Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

Windskiff riders were closing in and his head buzzed with the calls of the incoming battle-magi and knights. They now understood the need to decapitate – that was spreading through the aether like wildfire – but there was nothing between Lyra’s suite and the fresh onslaught . . .

  ‘Oryn,’ he shouted, ‘come with me!’ and took to the air with a rush, his comrade – an Earth-mage, but at a press able to draw on kinesis, at least for very short distances – wobbled upwards in his wake.

  *

  Time slowed to a trickle for Lyra, each separate second imprinted on her soul. On the balcony Sedina Waycross was blocking Lyra and Hilta’s view of Coramore – until she suddenly jolted and rose six inches, dangling—

  —from a bloody rod of bone that had punched through her left breast and out through her upper back. Blood sprayed across the windows and through the half-open doors as Lyra, Hilta and Geni gasped in concert. The teapot Geni was carrying crashed to the floor and shattered as Sedina’s willowy form fell as well, but something smaller remained standing.

  Then Coramore, or something wearing her form, stepped over the body, covered in blood, her right hand a skeletal claw dripping with gore. Geni stood petrified. Hilta backed away – but Lyra lumbered forward, caught the door handle and slammed it shut in the girl’s blood-splattered face. She felt the locking-ward catch and the frame flashed with pale light: the locking-spells Setallius had bound into every door and window-frame. Sedina’s blood on the glass obscured all but a blurred view outside.

  Then a little tongue licked a circle in the smeared blood and an eye peered in. ‘I’m the rightful empress,’ Coramore crooned. ‘You’re wearing my crown, Lyra!’

  The women backed towards the other door – then Coramore’s bony fist smashed through the glass panel in a spray of glass and a flash of light, effortlessly snapping Setallius’ wards.

  Lyra felt the breath freeze in her throat. Beside her Hilta went rigid, gnostic shields forming around her.

  A mage-bolt of vivid blue burst from Coramore’s left hand and slammed into Hilta, and her shields crackled and instantly went from blue to scarlet. Hilta reeled at the impact, then tried to marshal her defences as Lyra backed behind her, calling for her stand-in bodyguard. ‘ASCELLA!’ she screamed, ‘ASCELLA!’

  Before Hilta’s shields could reform, Coramore gestured and the pure-blood noblewoman was hurled like a doll into a cabinet, shattering the front and collapsing motionless among the pile of smashed wood and glass and porcelain fragments. Blood began to flow from a dozen cuts and Coramore stalked towards her, looking at the blood with savage intent, a trickle of drool running from her mouth.

  Lyra pulled Geni from Coramore’s path. We’re too far from the door. ‘ASCELLA!’ she screamed again, but it was as if they were in a bubble of silence, because no one responded.

  With a soft whimper, Geni straightened. She was quivering, but her jaw was set. ‘Get behind me, Majesty,’ she squeaked with heart-breaking courage.

  Lyra grabbed the girl’s arm. ‘No, you get out!’ She pulling her backwards with her, towards the bedroom. The only exit led to the Winter Garden.

  Coramore turned in their direction and Lyra and Geni froze, caught in her red-eyed gaze. ‘No one leaves without my permission,’ she growled.

  Then the girl was suddenly thirty feet away and bending over Hilta as she tried to get to her feet, clearly dazed and scarcely aware of what was happening. Coramore’s mouth grew snake-like incisors and she bit Hilta – not a tidy nip, but a wind-piping crushing crunch, like a wolf taking down a doe. Dark amber fluids visibly flowed into Hilta’s neck and spread through the veins.

  ‘Watch,’ the princess crowed, hunched over and licking the fresh blood from her lips. As if to emphasise her mastery, she flung out her arm, light flashed and the entrance wards re-sealed, locking out the rest of the world. Outside, the bells were clamouring with ever-greater urgency and they could hear shouting, and fearful cries.

  ‘Do you hear that, “your Majesty”?’ Coramore asked. ‘That’s the sound of your world ending!’ She made a ‘reveal’ gesture, as a stage-performer might make . . .

  . . . and Hilta sat up.

  Her face and chest had turned ochre and blood was running from her eyes and streaming from her wound – which sealed as she saw Lyra and Geni. She snarled like a rabid dog and began to crawl, then rose onto her haunches and came stalking towards them while Coramore tittered happily.

  Lyra grabbed Geni again and backed towards her bedroom door, her heart racing, her mind churning as she tried to reach-reach-reach for the power she’d brushed against in her garden below – but it was too far. Nothing answered.

  Hilta lurched closer as outside, a guardsman was hammering on the door, calling, ‘Majesty? Are you safe?’

  ‘All is well,’ Coramore sing-songed in Lyra’s own voice, winking extravagantly.

  The child in Lyra’s belly moved and she felt her own limbs unlock. With strength she’d never known she had, she snatched up a chair and threw it into Hilta’s flank, smashing her sideways. Then she grabbed at the petrified Geni to haul her back into the bedroom—

  —but Coramore had already flashed across the room and caught the maid’s neck in her right hand. Her left became a spearhead, but Geni caught her wrist the moment before it stabbed, fighting with all her strength against the twig-thin girl.

  For an instant she held . . .

  . . . and Lyra groped blindly, found a candle-stand and hammered it at Coramore’s skull. Bone crunched and the girl’s body convulsed, her grip on Geni slipping – until Hilta slammed into Geni’s side and bore her to the ground, tearing at her with clawed fingers.

  Lyra cried out, raising the bloodied candle-stand again, when Coramore suddenly straightened, laughing delightedly. For a brief moment, Geni’s face was clear amidst the confusion of bodies, and she shrieked, ‘Get out!’ at Lyra. Then Hilta tore out the girl’s throat and all Lyra could hear was the sound of guzzling. She fell backwards through the bedroom door and tried to pull it closed, but Coramore caught the handle and hurled it open again.

  They stared at each other, the girl’s feral eyes transfixing Lyra where she sprawled.

  ‘Oh, the Master’s going to have wonderful fun with you,’ Coramore crowed.

  Then the door to the suite burst open and a guardsman stumbled into the room, a second behind him. As one, Coramore and Hilta whirled, the first guard blanched and levelled his spear and they both stared at the bloody fiends before them, unable to reconcile what their eyes were telling them.

  Coramore pointed at Hilta. ‘She’s gone mad,’ she howled, ‘kill her!’

  The two guardsmen wavered, then Hilta shrieked and hurled herself at the first, who set his spear by reflex, and a moment later the head burst through Hilta’s back. The second guard took an involuntary step towards Coramore, his left hand reaching to sweep her into his protective reach, not understanding that Lyra was shouting a warning.

  Coramore slid under the guardsman’s arm, then her left hand contorted and plunged straight through his chainmail, leather jerkin and ribcage. The guardsman stared down at the limb sticking out of his torso, then his legs gave way. Beside him, the first guard was gaping as the impaled Hilta hauled herself along the spear-shaft towards him, yowling and mewling. He let go of the weapon as a swiping hand almost took his head off, but it was a brief victory, for in the next minute, Hilta had pulled the spear from her own body, reversed it and with inhuman strength, slammed it through the guardsman, throwing him into the far corner of the room.

  Then a horde of shambling, ragged figures brandishing cleavers and knives and clubs swarmed over the balcony railing outside, pounded over Sedina’s body and burst through the balcony windows in a shower of glass and broken timbers.

  Lyra threw off her paralysis and screamed for Ril, for Setallius, for anyone – but the only ones who heard were Coramore, Hilta and their ragged host of a dozen or more Reekers oozing with disease and madness stalking towards her.

  ‘What
?’ Coramore leered, cupping her ear. ‘I can’t hear you. No one can hear you!’ She cackled in cruel hilarity. ‘After all these years, you still haven’t learned to use the gnosis? You deserve to die!’

  Lyra scrabbled backwards to the foot of her bed as Coramore kicked Geni out of the way. The maid rolled onto her side – and then her eyes fell open. They were amber, like Hilta’s, and she bared her teeth when she saw Lyra.

  ‘She’s mine,’ Coramore warned, as the Reekers behind her started reaching, snarling, towards Lyra. She heard a sound and from the corner of her eye saw more of them on the bedroom balcony, blocking off the stairs to the Winter Garden. They were rattling the doors, making the locking-wards flare.

  ‘So this is your inner sanctum?’ Coramore chirped. ‘You know, I might redecorate – with your blood.’ The Sacrecour princess held out her hand and all her minions stopped advancing and watched. ‘Do you know my name?’

  Lyra whispered, ‘Coramore . . .?’ although she truly had no idea.

  ‘Wrong! I am Abraxas – and all this will be mine!’

  Lyra was beyond fear. Her guards were gone, her ladies somehow possessed and Ril and anyone else she might have hoped to save her were nowhere in sight. The sanctuary of her garden was too far – and even then, it would likely avail her nothing.

  There was only pride left. ‘Do your worst,’ she said, lifting her chin.

  Coramore giggled. ‘Oh, Lyra darling, we certainly shall.’

  Then with a massive crash, something struck the side of the building, the bank of windows shattered, stone and timber splintered and cracked and the bedroom balcony fell away, bearing the riverreek victims with it, all howling in shock. Fire blossomed in the sitting room and as the remaining diseased yowled like beasts, gnosis-energy shivered through the air.

  Coramore cast a surprised look backwards as Solon Takwyth’s voice belled out like a clarion, ‘LYRA! I’M COMING!’

  The Bastion, Pallas

  Ril looked at Singolo, wavering between his need to send a gnostic call to Lyra, even though the alarm had already been raised, and following the Reekers’ trail. Then trumpets resounded through the passages and his heart leaped in fear and hope.

  It was the Imperial fanfare.

  Kore’s Balls – Lyra must already be in the throne room with these poor bastards!

  Ril was about to start tearing along the corridor screaming her name when Mort grabbed his shoulder. ‘Ril, no! Sometimes it’s best to arrive at a party unannounced.’

  He realised the axeman was right. They had no idea what was going on. Any call to Lyra would likely alert whoever else was with her. He took a deep breath to centre himself, then followed Mort through the Gallery of Remembrance to a huge atrium with a giant staircase, ten flights leading from the ground floor and the throne room to the upper reaches of the palace. Hundreds of courtiers were pouring down the stairs, heading for the throne room, their fearful voices babbling amidst the tolling bells and the trumpeting fanfare. He saw their terrified faces and realised most were unarmed – not that many would know how to fight anyway, for these were the bureaucrats and their wives, their skills social or administrative. In an emergency, they’d flock to the throne room, expecting to be reassured by their ruler.

  And it’s a trap.

  He almost broke cover, but Mort hauled him back in, hissing, ‘These masked bastards are preparing something, otherwise the fight would be all-on by now. Let’s get close enough to decapitate the snakes before they bite, eh?’

  But my wife is here somewhere, Ril thought, then shook himself and began to think. ‘You’re right . . . it looks like the Reekers are in the rooms around the throne hall – there’s no upper gallery, but there are vantages for crossbowmen on this level. This way – let’s go!’

  At first they saw no guards, until a straggler hurtled around a corner, fretting over the lacing of his breeches. Ril caught the man’s arm. ‘You, do you know who I am?’

  The guard stared, then gulped. ‘Prince Ril, sir! I’m so sorry, I’m just going to my post now! I was—’

  Ril wrenched off his signet ring and thrust it into the man’s hand. ‘Your name?’

  ‘Henrik, Imperius III, Maniple—’

  ‘Whatever! Listen, Henrik: take this ring to your commander and tell him he’s commanded to come here – right now – this is an emergency! You’ll be the saviour of the realm, Henrik – go!’

  Henrik looked again at the ring, then sprinted away.

  Ril watched him go, then turned. If I remember rightly . . . He grunted in satisfaction as he pulled a heavy velvet curtain aside, revealing a narrow doorway. He flicked it open with the gnosis and found an antechamber with an arrow-slit overlooking a lit space. There was even a crossbow and a dozen bolts in a rack on the wall. ‘Yours,’ he told Mort, then raced along to the next vantage point.

  He’d just settled and loaded his weapon, barely able to hear himself think above the babble of voices and the blare of trumpets and bells, when the trumpets ceased and a clear, cold voice cut across room.

  ‘Welcome!’ the voice called. A woman’s voice, Ril realised in surprise. It was slightly distorted, with a metallic ring, but still penetrating. He craned his neck and saw a petite hooded shape, most definitely feminine, on the stage where the court herald would normally stand. ‘Welcome to the dawn of a new age!’ she shouted.

  She was flanked by two figures he knew only too well. Sir Bruss Lamgren stood like a statue, a giant Schlessen zweihandle held tip-down between his feet. But the figure that stole Ril’s gaze was his one-time lover, Jenet Brunlye, in her red dress. He stared at her in anguish. She held an iron rod mounted with a ruby, the sort of periapt necromancers used, though that had never been one of her affinities.

  The masked woman’s bold proclamation caused the crowd of dishevelled courtiers beneath the dais to go silent, until one drunk yelled, ‘What new age?’

  ‘The Age of the Masquerade,’ the woman replied, flicking her hood away from her face. She had a mane of brown hair, tight curls rippling down her back, but her face was hidden behind a Lantric mask: Tear. The lacquered white of the disguise contrasted sharply with the scarlet lips and dripping tears.

  The crowd looked at one another, confused. ‘What masquerade?’ someone shouted. ‘Why are the bells tolling?’ another called. ‘Where’s the queen?’ another bellowed, and many took up the call.

  ‘THE QUEEN HAS GONE,’ Tear cried aloud. ‘SHE IS NO MORE!’

  There was a sucking in of collective breath and Ril felt the ground beneath him spin away. Lyra’s face flashed before him and almost he tried to call to her, but that was drowned beneath a wave of fury as Tear gestured and a small, familiar figure stepped from the wings of the dais and walked to her side.

  Cordan Sacrecour: clad in the regalia of the emperor. All that was missing was the crown. The young prince – still only twelve – looked frightened.

  Faces went pale, and many were noticing that the doors had stealthily been closed, shutting them in.

  ‘What’s happening?’ a woman wailed. The older Corani courtiers, those who remembered 909, began to huddle together as Lamgren and Jenet stepped to the edge of the stage and raised their weapons.

  ‘We have called you here to enlist you in a great deed,’ Tear proclaimed, her metallic voice cutting through the babble. ‘You see before you Prince Cordan Sacrecour, the Imperial heir. Do you wish to see him rule you?’

  The courtiers looked at each other uncertainly. But a few were bold enough to call, ‘Not bloody likely!’

  Ril finished winding his crossbow, placed his bolt and sighted, first upon the masked woman’s chest, then Cordan’s. But it was to Jenet Brunlye his eyes kept moving. What are you doing here, Jenet? What have you become?

  Focusing on the boy-prince enabled Ril to see that he alone of those onstage was as scared as anyone in the crowd. He’s terrified of this Tear bitch, Ril realised. He shifted his aim back to her, his finger quivering over the release.

  ‘But w
ho are you?’ an old man, a minor Corani noble, demanded of Tear.

  ‘Me? I am a loyal Corani—’

  The old man pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘Then why would you support Cordan bloody Sacrecour?’

  Tear drew herself erect. ‘Because Lyra Vereinen has betrayed the trust we placed in her. She’s failed to keep the peace, or to enrich her people! She cast off the best man in Koredom in favour of a lecherous mudskinned Estellan!’

  Cheers, Ril thought, struggling not to shoot, but what she said and did next could tell him a lot about how deep her plans went, and how loyal the court was to Lyra.

  ‘How is what you’re doing any better?’

  If an immobile mask could be thought to smile, Tear smiled. It was evident in her posture and her voice as she walked behind Cordan and placed her hands on his shoulders. Cordan visibly quailed at her touch, while Ril cursed as his shot became harder. He re-sighted at the only part of her that was clear: her head and neck.

  ‘Because tomorrow,’ Tear shouted, ‘Garod Sacrecour’s people will march into the Bastion and reclaim it, brought by the lure of this boy, just as you were lured by the promise of riches five years ago. And when they arrive, we will crush them, as Lyra should have done five years ago – and Solon Takwyth will take the throne!’

  Cordan twisted in Tear’s grip: this was clearly news to him too. But her fingers were like vices, clamping him in place.

  Ril stared as the pfenniks began to drop into place.

  They’re going to kill Lyra. He swallowed. Tear had claimed she was gone already. And when Garod arrives, they’ll kill him too – and Takky’s behind it? He wished there was someone here who knew the game better than him – Setallius or Dubrayle or even old Duchess Radine – to advise him, to tell him if this was plausible, or just fantasy. Do they really have that kind of reach? But there was just him.

  The noise of the room below rose again, confusion apparent, then a younger man, a portly official from Treasury, stepped forward. ‘I’ve no great objection to Takwyth, if the queen is dead. But where is he?’