Then I’d better let Tibor resume this humiliation.’

  Dragan smiled, looking even more like a shaggy wolf. ‘If it’s any consolation, Tibor humiliates everyone . . . except Rothgar, who’s generously offered to humiliate you as well.’

  The Gazda sauntered away and Valdyr looked around for Tibor . . . when a snowball hit him in the back of the head.

  ‘Hey!’ He clutched his head and spun around to see the miscreants: the two old Sydians, Iztven and Ghili, sitting like mounds of debris some twenty yards away. The old man was cackling toothlessly at him while the woman was rolling another ball.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Valdyr demanded.

  The crone snickered, then suddenly the ball in her hand flew, whizzing towards his face – though she’d not moved her arm at all. He threw up his hands and the snowball – more ice than snow and quite hard – smashed into his forearm. ‘Ouch!’ He glared at the pair indignantly, picked up the same ball and hurled it back.

  It burst in a blue flash a few feet from them, obviously against gnostic shields, and he felt his skin chill. They were Sfera, of course, able to wield the gifts he’d failed to master. Then he suddenly understood what they were trying to do, and when the n
ext snowballs flew, instead of dodging them he tried to believe a gesture – and the pulse of kinetic-gnosis it was meant to trigger – could stop a thrown missile.

  Both snowballs hammered into his chest and burst apart. Then more came, more and more, until he screamed, ‘Enough!’ and sank to the ground. His body or soul or whatever just would not respond – nothing was coming, no spark, no extended perception, none of the sensations Kyrik had described. Nothing.

  The two oldies creaked their way to their feet and shuffled towards him, faces serious, even sympathetic. He barely understood their thick accents: ‘E ni . . . you no good.’

  Ysh, I’m no damned good.

  ‘Must feel,’ the old woman added. ‘Feel blow come, then shield.’ She slapped his right temple. ‘Feel!’

  ‘There’s nothing to feel with,’ he shouted, ‘nothing!’

  *

  Days passed in a numbing routine of muscle-straining blade-work. At least Valdyr was able to do that; after all, he’d spent more than half his life as a slave in the East. Swordplay required strength and endurance as well as skill: he had the physical attributes, and the rest was coming. Soon he was sparring with the others and making progress, and that helped him control the rage that was always simmering inside him. Before long he could fall for a new trick without his temper snapping.

  Iztven and Ghili didn’t come near him again, and he felt both guilty and relieved; his shame at not being able to reach powers that should come naturally made him glad to avoid them. But Dragan and his men had believed they were rescuing a mage-prince, a leader who could shield them from enemy magic and defeat Arcanum-trained Rondian magi.

  Without the gnosis, I have no right to lead.

  He scarcely noticed the changes to the skies or the slow release of winter’s grip.

  Then Dragan, returned from a long trip, watched him drill, and when he was done, he called him aside. ‘Prince Valdyr, I greet you,’ he said, tapping his right fist to his heart.