Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  ‘The gods of our people ride the plains,’ Missef agreed.

  The Vitezai looked uneasy; they’d always fought from concealment. ‘You can’t defeat a Rondian legion in open battle,’ Dragan said. ‘Their battle-magi will carve you up.’

  ‘We have eight of my Sfera here,’ Hajya put in.

  ‘With respect,’ Kyrik replied, ‘Rondian battle-magi are not something you would want your people to face. It’s not simply a matter of having the gnosis: they are trained in gnostic warfare.’

  ‘You are Kirol,’ Hajya conceded, her tone suggesting a lot of aggressive pillow-talk later that night.

  Valdyr didn’t speak, but watched his brother manage the bullish pride of the chieftain, the defensive jabs of the shaman and Hajya’s probing. He never contradicted his hosts, even in their outlandish claims about the prowess of their warriors – ‘One rider is worth ten redcloaks,’ Brazko boasted at one point, but Kyrik just moved on, keeping the debate as factual as he could.

  Finally, it ended, and Kyrik asked, ‘So, what did you make of that?’ as he led the Vitezai back to their camp. It was late and the place was largely quiet – a few of the larger fires illuminated circles of drummers and dancers, but without the tribe’s women and children, it was subdued.

  ‘I thought Brazko and Hajya spoke soundly,’ Valdyr admitted, ‘but that shaman is mad, and he hates us.’

  ‘He’s not mad, but you’re right, he doesn’t love us. He knows that once the clan has settled here, many of his people will drift into the towns, seeking a better life. He knows Kore is strong here, and how impressive stone buildings can look to people raised in tents. He’s afraid.’

  ‘He should have stayed on the plains,’ Valdyr sneered.

  ‘He would have, given the choice. He voted for the clan to stay and take their chances, but he was overruled.’

  ‘Can we trust him?’ Dragan wondered.

  ‘To do well by the clan, certainly,’ Kyrik said, ‘but he will always put his gods first. He may see defeat and migration home as preferable to victory and staying. We’ll need to watch him.’

  As they split up to find their tents, Kyrik turned and said, ‘Well done, Brother.’

  Valdyr ducked his head. ‘If you say so. I don’t envy you.’

  Kyrik laughed. ‘One day all this will be yours.’ He waved a hand and turned away, heading into the heart of the Sydian camp, where his own pavilion waited. And Hajya.

  ‘Keep it,’ Valdyr called after him. ‘I don’t want any of it.’

  *

  Upper Osiapa Valley, Mollachia

  Junesse 935

  Robear Delestre stood in the saddle and massaged his buttocks. ‘Gods, but I hate riding,’ he groaned.

  ‘Then take a skiff,’ Sacrista told him. ‘Or stay in Hegikaro.’

  ‘I need to show these traders I’m a man of action,’ Robear declared, pulling a heroic pose. Against her mood, Sacrista had to smile. That was the one thing Robear could always do. She didn’t know why – he wasn’t especially funny, and Kore knew she’d heard all his jokes before. Maybe each quip or comic face reminded her of an earlier, happier time. I love my brother, more fool me.

  They glanced back at the merchants riding into White Stag Land as if this were some picnic outing in Bricia. ‘Are we still on the right trail?’ he asked.

  She showed him the rough hide map she carried. ‘See here: the larger river is the Osiapa – the Oldfather – which flows down from the northeast. The smaller one coming in from the west is the Anya – the Mother. That’s the one we need to follow, all the way into White Stag Land.’

  ‘I hope the road is better,’ Robear moaned.

  ‘Sorry, it’s worse – but think how these lard-arsed Midrean Lowlanders are feeling.’

  ‘I’m a lard-arsed Lowlander myself, Sister. So were you, until recently.’

  ‘I’ve been in the saddle more than you lately, Brother dear.’ She threw him a mocking salute. ‘I need to find Gaville and check our dispositions.’

  Robear groaned and waved her away as she spurred her mount up the trail. It took her only twenty minutes to find her battle-magi, watering their horses where the two rivers met. They saluted grudgingly – she might win respect, but not affection. Gaville, drinking from his flask, finished before acknowledging her, though he was clearly well aware she was waiting.

  Her father would have dressed him down, barking orders and spittle in his face for his slackness, but she knew they’d only snicker, and make remarks about the time of the moon behind her back. ‘Gaville, are we on schedule?’

  ‘Aye. The vanguard are already ten miles upriver. There’s a staging camp there, and a trail into this “White Stag Land”. From there, it’s all woodland, not hard.’

  ‘Any sign of the enemy?’

  ‘None. We’ve got skiffs in the air and ranging patrols marking out campsites. We’ve got fifty miles of hard slog ahead of us just to reach the Magas Gorge. That’ll take us five days or more over this terrain, and even then we’re only halfway to this Jegto place.’

  She looked up at the sliver moon, clearly visible even in the late afternoon skies. ‘Robear wants us at Magas Gorge on the first day of Darkmoon, and at Lake Jegto by the last day of Junesse.’

  ‘I’ll make sure we keep to that.’

  Gaville might be a stiff-backed swine, but he gets things done, Sacrista admitted to herself. ‘It seems to me the worst-case scenario is that we ourselves get penned in the gorge,’ she said.

  ‘It’s possible, but if that happens we’ll just overfly the ambush and turn the tables.’

  ‘Okay – do we know what awaits us at this lake? Have you scouted it?’

  ‘Too risky, even from the air: we don’t want to let them know we’ve found them.’

  She scratched her chin uneasily. ‘Fair enough. We’ve got four maniples on the march – that should be plenty. I just wish we knew what’s to the north of this gorge. We might need to change plans quickly.’

  ‘No plan ever survives contact with the enemy,’ Gaville admitted.

  As if you’d know, she thought, as she rode away. At least he didn’t say we needed Inoxion’s men . . .

  33

  The Time Has Come

  Gods and Daemons

  The aether is full of daemon spirits who (according to them, at least) originated in the aether and not here on Urte. Most are simple beings, but some are vast, as if thousands of these daemons had banded together to become one great entity. They are wise and knowledgeable beyond comprehension. And if that is not disturbing enough, some share the names of ‘gods’ of the ancient world.

  Are they gods? Or the ghosts of gods? Or deceivers, telling us what we want to hear?

  ORDO COSTRUO ARCANUM, PONTUS

  The Celestium, Pallas

  Junesse 935

  The room was gloomy, the stately riches of the Church shrouded in shadow, the golden fixtures lit only by two candles on the desk which illuminated the faces of three men and barely anything else. One was a lowly friar from Tockburn and the second was a grizzled knight of the Kirkegarde – although you had to know him personally, for there were few clues in his garb.

  The third was Kore’s representative on Urte.

  The role of grand prelate meant many things to different people, but most of all, it signified continuity. Dominius Wurther had filled the role for more than a quarter of a century, and he brought all the consistency and predictability that being the Voice of Kore required. Kore was changeless and eternal, and so must His Voice be.

  But he knew it wouldn’t last for ever. His hope was that he would die in his sleep, knowing that a successor of his own choosing was poised to carry on his work, but he wasn’t so naïve as to think it’d be that simple. Everything he ate or drank was gnostically tested and tasted, and he had spies in every corner of the Church, sniffing out the stink of dissent – which meant dealing with men like this friar.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ the friar said, looking at the heavy purse on the
table.

  Wurther scowled, glanced at the knight beside him, then pushed a second bag across the table to join the first. ‘This better be good, Deshard.’

  ‘Well worth it,’ Friar Deshard boasted, flashing worn teeth as he swept both into a pocket. He was perhaps forty, and looked like he spent every day in a ditch. Quite how he’d become a friar Wurther was unsure, but the man had surprising knowledge of scripture, as well as of less savoury things. ‘These people are very choosy about who they approach.’

  ‘Then why would they come to you?’ Lann Wilfort asked. The Supreme Grandmaster of the Kirkegarde had gained his rank not through politics but through leadership in the field; he was a tried and tested commander who’d got his men out of the mess that was the Third Crusade. Wurther trusted him far more than the snakes who usually ruled the Rymfort.

  ‘Because I’m the real power in Tockburn Parish,’ Deshard replied. ‘My dithering superior, the Prelate of Pallas-Nord, does nothing without my approval. He’s been approached by a secret group trying to tie down some votes among the prelature before this week’s Synod.’

  The Synod, now just five days away, was heavy on Wurther’s mind, but he wasn’t overly concerned – such rumours weren’t uncommon. ‘Deshard, on major matters, the Synod can only act if the prelates vote unanimously. I own the souls of most of them. Unanimity is a wonderful thing – it’s why masterly inactivity is the prevailing doctrine of the Church.’

  ‘Some things are worth more to a man than gold.’

  Wilfort grunted. ‘Don’t tell Treasurer Dubrayle – he’d have an apoplexy.’

  Deshard laughed. ‘I’m rather appalled myself. But the threat of murder can make even gold pale in value. I understand threats have been made, credible threats, Grand Prelate: they want to force you to name a successor of their choice.’

  ‘And then poison me, no doubt.’

  ‘That’s the inference. It’s been done before.’

  ‘I’m far from finished, you’ll be pleased to know,’ Wurther said.

  ‘Your health, indeed,’ Deshard grinned, raising his goblet but not touching it.

  Needless caution – it was a good vintage, and there was no poison. Wurther had another swallow, to make the point, then bent closer. ‘Who’s behind this? There must be a name to rally support. Not just any idiot can be put forward as my successor.’

  Deshard dropped his voice. ‘I’ve heard that a Comfateri leads the meetings, and the man they whisper of as the future Voice of Kore has a southern hue to his skin.’

  Although confessors were ten-a-pfennik and the Church was awash in Estellan zealots, Wurther knew exactly who was meant: Ostevan and Rodrigo . . . predictable. ‘Do you have proof? Witnesses?’

  ‘Proof can be found for anything if we try hard enough.’

  ‘Not in these cases, Deshard. Conspiracy against a grand prelate is considered Grand Treason: such cases are heard by the Gnostic Keepers and the burden of proof is onerous. Witnesses are questioned under the gnosis.’

  Deshard tsked. ‘That does make it harder. These people have been careful. But if you were to incarcerate one of the attendees’ – he grinned – ‘my erstwhile superior, for example . . .’

  ‘He’s one of my supporters—’

  ‘For now. I’m sure his replacement would support you just as earnestly.’ Deshard attempted to look pious.

  ‘You? A prelate?’ Wurther snorted. ‘You’re no use to me dressed up as a festival decoration. I prefer you lying in the muck with your ear to the ground.’

  Deshard looked mildly disappointed, but unsurprised. ‘Another thing, Grand Prelate: it’s been noted that there were deaths in the palace around the night of the Finostarre tournament: servants, guards, a certain knight and lady, all of whom spent much time attending upon the queen’s young relatives. If the people knew those relatives were at large, there would be great fear and uncertainty.’ Deshard scowled. ‘Investments do poorly in such times.’

  They shared an empathetic look: both had a lot of money in a lot of places.

  ‘Your silence on that matter,’ Wurther said, and threw him another bag of gold. The friar had earned it. He trusted Deshard enough to not disseminate these facts. He had a reputation for staying true to those who bought him.

  When his spy had gone, Wurther poured Wilfort another drink and refilled his own goblet, then asked the Kirkegarde commander to bear with him. He turned and gazed through the window, thinking hard. A sliver of moon shone over the Aerflus: in a week it would be Darkmoon and the Synod would begin. Perhaps then his enemies would step out of the shadows.

  A confessor and a prelate leading a new cabal, just in time for the upcoming Synod – and now the fact that the Sacrecour children have been sprung is being whispered. Both of these represented a threat to him. Then another thought struck him: might these two knives be wielded by the same hand?

  If they were, it meant that Ostevan was actively working on a Celestium-based coup – but also against the queen he’d helped place on the throne. Could that be?

  But Lyra never recalled you, Ostevan, did she? She tried, but I’ve played this game far longer and I wouldn’t let her. Had that rejection been enough to make Ostevan abandon Lyra for other allies? He knew the man, all that cunning, ruthless ambition he himself had nurtured. Being a mere confessor – even one with the queen’s ear – wouldn’t satisfy him for long.

  Suddenly the wine didn’t taste so good. He could almost imagine a slow venom beginning to burn inside his gut. With a sudden jerk of the head, he spat it out and snarled at the darkness, ‘Come and try me, Ostevan. You’ll see I don’t go easily.’

  He turned to Wilfort. ‘I sense a very large rat, my friend. This Synod will go ahead – I can’t prevent it – but I can prepare.’

  ‘Prepare for what, exactly?’ the grandmaster asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. The politics I can handle, and they’ll know that. But I sense there is more here, something more . . . physical. How many men can you get into the galleries overlooking the debating chamber?’

  Wilfort raised an eyebrow. ‘You suspect violence in the chamber?’

  ‘They’re magi, Lann. You should always expect violence.’

  The grandmaster contemplated. ‘Well, the reception hall adjoins the gallery and that can hold several hundred at a press. I could flood the gallery overlooking your debating chamber with crossbowmen in moments.’

  ‘Then make your preparations.’

  Dupenium, East Rondelmar, Yuros

  Junesse 935

  Garod Sacrecour, Duke of Dupenium, walked to the door of the maid’s room, three doors down from where he slept, and almost choked at the stench of shit and iron. A small-boned woman lay on the floor, sprawled on her back, her ribcage shattered inwards, her blood and bodily wastes splattered on the walls and pooled between her spread-eagled limbs. Her face, miraculously untouched, was frozen in a silent howl.

  ‘My wife’s handmaid was a Corani spy?’ he muttered to his spymaster. ‘How the Hel did that elude you until now?’

  ‘A skilled operative can be nigh impossible to detect, even with the gnosis,’ the tall, priestly man at his side replied. Jasper Vendroot had been a Kore mage-priest, but he’d lost his faith and found his true calling many years ago. His face could turn from avuncular charm to chilling menace in a heartbeat.

  ‘So she’s the last of the spies on the list?’ Garod scanned the remaining servants, lined up against the wall by a contingent of House Guards. They were understandably frightened: to them, the maid, a colleague, had been brutally slain for no reason.

  But are they all as innocent as they look?

  Vendroot folded his arms and listed those he’d apprehended or killed that evening: ‘Two of your knights, one of your lady’s train, three footmen and seven house-servants: all of them low-blooded magi, all installed by Setallius in the past two decades. This has been a grievous day for the Corani, my lord, their worst since 909. But One-Eye will have more people here – most informers a
ren’t magi. We can’t hope to find them all.’

  ‘I want the Corani blind to what happens here! Are you saying that’s impossible?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vendroot answered calmly. ‘But if these were all the magi they had here, any informers left must rely on slower means to contact Setallius. You must proceed before that news can reach him.’

  Garod looked down the corridor to Brylion Fasterius, waiting impatiently for his command. They’d reorganised all their mounted maniples into one legion of cavalry: five thousand riders with two horses each, and fifty mage-knights to spearhead the attack, all ready to pound down the back roads to Pallas.

  Cavalry could travel hard and fast for an hour or two, but that wasn’t sustainable. Five miles an hour, with breaks, was the collective wisdom. With remounts, he could expect fifty miles a day: so six days to cover three hundred miles. It was already the first day of the waning moon, and he had to get his men to Dawnport in Pallas, at dawn on the second day of Darkmoon.

  It was time to act: to commit irrevocable treason.

  ‘And the commanders of the Imperial legions guarding the approaches to Pallas have been paid off?’ he asked, seeking reassurance.

  Vendroot’s voice was calm. ‘They’ll stand aside. I’ve spoken to them myself.’

  Still Garod hesitated, conscious of all the eyes on him: the impatient Brylion, the anxious guardsmen, the terrified servants. ‘It’s this masked cabal . . . I don’t trust them, Jasper.’

  ‘Nor should you,’ Vendroot replied. ‘But for the moment, our purposes align.’

  Garod pressed his lips to Vendroot’s ear. ‘This is a gamble, Jasper: we both know that. House Sacrecour might look strong, but between our debts and our losses in the Third Crusade, failure now is not acceptable.’

  ‘I know, your Grace. But the longer the Corani hold Pallas, the more secure they become. How long can we wait? Each day they get stronger and we grow weaker.’

  Garod rubbed his chin and took a deep breath. He raised his voice and ordered, ‘Brylion, the time has come: we must be in Pallas at dawn, six days hence: on Torsdai-Darkmoon.’