Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  ‘Dead? Whatever do you mean, girl?’ Sakita’s skin flowed and a sweet-sour wet aroma flooded the air . . . then Sakita was young again, a studious-looking mixed-race woman – though her eyes were still venomous. ‘I’ve never felt more alive.’

  Tarita realised she’d allowed herself to become transfixed by the change: her foe was far too close – then Sakita lunged at her with a purple blade of necromantic energy.

  The blade just missed spearing Tarita’s arm. She feinted left and conjured her own spiratus blade, parrying the draug’s blows and slashing back at her. Sakita howled in agony as the blade whipped across her shoulder, opening up cloth and skin, and her illusory beauty fell away, leaving her a draug again. Yowling with rage, she used her gnostic blade to batter Tarita’s aside while her taloned left hand clawed at her face.

  She felt her shields tear again. Her instincts screamed a warning; she arched her back, sprang into a flip and cartwheeled skywards as mage-bolts exploded where she’d been standing a heartbeat before. Heartface swooped in, her robes fluttering like bat-wings. Tarita landed, threw herself feet-first against the wall and catapulted herself back towards Sakita, reaching inside her robes.

  She’d just remembered the elixir Capolio had given her for research – the recipe Sakita herself had devised to fight the venom in her body. She grabbed it with one hand as she threw a cross-body slash at her foe and batted her blade aside. She risked Sakita’s violet-limned talon raking at her to get the elixir vial inside the draug’s shields, shouting in pain as Sakita’s nails dug into her right shoulder and she felt the beginnings of a life-drain that could rip her soul out – but with her left hand she smashed the vial against Sakita’s face.

  The draug screamed, her life-drain spell died and she reeled away, a livid blotch opening up on her face. Tarita pulled her spiratus blade back into line and could have thrust . . . but this was Waqar’s mother. There had to be some way back for her . . .

  Then her wards screamed, she shielded a kinesis-blast from Heartface and the moment was gone. Sakita staggered away into the blackness and Tarita went the other way, smashing the little oak door ahead of her apart and pushing herself through on a blast of Air-gnosis.

  She landed in a narrow, lightless corridor and ran. She had to break through another door before hurling herself aside just in time as flames roared down the hall behind her. She was in an office – without pausing, she wrenched the curtains aside, threw herself against the shutters and crashed through onto a stone balcony overlooking a rocky slope and the desert below. She’d not realised the back of the hill fell away so far. A sound behind gave warning and she whirled to see Heartface at the office door. This time it was Tarita who struck first, blasting back at the masked woman with all her strength. Shields crackled red and Heartface jerked out of sight.

  And the skies were open before her.

  Tarita leaped from the balcony and dropped like a stone, her skin screaming with the agony of sprouting feathers, her back muscles rippling and skin tearing, limbs twisting as she fell . . . then nine-foot-wide wings burst from her back and unfurled, caught an updraft and she soared into the moonlit darkness.

  She looked back, as one shape then another peeled from the balcony she’d left and followed her out into the night. Lowering her head, she hurtled onwards, seeking altitude, elevation and speed.

  Southern Kesh

  Waqar called, clutching the relay-stave, but no one responded and suddenly the searing heat in his hands was too much. He dropped the stave, which burst into flame and crumbled to black embers. Another one gone. He cursed, his worry for Jehana a knot of anger inside him.

  His cabin in the after-castle was the largest on the windship but it was still barely large enough to squeeze him and his friends inside. The timbers of his flagship, a giant transporter craft, were thrumming from the Air-gnosis in the keel and the winds blowing the craft steadily towards Sagostabad.

  The order had come within hours of his brief contact with Tarita: every available windship was summoned to Kesh. The vast camp had been preparing for this moment and the loading got underway swiftly and smoothly, but it had still been one of the most exhausting days of Waqar’s life. He was responsible, which meant he had to ensure every craft that could get airborne did so. There was no grand lifting of the fleet; each craft left as soon as the men and gear were aboard. His was the last to leave; the place looked like the devastated remains of a camp after battle, complete with the wailing of women and children left behind without food or supplies. He couldn’t fix that; all he could do was pray to Ahm they had some place that would take them in until their men came home. He sighed, imagining similar scenes all over Kesh and Dhassa.

  As they’d crossed the Rakasarpal, the tongue of water that separated Lokistan from southern Dhassa, he’d caught up with half a dozen of his fleet, straggling northeast. Their first stop was a staging camp where they’d pick up supplies; he’d find out their next destination there.

  This is the Holy War, he thought wonderingly. The Shihad is actually happening – and we don’t even know who we’re going to fight . . . The enormity of it was staggering. I hope you know what you’ve started, Uncle.

  But right now what he needed to know was not their enemy, but if Tarita had found his sister. He stared at the burnt-out stave, wondering what on Urte he should do: Jehana wouldn’t respond and Tarita was unreachable. Then a memory popped into his head and he jumped up and scrabbled among his possessions for his belt-pouch. He searched it until he found the tiny copper toe-ring.

  Tarita had worn it for most of her life, she’d said. With renewed enthusiasm, he pulled out another relay-stave and began the call, this time using the ring as a focus . . . He felt the contact, heard the strangest strangled snuffling, and then a gurgling noise.

  Her voice gasped into his skull,

  He was puzzled by the way she sounded, and the accompanying sense of fear.

  she breathed,

  He could see her through the link now – she was in some kind of hole and though he could see only her face and shoulder, both were damaged, and smeared in filth. An animal stink reached him.

  Then she was babbling in his ear, a dreadful narrative that he didn’t want to – couldn’t – believe. Mother? No—! And Jehana . . . where are you?

  By the time Tarita was done, he was speechless with worry. They stared at each other through the link as the stave smouldered in his hand. he sent.

  He broke the link, wondering if he’d ever see her again – then the enormity of what he needed to do hit him. He raised his head and shouted gnostically for his friends.

  *

  ‘Waqar,’ Fatima said, hugging him, ‘whatever you need, we’ll do it.’

  Waqar had no idea how he’d have managed without his comrades. Luka, Tamir, Baneet, Fati: right now, he loved them all beyond expression. It had taken him half an hour to tell them everything he’d learned: his mother’s body had been revived as a draug, his sister was missing, and those behind the murder of Salim were somehow involved.

  ‘I have to go to Hebusalim,’ he told them. ‘I have to learn the truth – but Uncle Rashid wants me here to direct the fleet. So I’ve got to be in two places at once.’

  ‘Then you have to get permission from Rashid to go,’ Fatima advised.

  ‘In the middle of the launching of a Shihad?’ Lukadin said sceptically. ‘I know you’re family and all, but this is the Shihad – he won’t allow it.’

  ‘Luka’s right,’ Baneet rumbled. ‘Step aside now and Attam and Xoredh will destroy your reputation in seconds. You might as well fall on your own sword.’

  ‘Jehana is Rashid’s niece, too,’ Waqar insisted, then he sighed. ‘But you’re right, he’ll never
give permission.’

  ‘Why not?’ Fatima asked. ‘You said these masked people have penetrated the Ordo Costruo, but they haven’t yet found where the Order have hidden Jehana. Rashid doesn’t trust the Ordo Costruo: if he knew Jehana was in danger, he’d want to protect her. So tell him you know where Jehana is . . .’

  Waqar bit his lip. ‘Lie to the sultan?’

  ‘Sure.’ Fatima grinned. ‘Tell him your spy-friend knows where Jehana is but will only speak to you. He’ll let you go, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But I don’t know where Jehana is—’

  ‘She’s your sister – a really powerful scryer could use your blood to find her, as long as you’re close enough. This spy-friend of yours might be able to help.’

  Lukadin went to argue, but Waqar hushed him. ‘But what about my mother? Do I mention that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Tamir said. ‘A missing sister is one thing, but a draug is another thing entirely – that breaks all the Gnostic Codes. Your uncle wouldn’t just send you, he’d send a whole army, which would force the Ordo Costruo to oppose him, then you’d have no chance of going in quietly and finding them both.’

  That would be catastrophic, Waqar thought. ‘Very well, I won’t mention her.’

  ‘Only an idiot would lie to the sultan,’ Lukadin started, but Waqar had made up his mind.

  ‘No – I hear you, Luka, but I have to do it.’

  *

  Waqar had cleared his cabin so that he could concentrate on the difficult conversation he had to have. With his last remaining relay-stave he focused on the Mubarak family sigil and sent out his call. He’d half-expected some delay, or to be ignored, but Rashid responded almost instantly.

  Waqar had an impression of his uncle’s face and could sense that he was surrounded by bustle.

 

 

  Waqar dared to interrupt, before Rashid cut him off.

  Rashid’s face became surprisingly intense.

  Waqar launched into his tale, sticking as close to the truth as he dared.

  Rashid said, his voice somewhat sceptical, somewhat amused.

 

  He swallowed, waiting to see if this almost-lie was something that Rashid would take at face value. The sultan had fallen silent; Waqar could feel he was drumming his fingers. Rashid asked eventually.

 

 

  Waqar gulped.

  The sound of drumming fingers came again and he feared the worst, but Rashid said,

  Waqar closed his eyes. he said fervently.

  *

  ‘—so we’ll find Jehana, save Mother and maybe unmask these killers,’ Waqar vowed, ignoring his friends’ doubtful looks. ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do: I have to appoint a new admiral to get this fleet to Sagostabad, loaded up and sent onwards – and obviously we can’t take this transporter to Hebusalim; apart from the fact my uncle needs it, it’s too slow. We need something fast – one of the war-dhous with the mounted ballistae. And I want you all with me, if you’ll come?’

  ‘Of course we’ll come,’ Baneet said firmly, answering for them all.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, then a thought struck him. ‘Listen, when we deal with Tarita, we have to remember that she’s a Javonesi spy: we’ll deal with her openly and honestly about finding Mother and Jehana – but we cannot tell her about the windfleet; for all we know, it’s her land we’re invading and Uncle would have our heads if he thought we’d given someone like her advance warning.’

  They all nodded solemnly at that, then it was time to hurl themselves into the practicalities. Eventually a dhou drew alongside their transporter and they were able to cross over, replacing the pilot-mage and some of the archers, who’d swapped ships to make room. Rashid had contacted Waqar to ensure he knew their route and schedule, insisting once again he be kept up to date every step of the way.

  Beneath the crescent of the waning moon, Waqar passed on the baton of the fleet to Neniphas, an experienced ex-Hadishah commander who knew more about flying than he did anyway, then the dhou was uncoupled and with Luka at the tiller, sped away. Fatima, like Luka an Air-mage, called wind to their sails.

  ‘Four hours until sunrise,’ Tamir noted. ‘Let’s see what this bird can do.’

  They swung around and surged towards the north.

  *

  At dawn in the wilderness, a lone she-jackal cautiously sniffed the air. Birds screeched in a distant copse and a bull bellowed from somewhere towards a nearby village. The air was cool, but the pale pastel disc rising in the east was already radiating warmth.

  The jackal yawned and peered about it. It’d spent the night in a small wriggle-space beneath a pile of boulders, the abandoned lair of some burrowing animal, cringing as hunters passed overhead – they came close, but they never sensed her and now they were gone, leaving swiftly in the hour before sunrise. Sunlight was the bane of necromancy, so she wasn’t surprised.

  The jackal sat up, then with an ugly twisting and pulling and morphing of bones and flesh, it straightened onto hind legs, fur sloughing away until a skinny black-haired girl emerged, naked, with ugly scarring all down her spine and dead flesh peeling from her left cheek and right shoulder. She sniffed the air one last time as her beast senses faded and decided that she was alone and safe for now.

  ‘Praise to you, Great Ahm,’ Tarita croaked, as the concept of speech returned. She shuddered in memory of the night just gone; she’d quickly realised she couldn’t outrun her pursuers, but she had enough of a lead to go to ground, to change shape and blend into the night. That had been no small challenge, for Heartface and Sakita, realising her ploy, started killing anything that drew breath. The pulses of death-gnosis slew hundreds of birds and small reptiles, as well as larger beasts like the cattle that grazed this harsh land. They’d almost found her, but she’d found a den and burrowed under stone. She’d killed a slumbering snake as she’d passed and devoured it; the unpleasant tang of the flesh was still in her mouth.

  Thanks to her toe-ring, Waqar had managed to reach her there – he’d initiated the contact so she’d not had to expend energy, which might have drawn the hunters. But she couldn’t count on his aid – she had to assume that she was on her own. Capolio was in Sagostabad, too far away to call, as was her mistress in Javon. Going to the Ordo Costruo was fraught with risk. The Merozains had a shrine here, but it was possible her pursuers had realised she had Merozain training.

  She was undecided when a contact pricked at her. She dithered – was this Heartface’s attempt to find her? – but she took the risk, opening up to the call.

 

  She sagged in relief.

 

  They must have flown here immediately af
ter we spoke. Tarita’s heart thumped with excitement – then his words sank in.

  She broke the contact and took jackal form again, and bounded away.

  *

  Two hours later, Tarita was padding through the broken lands at the southern edge of the Hebb Valley. Out here, herders guarded their flocks with bows, and jackals were shot on sight, so she travelled low to the ground, both canine and gnostic senses engaged. To the north, Ordo Costruo-built aqueducts had turned the plains a pale green, while to the south, barren hills shimmered in the haze: a stark and vivid reminder of how much the magi had done for this region.

  She topped a rise and scanned the dell below, then backed away and, with careful, slow expenditure of power, she undid the shape-change. Then she walked back to the ridge, naked and dirty, her hair a tangle, still breathing hard.

  Below her was a windship, and someone was furling the sail. Waqar stood beside the hull with the four friends she recognised from Sagostabad.

 

  Waqar spoke to the young mage-woman, who scampered back onto the dhou, then reappeared with an armful of material. She made her way up the slope, looking about warily, but didn’t spot Tarita until she stepped from hiding. She flinched when she saw Tarita’s state.

  ‘Dear Ahm,’ she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose, then, ‘These will be too big for you. Wash them before you give them back.’

  Tarita raised her chin, refusing to play the subservient maid to this mage-born princess. ‘I’ll buy you a nicer set when I can.’ She was right – the clothes were so big she had to knot them tightly to stop them falling off.

  The woman looked at her dubiously. ‘So you’re the girl Waqar talks about. You’d better not be lying to him, or we’ll show you how gutter-born wretches like you are treated.’