by David Hair
‘Is this a war that you are prepared for?’ Naxius asked.
‘Ai, well prepared: the time has come for Ahmedhassa to emulate Yuros and be united beneath a great mage-ruler. It is time for a Gnostic Emperor to rule the East and lead her to her Destiny.’
Ostevan wondered where Ironhelm figured in the list of potential emperors . . . and what he thought the East’s ‘Destiny’ might be. The Kalistham speaks of One Kingdom of Ahm, he recalled. All very interesting, but with the Leviathan Bridge and the Ordo Costruo preventing future Crusades, it’s of little moment to us.
‘And your own next steps?’ Naxius asked the Easterners.
‘To crown our sultan and declare Shihad – holy war – against a single enemy. Internal union is our goal: one Ahmedhassa, united beneath our chosen ruler. We will achieve this in two months. The Shihad will be launched in the last week of Akhira.’
The four Easterners bowed in unison to Naxius.
We argue openly, while they speak with one voice, Ostevan noted, and they see this as a virtue. To him, it was a deep cultural difference between the two peoples. Our divisions and disputes are our strength: we argue and reach compromises; together, we find better ways. They just grovel and resent; the ruler imagines he has unquestioned support right up until the moment he is knifed in the back.
The Master sounded pleased, though. ‘It is heartening to us all to learn of each other’s progress. But be aware, all of you: as I told Brother Jest recently, what we are attempting is akin to an arrow shot at a silhouetted victim. We can see their shape, we have some idea of their vulnerable points – but we do not see their hidden defences. Expect the unexpected: hidden armour and concealed weapons. It is said that no plan survives contact with the enemy, and our plans have only just begun to unfold. You are still only partway through phase one. Go, complete your tasks.’
They all bowed and vanished one by one. Ostevan was last to leave, hoping for some private words with the Master. The Puppeteer turned to him expectantly.
‘Master,’ Ostevan began, ‘I have concerns over some of my colleagues.’
Naxius’ masked face went still. ‘Elaborate,’ he said tersely.
‘I have suspicions over the identities of two of my colleagues, and if I am correct, they have quite divided loyalties concerning Empress Lyra Vereinen.’
‘Whereas your own feelings are clear?’ Naxius enquired, gently ironic.
‘Totally clear,’ Ostevan insisted. ‘On the appointed day, let me be the one who takes her – I’m closest to her.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Yes, Master: she is clay in my hands. And if she really is a dwymancer . . . We mustn’t infect her, but seduce her to our cause—’
‘No, Brother Jest,’ Naxius interjected firmly, ‘I want her enslaved. The goal you claimed when I first brought you into the cabal was the Celestium – leave the young queen to Twoface and Tear. They will bring her to me.’
Ostevan bowed his head sullenly. ‘What if one of them betrays us?’
‘Then Abraxas will destroy them.’
‘But we control the power of Abraxas, don’t we?’ Ostevan asked, suddenly alarmed. Could this gift he’d been given be taken away?
‘You do . . . but do you think that if you act against the will of Abraxas, you will still be able to draw upon His might? I wouldn’t recommend you find out.’ Naxius pulled a wry face. ‘Brother Jest . . . Ostevan . . . don’t be concerned. Your brethren will play their part, or pay the price.’
Ostevan bowed his head. ‘I merely express my worries, Master.’
‘I’m sure,’ Naxius drawled. ‘Ostevan, all of us share a vision of a world ruled by ourselves, untrammelled by conscience and constraints. We will burn the Gnostic Laws and research anything we desire – we will create anything that is possible to be made, so long as it serves us. That is our shared vision, is it not?’
Yes, thought Ostevan, yes, yes, yes!
‘Your fellow conspirators want the same thing, Ostevan – for different reasons, of course, but the vision is the same, as is their hatred of those in power. Because I don’t control you, I need to trust that your vision is my vision. You and the rest of my “Masquerade” are those I’ve chosen to trust.’
‘But I’m the most untrustworthy person I know,’ Ostevan quipped, not really jesting at all.
‘It is your cynicism and duplicity that I trust most about you, Brother Jest.’
*
Ostevan returned the Jest mask to its hiding place and swept the alcove of gnostic traces – although he believed the place was long-forgotten, it was vital that no one suspected that he might be up to anything but his duties. His conversation with the Master confirmed what he’d already worked out, but it had left him disturbed. To gain access to Ascendant-level gnosis and all sixteen Studies, he’d allowed the ‘daemon’ Abraxas a pathway to his soul, but thanks to Naxius, he wasn’t possessed, not in the usual sense of the word – he wasn’t the daemon’s puppet; his body and intellect weren’t being exploited while his soul was tormented – and it wasn’t going to be over in a few days. The effect was permanent, and he was in control.
But he was noticing a subtle loss of autonomy: gauzy mental threads were now constantly tugging at him; the presence of Abraxas was subtly warping his nature. The daemon wanted the vicarious thrill of living through its host. It wanted lust and savagery, and it was adept at planting in his head urges that Ostevan hadn’t been prone to before.
And sometimes, one has to give in to them.
He adjourned to his private office and waited for the appointed time, when the door opened and a plump young woman in a dun habit entered. She was clearly petrified. He bade her close the door, then stand before him. The young nun, a plain girl with fat fingers and dimples, was shaking already, and sweating in rivulets.
He spoke in his most soothing voice. ‘Sister Hanetta, do you know why you’re here?’ He knew his own reputation: the handsome, charming politician-priest, intimate with the empress and the ladies of court. Being the official absolver of sins in the Bastion, he knew all their secrets – and he also knew what they whispered about him, that he had no aversion to sampling the flesh of the prettiest of his congregation.
Sister Hanetta plainly didn’t want to express her suspicions. ‘I don’t know,’ she said weakly. She was a simple Daughter of Kore: a human nun, without the gnosis – a nothing, in the greater schemes of life, and that suited his purpose perfectly.
He got up and walked around the desk. She watched him approach with pitiful trepidation, trying to follow him with her eyes as he walked around behind her, lowered her cowl and pulled it down to her shoulders. Her hair was a typical northern blonde and greasy to the touch as he lifted it from the nape of her neck. She gave a martyred whimper.
‘Dear Kore, I’m not going to misuse you, Hanetta.’
‘Oh,’ she breathed, her voice at first relieved, then wary. ‘Then what do you—?’
‘This.’ He engaged morphic-gnosis and two-inch hollow canines speared from between his lips; he yanked her head sideways and plunged them into her throat. Ichor welled up and jetted into the wound, as pleasurable as any orgasm, while she gasped in pain, struggling helplessly in his iron grip. Then the next assault started on her, from within, and she fell writhing to the floor. He grabbed the desk for support until his own rapture had passed, and then watched the greenish-black veins of daemonic ichor spreading from the gaping wound on her neck. She writhed at his feet, howling soundlessly as her mind and body succumbed.
‘Was that good for you too?’ he asked her prostrate form. As he poured himself a brandy, her eyes overflowed with tears of blood, carmine snot ran from her nose and reddened spittle from her mouth. He wasn’t concerned; the riverreek disease that was plaguing northern Rondelmar had the same symptoms.
An illness to mask a deeper corruption – poetic, really.
Hanetta stood with a new poise and dignity and smoothed her clothing.
‘Who am I?
’ he asked her.
‘You are my Master.’ There was no sign of rebellion or emotion at what had befallen her: although Hanetta was still a presence inside her body, she wasn’t in control any more.
‘You are now mine,’ he told her. ‘I can enter your mind and sense what you sense. You can contact me in return, should you see something that imperils me. You may act on my behalf, but your only desire is to please me.’
‘Yes, Master. What do you require?’
Not all of those he’d thus infected became so pliable so fast – sometimes it could take an hour or more to completely subdue a victim – but the more corrupt or spiritless ones usually succumbed quickly.
‘Go down into the city and volunteer at one of the new riverreek quarantine areas. Once inside, you’ll find others like yourself. When you get someone alone, bite them, as I have bitten you – your body will provide the means. Spread your condition and make new servants for me. Be a Shepherd to them. Preserve and multiply your herd – but don’t permit them to attack others yet. I require discretion for now. Understand?’ When she nodded, he added, ‘You have a passive form of the gnosis now; it will make you resilient and enhance your strength and endurance. It only functions internally: you can resist fire but not manipulate it; you can heal yourself, but not others. Conceal this power, lest it draw attention.’
He used healing-gnosis to smooth the bite wound away and remove any traces of blood. ‘Finally,’ he added, ‘avoid prolonged exposure to sunlight: it resists and may even sterilise the ichor I have implanted in you. You’ll find those you infect avoid sunlight instinctively – it causes them discomfort, as it will you.’ He assessed her one last time, still finding only obedience, and ordered, ‘Go. Multiply. And await my command.’
When she was gone, he sipped his brandy, calculating. He had dozens of slaves like her, and every day they created more. There was a descending level of power, of course: those annointed by Naxius, the eight Masks, had the power of an Ascendant mage and access to the complete spectrum of the gnosis. Those they infected with ichor, like Sister Hanetta or Lady Jenet Brunlye, were enhanced, and his to dominate and enslave; he thought of them as his shepherds. But those they infected, or those he simply fed his blood, were little more than mindless herd animals – kine, though possessed of subhuman savagery when unleashed.
This is the world we will create, the nine of us: we will rule over a world of shepherds and kine.
And the eight Masks will become seven, then six, until eventually, it’s just me. Because I think I know how to kill even you, Ervyn Naxius . . . But it requires the queen . . . uninfected, yet eating out of my hands . . .
Reluctantly, he thrust that particular plan to the back of his mind again, for he had something else to prepare: a very special meeting with a group of disaffected prelates. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to bite them.
But a very special liquor would be served . . .
20
A Proposal of Alliance
The Fate of the Dead
As a butterfly leaves the chrysalis, so do our souls leave our bodies at ‘death’. For a time they linger, farewelling all they have known and loved, before passing on into the vast beyond, on a journey into the infinite. All we strive for in our lives are but dreams. Only the infinite matters.
THE BOOK OF KORE
The Soul is Energy . . . and like all energy, available to be harnessed.
ERVYN NAXIUS, PONTUS, 873
Western Sydian Plains, Yuros
Aprafor 935
Kyrik Sarkany, wrapped in illusion, crouched down in a sea of long, coarse grass and gazed eastwards, where a group of horsemen had appeared. They were still just dark shapes, too far away to discern detail. He’d be able to give them the slip easily, but with luck, he mightn’t need to. He was hoping that when they were close enough to identify, he’d see a distinctive fox-head emblazoned on their quivers.
Almost a month had passed since he’d left his brother Valdyr behind on the shores of Lake Jegto. He’d found the high pass the Sydian Sfera Iztven and Ghili had used, Hajnal Palya, the Sunrise Path, easily enough, though it had entailed a long trudge due east through the Arkadaly Ranges, then a hard climb to a knife-edged ridge followed by a slithering descent through heavily wooded slopes to the forest floor. All the way he’d been assessing the ease of return. A strong, fit man could do it, and his horse too, if he were a skilled rider.
In the forest he’d spent two weeks evading Schlessen hunting parties: big men in furs with blond hair and brutish features. He’d had to bypass an unexpected village deep in the woods, a wooden palisade enclosing dozens of buxom women and squalling children. The Schlessen were a forest people, and in Rondian eyes, the epitome of the barbarian: brutal, savage and uncivilised, with strange codes of honour. He’d heard of the occasional Schlessen mage, usually offspring from the legion camps, but generally the Schlessens were too proud to do as the Sydians did and whore their women to get the gnosis.
Kyrik was pleased his woodcraft skills had returned so quickly – in Mollachia, hunting was the noblemen’s sport and the common man’s sustenance, and Elgren Sarkany had been adamant that his sons should be able to survive in the wilds. Kyrik had spent a week alone in Feher Szarvasfeld when he was twelve, trapping otters in the streams and playing a deadly game of hide and seek with a lone wolf. He’d skinned the beast himself and used its pelt as a rug.
Perhaps Robear Delestre is standing on it now, he thought, crouching lower, disturbed by the way the riders appeared to be heading straight for his hiding place. The undulating ground meant their path should have taken them well south of his position. He strained his eyes, and now he could make out twelve men and a woman with a shock of black hair and an easy riding style. Her weathered face was stern, her thick lips pursed, as she led them straight to him.
He chuckled, stood up and waved.
‘Hail, Hajya,’ he called. ‘I’m impressed that you found me.’
The head of the Vlpa clan magi didn’t return his smile. ‘Torzo, our diviner, foresaw your return some weeks ago – and I can smell you a mile away.’
She probably could, he decided, remembering that she was an animage. ‘Did he divine why I’m here?’
‘No, but I sense I won’t like it.’ She weighed him up as if pondering having her archers shoot him.
It wasn’t an encouraging welcome, but Kyrik wasn’t about to turn around now – and he could see they had a spare horse, so he doubted she intended to do away with him just yet. ‘Shall we see what Thraan says?’
The Sfera woman grunted, then gestured to the spare mount. ‘Can you ride?’
It was a double-edged question; Kyrik had refused to ‘ride’ any of their women when he’d been the tribe’s guest, declining to strengthen their pool of magi.
‘I’ve ridden all over Ahmedhassa,’ he answered.
She sniffed. ‘This isn’t Ahmedhassa. I hope you can keep up.’
In minutes, they were pounding eastwards, back towards the Vlpa lands.
*
They reached the Vlpa camp at nightfall, which surprised Kyrik, as they were far from the normal migratory routes, the complex cycle of grazing and moving laid down by centuries of tradition and warfare. To leave the usual paths risked all manner of dangers, from blundering into rival tribes to running afoul of the Rondian border legions patrolling these regions.
But there was no outward sign of disaster evident as Kyrik followed Hajya and her men to the pavilion of the clan chief, the nacelnik Thraan, who was waiting for them with his eldest sons, light furs draped over their shoulders, big chests bare in the warmer air of spring.
‘Hail Thraan,’ Hajya greeted her chief. ‘Joy to this reunion.’
The nacelnik kissed both her cheeks, listened to her whispering in his ear, then strode towards Kyrik. ‘Draken Lord,’ he boomed, ‘welcome back.’ He looked into Kyrik’s eyes intently and murmured, ‘The Sfera saw your coming, but not your purpose. I will hear you, ysh? Come, let us drink and
talk.’
Kyrik’s pack was whisked away, presumably to a tent of his own, and he was led into the pavilion. The wives and children quickly absented themselves, but they were joined by Hajya, and Missef, the clan shaman, not a mage but a priest, the intercessor with their gods. Kyrik had thought the man half-mad when they’d last met.
The fifth member of this exclusive gathering arrived as Kyrik was about to sit: Paruq Rakinissi. Kyrik greeted his Ahmedhassan guardian and mentor with joy. ‘Paruq – I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.’
The Amteh Godspeaker’s gentle eyes lit up. ‘My friend, welcome back.’ At Thraan’s gesture, he joined them. Missef, who viewed Kyrik and Hajya with suspicion, exuded even more hostility towards Paruq.
Shaman versus Godspeaker, Kyrik reflected: That’s a war only one can survive . . .
Thraan bade them all sit, waited until food and liquor had been handed round, then turned to Kyrik. ‘So, Prince: you return to us, and Hajya says that it is in great need, so much that she went to find you.’
Kyrik took a sip of the fiery liquor and tried to order his thoughts. ‘I do come in need, Chief Thraan, but do not mistake me for a beggar, for I’m not weak. And what I propose will strengthen both our peoples.’
Thraan waved a casual hand. ‘Speak on.’
Kyrik explained the situation in Mollachia: the new tax-farming laws, his father’s debts, and how the Delestre family had misused their authority to take so much more. ‘They have more soldiers than we can deal with,’ he confessed. ‘Two legions, with battle-magi. Without aid, we will be crushed.’
‘Of what concern is that to the Vlpa?’ Missef sniffed.
‘My belief is that the people of Mollachia and your clan are akin. Thraan himself spoke of this during my last visit’ – Thraan looked pleased to have his words remembered – ‘and we agreed that the Saga of Zlateyr, the central myth of Mollachia, has many similarities with the tale of Zillitiya of the Uffrykai, the tribe of which you Vlpa are a clan. We have similar languages, foods and drinks – even names.’
