Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  They climbed the gorge for three more days, moving fast between mountain storms that closed in, sealing the skies and drenching them. They were well used to such weather, though, and took heart knowing such conditions would blind their enemy, while they were fit and strong, able to trot for hours without rest, despite the weight of their packs. Hardship was their friend.

  Mid-morning on the fourth day, they broke from the Magas Gorge onto the high plateau above Lake Jegto. It was spring now, and where the snow had already retreated the land was coming alive, grass and wildflowers filling the air with a dreamy scent, but ice still clung to the high places.

  Before the lakeside camp came into view, they could see hundreds of smoke plumes streaming into the air, and on the hills ahead there were mounted horsemen silhouetted against the skyline.

  Dragan was right, Valdyr thought, there’ll be no hiding them.

  Another hour of hard walking brought them among the horse herds, and several dozen rangy horned cattle which were wandering freely and feasting on the new growth like there was no tomorrow – the grass had already been chewed down to the dirt, which was churned and covered in dung.

  Riders shadowed them, but none waved or called a greeting until a party of horsemen came trotting towards them, bristling with readied bows. The Vitezai stopped, hands going to sword-hilts, but Valdyr stepped to the fore. ‘I’m Valdyr Sarkany,’ he called. ‘I’m looking for my brother—’

  ‘—and you’ve found him,’ came a joyous call, and Kyrik galloped in, his blond hair streaming in the wind. He vaulted from the saddle and swept Valdyr into a bear-hug, pounding his back, and for a moment Valdyr let himself forget his unease at all these savages.

  When Valdyr let him go, Kyrik embraced Dragan, Tibor and many others, while Valdyr looked around him. The Sydian riders were watching, making low comments to each other, their faces unreadable.

  There’s a few dozen of us, and five thousand of them . . . with many thousands more to come in a few months.

  Kyrik returned to him, putting an arm around his shoulder. ‘Damn, it’s good to see you, Brother!’

  ‘And you,’ Valdyr replied cautiously. ‘How many men?’

  ‘Five thousand riders: enough manpower to match the Delestre legion.’

  ‘How can we feed them?’

  ‘They’ll feed themselves – these cattle? Food on the hoof. All they need is decent pasture.’ Kyrik looked animated, positive. ‘Remember Thraan? He’s aligned to our goals. They needed new land – they were being squeezed out of the plains – and we need people. This is good news, Brother.’

  ‘But we don’t have lands for outsiders.’

  ‘Outsiders? They believe as Iztven and Ghili do, that they’re our kin—’

  ‘But they’re not,’ Valdyr said flatly.

  Kyrik frowned, finally realising that his younger brother wasn’t overjoyed. ‘Either way, Val, we need each other. Mollach will die without their aid. We just need to find them grazing land. I’m thinking the Domhalott is perfect for them: plains, open skies, at least eight hundred square miles—’

  ‘That puts them right by the trade routes,’ Valdyr noted. ‘One raid, and they sever our links to the outside.’

  ‘They won’t need to raid. And regardless, that’s for the future. There’s a battle to fight first.’

  A prince must always think ahead, Valdyr thought. Father always said so. ‘Are they Amteh now? Are those damned missionaries still with them?’

  ‘No, Brother. Paruq’s people stayed on the plains.’

  ‘Thank Kore for that.’ Valdyr looked away. This isn’t right. Mollachia is our land. We don’t just give it away. But suspicion was blooming. ‘What else was required to get them to fight?’ he asked.

  Kyrik gave him an enigmatic look, then said, ‘I married one of them.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘That was the price required, Brother.’

  ‘You married one of them? Kore’s Blood, Kyrik! What were you thinking?’

  Kyrik glanced about. ‘Drop your voice, Brother. These men speak our tongue.’

  Valdyr swallowed, feeling physically ill, and more than that. He felt betrayed. ‘Did you get a taste for dark cunni at the breeding-houses?’ he spat.

  Kyrik gripped him with a gnostically strengthened hand and hissed, ‘Be silent, Val: we need allies and I found them – be thankful it’s me paying the price, not you.’

  ‘But it’s not just you, Brother, is it? You’re going to breed mongrel children with your dunghill bride and they’ll inherit our kingdom!’ Unwanted images rose from his forcibly repressed memories: women long forgotten with copper skin and ebony-tipped breasts, riding him while grunting like beasts. He locked eyes with his brother, fighting an anger so deep it gripped his spine.

  But the eyes he was glaring into were the same eyes that had pulled him through in the dungeons at Hegikaro when water and food were gone. My brother’s eyes . . . and Kyrik so clearly believed he was right.

  Be thankful it’s me paying the price . . .

  Dragan had seen that something was amiss; he came striding up and placed a hand on either brother’s shoulder. ‘Lads? Is aught amiss?’

  ‘Ask him,’ Valdyr rasped, and stomped away.

  30

  What Price a Kingdom?

  The Tides of Urte

  If there is one thing that has shaped Urte, it is our impassable seas. Our two moons – mighty Luna and distant, wandering Simutu – have rendered the continents of Yuros and Ahmedhassa strangers to each other, and perhaps made inevitable the conflicts that eventuated when finally the two land masses were joined.

  Always, everything comes back to the divide between East and West.

  ORDO COSTRUO ARCANUM, HEBUSALIM, 856

  Mollachia, Yuros

  Maicin 935

  Kyrik Sarkany stood at the rim of a low basin with the two hundred men of the Vitezai Sarkanum seated around him. The Sydians were preparing a formal feast for their new allies, their cooking-fires sending plumes of smoke streaming across the high plain skies, streaks of grey on grey. It was meant as a welcome, but Kyrik wanted to speak to his men well out of earshot of the tribesmen before bringing the two parties together.

  He had to make them understand that this wasn’t a foolish bargain, but a way forward, the only hope the kingdom had. Valdyr had absented himself, which hurt, but Dragan was here, and most of the senior men; Tibor was still in the south. First he told them of his deal with the Vlpa, and the reasons why.

  ‘We wanted warriors,’ he concluded, ‘and I was offered five thousand, or none. So let’s deal with that first: who here thinks I should have said “none”?’

  The basin fell silent and the men shifted uneasily. Then Nilasz stood. ‘We’ve been raiding against Robear’s lot and we’ve hurt them – some more losses like this and these Rondians might just leave.’

  There was a small murmur of agreement, but not many; Kyrik took heart from that. ‘I’ve heard the reports and you’ve done well . . . but we lost eight men when Sacrista Delestre sent a daemon against us, and another seven in the raids.’

  ‘We’ve killed more of them than we’ve lost—’

  ‘—but they can afford to lose men; they’ve got ten thousand of the bastards! The Vitezai are what, three hundred, spread over five camps?’ He pointed to the Sydian camp. ‘Now we’re five thousand, three hundred men.’

  Nilasz wasn’t ready to back down. ‘If we armed every man in the valley, we could take the fight to them.’

  ‘If we armed every man in the valley, sure, but we don’t have the weapons to do that – look, I don’t doubt that when we rise openly, men will come from their homes to join us – but I don’t think Ansel Inoxion and Robear Delestre are going to stand by and simply watch that happen. They’ve got our people under their thumb – they’re hanging anyone they suspect of being Vitezai with absolutely no proof whatsoever. There are frightened people down there, and the longer we raid, the more damage Robear will inflict on them
, until they begin to break ranks with us. We need to openly confront Robear, and for that we need the Vlpa riders.’

  Nilasz shook his head sullenly and sat down.

  Kyrik turned back to the group. ‘So, if I was right to accept the offer of warriors, there were two prices I had to pay. One, we harbour their entire clan. We have unused land in Domhalott – high plains, bad for farming, but they’re not farmers. We get warriors, they get land. Your views?’

  ‘Just the obvious one,’ Rothgar called, not bothering to stand. ‘What if they decide they’d rather pasture their herds in our grain farms at Lapisz or Hegikaro instead?’

  ‘Then we have a problem,’ Kyrik admitted, ‘but that’s a problem we can deal with when it happens – and who knows what our circumstances will be then? First, we have two legions of Rondians to get rid of, and I think we’re all agreed we can’t shift them on our own.’

  A mutter went around the dell, but there was no further dissent.

  ‘Right then, here’s the second thing: I agreed to tie myself to them in marriage. You all know that I pledged my father I would marry another mage, and no one’s ever objected to that – the mage-blood is both sacred and potent. Well, my new wife carries the mage-blood: she too is a quarter-blood.’

  A mutter went round the circle and he raised a hand to forestall questions for a moment. ‘We all know we don’t have the money to do as Father did and buy a quarter-blood wife in Augenheim – especially not if we fail to dislodge Robear Delestre. And I don’t think Sacrista likes me,’ he added with a grin that brought a chuckle or two. ‘But my new wife comes with a dowry of warriors, and she doesn’t weaken the Sarkany bloodline, so I ask you all, have I erred?’

  He let the murmurs swirl about, picking up the undercurrent of acceptance forming. Then someone called, ‘A few of the lads are worried at bringing their blood to our royal line, Prince.’

  ‘I’m sure there were plenty unhappy when Rondian mage-blood was brought into the Sarkany line,’ he countered. ‘I’m a child of that union, and I love Mollachia as well as any of you. The children my wife and I bear will be born in Mollachia, and raised in Hegikaro Castle, Kore willing. They will be Sarkany, and Mollach.’

  ‘Kore willing,’ Nilasz echoed. ‘We hear these pony-boys grovel to the Amteh—?’

  Valdyr must have been talking of what he’d seen, Kyrik realised. ‘The Amteh did send missionaries onto the plains, but they aren’t coming here – and I’m sure Kore missionaries can be found to speak to the Vlpa in time,’ he improvised. If an Amteh missionary could turn heads, perhaps Kore could also? ‘Anything else?’

  Dragan raised a hand and everyone fell silent. ‘Tell us about “Zillitiya”.’

  ‘Ysh, let me speak of Zillitiya,’ Kyrik replied. ‘A hero among the Uffrykai, who took his Foxhead warband into the mountains and became an immortal demi-god. Two Sydian ancients came here seeking him, and gave their lives aiding us.’

  ‘We’ve grown up with tales of our Zlateyr,’ a hunter named Juergan Tirlak called out. ‘In our stories he’s an Andressan.’

  Kyrik raised his voice above the chorus of agreement. ‘Ysh – but the tales say he used a horn-bow at a time no Andressan did. Either way, have you ever met an Andressan who wasn’t a stingy prick?’

  ‘Hey,’ Larin snickered, ‘I’m part Andressan.’

  ‘My point stands,’ Kyrik replied, winking, and getting a general laugh. ‘With all respect to Larin, I don’t care whether I’m descended – through however many generations – from an Andressan or a Sydian. I’m here, and I’m a Mollach. That’s what matters. If the Sydians want to claim a Mollach as their hero – well, good for them. Especially if it makes them feel that they’re our kin.’

  That drew a mixed reaction – the men took pride in their heritage. But the basic sentiment sounded acceptable.

  Dragan spoke again. ‘There are families here who trace their ancestry to members of Zlateyr’s warband, however thin that blood might now be. It’s part of who we are.’

  ‘And if Zlateyr’s warband were really Sydian horse archers, not Andressan longbowmen, are you suddenly ashamed of your heritage?’ Kyrik countered. ‘Does it diminish Zlateyr’s deeds?’

  The Vitezai grumbled and muttered, but after a bit he saw mostly nodding heads and grudging agreement.

  ‘Would your father have blessed your marriage?’ Nilasz called.

  Kyrik felt a flash of irritation. ‘My father left us with a massive tax-debt and gave the vultures from Augenheim a chance to swoop! He’s still my father and I respect his memory, but he’s not here and I had a decision to make.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’ Rothgar asked cheekily, drawing another laugh.

  A mental image of his wife flashed before him. ‘Ysh, Roth, she’s a fine mare!’

  ‘Is it true what they say about Sydian women?’ someone else called as some levity entered the gathering.

  ‘It’s better than you think!’ He rubbed his groin while pulling a pained face. More laughter. ‘Any other questions?’ When no one raised a hand, he altered his voice to a tone of command. ‘We’re going to need to move south, lads. The pastures here are too thin for so many cattle and horses. It’ll be hard to conceal the march, but my hope is we can make it to Domhalott unchecked. After that, it’ll be war – but it’ll finally be war on an even footing: we’ll have a chance. Are you up for that?’

  ‘We are,’ a few shouted, and then to his utter relief, the rest took it up.

  He had to stop himself sagging as Dragan stood and bared his yellow teeth. ‘Our Prince has done well for us: he has brought us the allies we need and he has my loyalty and respect, as always.’ He touched his right hand to his heart. ‘And I congratulate him on his nuptials,’ the old wolf added. ‘May his marriage be fruitful!’

  More cheers: the tension was broken and finally their smiles came out, especially when the wind blew cooking smells through the dell and their stomachs turned to more pleasant matters.

  Kyrik went to find Valdyr.

  *

  Lake Jegto, the Icewater, was at its most beautiful: a dish of deep blue-green clasped in the bosom of the snow-capped Valadons. North of the lake, pine-clad hills rose sharply into the sky. The sunlight was gleaming down, toasting the rocks on the shore.

  Valdyr, locked in his own anger, barely noticed. He’d walked far enough away that the alien chatter of the riders wouldn’t reach his ears, but the reek of the campfires and the sour fragrance of the cattle carried to him. Cowpats plastered the ground here where the cattle had watered.

  They’re already smearing their shit all over our lands.

  A boot crunched in the gravel behind him and Kyrik called, ‘Brother?’

  Valdyr didn’t want to talk, but this moment was inevitable. He faced his sibling, because he didn’t want this to be one of those arm over the shoulder sit-down talks. Kyrik had to earn that right anew.

  Kyrik sighed. ‘What would you have had me do, Val? It was the only logical course.’

  ‘Logic,’ Valdyr spat. ‘Logic is what creates breeding-houses: doing what can be done, without thought to what should be done. What have you signed up for, Brother? To fill every quim in the tribe? How many wives did you marry? And how many will you just breed with anyway?’

  ‘Valdyr, I—’

  ‘Shut up – I’m not finished!’ Valdyr bunched his fists, unable to not shout. ‘Don’t they make you sick, Brother? How can you stand to even touch them! They’re like beasts – can’t you even see that?’ Images of dark skin swirled in his mind, and the echoes of humiliations.

  Kyrik read that in him and said softly, ‘Val, these people aren’t the ones who hurt you. They’re like us – they use our words; we likely share their blood.’

  ‘And if I could, I’d bleed it out!’ Valdyr turned away, mustering his arguments, remembering the centurion from the slave-camps who’d spoken of racial conflict, and how eloquent he’d sounded. ‘We have to stay pure, for our homeland!’

  ‘Purity?’ Kyrik
asked. ‘What does that mean? What’s an Andressan or a Midrean anyway? What does “white skin” even mean?’ Kyrik grabbed Valdyr’s shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me you still believe that shit you spouted fresh out of the slave-camp?’

  Valdyr swung on instinct, his right fist smashing into his brother’s jaw and sending him sprawling on his back. His knuckles screamed as if broken, making him hunch over, cradling his fist in agony.

  Kyrik moaned as he struggled to a sitting position, holding his jaw.

  ‘Rukka-te, animal lover,’ Valdyr rasped, then a wave of pain shot up his arm. Shit, I think I’ve broken my hand.

  He closed his eyes against the pain, barely hearing the sound of Kyrik’s boots. He looked up as a fist smashed into his face, his nose cracked and blood sprayed as he flew back, the sky arcing over him and the gravel smashing into his back.

  He came up seconds later, blood in his eyes and waded in, throwing a flurry of jabs at his brother’s oh so wise and knowing visage, while Kyrik weaved and ducked and kept hammering steely blows into his midriff. But Valdyr had been in pick-fights in the chain-gangs, while Kyrik had only ever sparred, and after a flurry of feints, he smashed a left-handed blow to Kyrik’s jaw, his elder brother’s head cracked sideways and he went over the edge of a small drop and crashed through the thin ice, landing in the water – face-down, and not moving.

  ‘Brother – oh Kore—!’

  Valdyr leaped from the bank, fell into a hole beside Kyrik and went under himself. He came up gasping and thrashed towards him, got him on his back and dragged him to the bank, where he started hammering Kyrik’s back until he convulsed and vomited, then lay shaking on the cold stones.

  Kore’s Blood, I could’ve killed my own brother . . .

  All his anger turned to shock and remorse, and even more so when he realised that Kyrik could have used the gnosis against him and hadn’t. His eyes closed, he sensed people closing in, then Dragan was there, hauling him to his feet and throwing a fur cloak over him before leading him back to the fires, where someone poured heat down his throat. He didn’t lose consciousness but drifted, clinging to the sound of Kyrik’s voice as he had in Hegikaro’s dungeon, letting it draw him slowly back to life. When he was truly aware again, he was still wet but warmer, and steam was rising from his sodden clothes. His nose was blocked with dried blood, so he sucked in air through his teeth.