by David Hair
‘You there,’ the Bolgrav officer shouted in Magnian, ‘surrender or die!’
A moment later, a looming shadow broke over them and an axe came slamming down on the hindmost soldier’s skull, bursting it like a pumpkin. The Bolgravians spun round and in the instant the officer’s eyes left Raythe, he darted right, throwing himself into a roll, just as the Bolgrav officer fired. The ball went whistling past his nose.
Vidar roared and his left paw raked the face off the nearest man, then his giant axe, wielded singlehanded, crunched into the ribcage of the next. As the Bolgravians recoiled, Jesco blurred in, a dagger punched into the eye of one man while his blade slashed the windpipe of a second, then he ducked a lunging bayonet and plunged his blade straight through the chest of the final trooper, so deeply the tip protruded out of his back.
The Bolgravian officer was suddenly alone. Jesco had already kicked his kill off his sword, and Vidar had turned towards the man, his eyes burning red.
Raythe felt sudden pity for the man. ‘Just run,’ he called.
The young Bolgrav hesitated . . . and Vidar growled.
‘Leave him—’ Raythe shouted, but too late. The bearskin leaped fully twenty feet forward to slam the axe into the officer’s back, knocking him to the ground. The axe rose and fell, and again, a sickening succession of wet thuds, and Raythe’s protests died in his throat. Vidar slavered over the butchered corpse, baring teeth and drooling as he reached for a severed arm.
This is what a bearskin is, Raythe remembered.
‘Vidar,’ Jesco shouted, grabbing the bearskin’s wrist. ‘No time, we’ve got to go.’
The berserker roared, barely comprehending, his face more beast than man – but Jesco pushed the axe down, leaned in and kissed Vidar’s nose. ‘Hey, wakey-wakey, big man.’
Vidar’s face went from bestial to incredulous to aware, and suddenly he was himself again – and utterly outraged. ‘You prick,’ he snarled, wiping his face. Then the backlash of the transformation hit him and he staggered away, his face clearing.
‘One of these days,’ he growled at the Shadran.
‘Sorry, darling,’ Jesco replied, ‘but you’re really not my type.’
‘Stop flirting and run,’ Raythe called, and sprinted towards the cliffs, a few hunters already ahead of them. Some were carrying bows with empty quivers, others long-barrelled guns, still smoking. They all shouldered their arms as they reached the cliff’s edge.
The two days they’d been here hadn’t just been spent on creating the illusion of a full camp. Rope-ladders had been readied to get them past the worst drops, and on the beach the two captured Bolgravian longboats awaited them.
The two dozen men who’d stayed behind to man the ambush were crowing as they launched. ‘Bastards never knew what was going on,’ Jesco laughed. ‘Gerda’s Tits, we’re good.’
By the time the surviving Bolgravs managed to fight through the fires to the summit, Vyre and his men were two hundred yards from shore. By the time they were seen, that was three hundred and they were vanishing around the headland and letting the current sweep them along faster than a man could run.
Raythe pulled out his hipflask, filled with the last of his rye, and passed it down the line of rowers. ‘Anyone hurt?’
A chorus of voices declared themselves fine.
‘Not a feckin’ scratch,’ Jesco chuckled. ‘Today is a good day to be alive.’
They made landfall unopposed at the mouth of a small river and sank the longboats in the outgoing tide before wading upstream to conceal their tracks. According to the cartomancer’s map, this river would lead them all the way to the lake they sought.
The bulk of their expedition, led by Elgus Rhamp, were already two days ahead.
We had no chance of sneaking around the enemy if they thought that was what we were doing, Raythe reflected, so his plan had been to be found as swiftly as possible, so that the imperial forces would stop looking elsewhere. Being efficiently predictable, that was exactly what the Bolgravs had done.
And retreating back eastwards might even make them think we’re running back home – with any luck, they’ll pursue us that way and we’ll have vanished into the mountains before they realise their mistake.
Today, as Jesco had said, was a good day.
But leaving Elgus Rhamp in charge had the potential to ruin all that, so he didn’t relax. ‘Come on, lads, let’s get moving. Who knows what those clowns have been doing while we’re gone.’
2
Retribution
Zar grunted in a most unladylike fashion, soaked with sweat as she slogged up the short climb, a heavy pack on her back weighing her down. She was dragging the reins of one of their horses, which was burdened with the canvas for the tent and a hundred other things from pegs to billies to food, and she was cursing it out rhythmically as she hauled the unwilling beast along.
‘So you’re a wagon-horse,’ she growled. ‘Think you’re too good for baggage, eh? Well, get used to it!’
They’d left a dozen wagons at the ambush site to fool the Bolgravians, so everyone had to carry more. Their wagon was one of those they’d abandoned, and although she’d hated it – the lurching and jolting, the potholes and mud, and the incessant feeding and watering and rubbing down of the horses, it turned out that lugging your own bodyweight in gear was worse. The robust Teshveld village women seemed to manage all right, but she felt like an ant trying to carry a house.
Adefar flashed down from the skies, landed on the horse’s head, then flitted away again.
‘Thanks, and you’re no feckin’ help either,’ she called after him, making people look at her funny, then make warding signs with their fingers. She was getting used to that, too.
She dragged herself to the top of the latest rise and looked around. Clouds of steam were rising from the line of beasts and people stretched ahead and behind. Only a few wagons remained; the rest of the essentials had been transferred to handcarts or loaded onto the carthorses, mules and their own backs. Even though the journey had already whittled down their possessions to the essentials, they still had to dump a lot more.
She fretted over her father and his friends, luring the empire to them so they could get away, frightened for him, just like during the rebellion, when at every parting she’d faced the terror that this time he wouldn’t come back.
Jesco’s with him, she told herself, and he’d never let Dad die.
They were following a moderate-sized river upstream through grey shingle and bare rock, and mostly the way was flat. They’d glimpsed herds of wild goats and heard wolves howling in the distance. The mountains, their skirts deeply forested, were now only a few miles ahead.
‘Hey, Zar,’ Kemara called. The red-haired healer was sitting beneath the willows lining the riverbank. Beside her, her mule, still hitched to her cart, was grazing. ‘Thirsty?’ She held out her water bottle.
‘Sure,’ Zar panted, flicking her horse’s reins around a tree-stump then slumping down beside Kemara. She accepted the bottle and took a long, grateful swig. ‘So, how’s your praxis lessons going?’
Kemara’s face twitched. ‘Fine.’
‘How come I never see your familiar around?’ Zar asked. ‘Adefar could play with him.’
‘Raythe wants me to practise concealing it. And it’s a loner like me, I guess.’
‘What’s its name?’
‘Um, Bura,’ she replied evasively, as if her familiar was too personal to be discussed.
‘So, are you specialising in Mentius, Mundius or Proteus?’ Zar asked, feeling shut out.
‘A bit of each.’
Zar concealed her irritation behind another mouthful of water, then handed the flask back, wondering why, when magic was all she thought about – well, apart from Banno – Kemara didn’t want to talk about it?
‘Sorry to bother you,’ she said, standing and tugging on her horse’s reins. ‘Hope you can get that broomstick out of your arse soon,’ she added, as she stamped away.
�
�Sorry,’ Kemara called after her. ‘I’ve got something on my mind.’
‘Whatever,’ Zar tossed back, hauling on her damned horse’s reins, as the trail rose before her.
Dear Gerda, let me get there soon . . .
*
Their destination was only a few miles onwards and a burst of energy took Zar ahead of the main body so she’d almost caught up with Elgus Rhamp’s vanguard when she followed them out of the willows on the riverbank into a desolate scene: bleak, rocky slopes above a mist-wreathed lake. A lone stag saw them and thudded away.
She found Banno staring up at the wall of snow-covered hills that barred the way north. They’d been mostly obscured during the journey, but whenever glimpsed, they grew more forbidding.
‘Deo on High, how do we cross these?’ Banno wondered plaintively.
Zarelda had seen the maps. ‘The lake’s fed from the mountains on the far side. We find the inflow and follow it upstream to the istariol.’
‘It’s hard to believe there’s anything north of here but ice.’
‘Remember what Varahana says about istariol and the climate? A large motherlode heats the ground and creates fertility and life. If the cartomancer’s readings are right, we’ll find a place of richness.’
‘They’d better be right,’ Banno exclaimed. ‘Otherwise we’ll all die in there.’
‘We’ll make it,’ she told him. ‘Dad got me out of Otravia and the rebellion. He’ll find a way.’
She thought of their headlong flight through Colfar’s campsite as the Bolgravians rampaged in. Dear Gerda, I don’t want to go through that again.
‘Of course,’ Banno agreed. ‘He’s a praxis-mage, I’m sure he can do anything.’
She smiled gratefully, wishing they were alone. But his father was near, and she could sense the contemptuous eyes of his brothers on them. Strange how different Rhamp’s sons were.
‘I guess I’d better make camp,’ she told Banno. ‘Your brothers don’t like seeing us together.’
‘I don’t care what they think,’ he retorted.
They shared a smile, but she was right: there was work to be done. She dragged her horse to a likely site, a patch of level ground beside the lake, then fought her canvas into place and hammered down the pegs. Around her, the rest of the caravan was doing likewise.
As usual, the camp divided up into three zones: Rhamp’s thugs, Mater Varahana’s Deists and the hunters and trappers. Her tent was near Varahana’s camp but not in it, even though being on her own without her father or Jesco made her nervous. She’d slept the previous night with a dagger in her hand and must’ve woken at every sound.
Soon though, she’d coaxed a fire into being, and sizzled some vegetables in a tiny dab of fat winnowed from the rabbit she’d trapped a few days earlier. She wolfed down her sparse meal, then rolled up in her blanket, exhausted by the day’s travel. Shutting out the sound of hymns and the raucous laughter from Rhamp’s tents, she closed her eyes . . .
. . . and woke what felt like moments later to find her fire burned out, the camp in darkness and a dark silhouette crouching above her. As she went for her dagger they grabbed her wrist and clapped a palm over her mouth and a low male voice whispered, ‘Quiet.’
*
‘Let’s do it now,’ Osvard insisted. ‘This is our chance.’
‘No, we wait,’ his father snapped, while Banno watched anxiously. It had been like this all evening, his elder brother chipping away, eager for blood.
It was always going to come to a head at some point; he’d seen it before. Elgus Rhamp liked to talk about his noble lineage, but he’d been screwed over so many times that he’d come to realise that he had to be the one to strike first. He didn’t trust Vyre and he wanted the istariol for himself: it was simple as that.
But this journey had taken them far from their usual haunts and all the contacts and allies and patrons who usually protected them, giving them no haven if things went badly. They’d been forced to coexist with Vyre’s people for far longer than anticipated and the strain was beginning to tell.
Immediately after Vyre’s meeting at the tavern – was it really only two months ago? – Elgus had laid down the plan: ‘Once it’s found, we take control. Vyre dies, together with anyone who sides with him. Then we dig it up, all we can carry, and get the feck out.’
That was still the plan.
But what about Zar?
She was only sixteen, but Banno admired her peppy maturity and her adventurous zest, rare in girls, or at least any he’d met. They’d all been kept confined in preparation for marriage, silly hollyhocks with no life experience.
She’s the first girl I’ve met who I like as person. I won’t see her hurt.
But to break ranks was a huge thing, so he couldn’t warn her, though he desperately wanted to. The dilemma was killing him. Trying to argue that they should keep their pledge to Raythe Vyre had earned him a fist in the belly from Osvard, and the contempt of Crowfoot and Bloody Thom – and Father had told him that if he blabbed to Zar, he was no son of his. So he’d pretended to toe the line, hoping things might resolve on their own.
But now they’d reached the cartomancer’s lake and Osvard was demanding action. ‘This is the place,’ he was insisting. ‘We don’t need Vyre any more. That Mater is a scholar, she can find the blood-dust for us.’
‘Aye,’ Bloody Thom put in, ‘and chances are Vyre and his lot are dead now anyway; or they’re captured and blabbing to the imperials. We need to grab that istariol now, then get out.’
‘Vyre’s a sorcerer,’ Crowfoot reminded them. ‘His ambush might work. We can’t count on him being dead.’
His cautious advice found an ally in Tami. The pinch-faced woman had been quiet, but now she said, ‘Never bet against an Otravian sorcerer. You saw what he did to that frigate.’
Elgus frowned at his woman, while the rest chewed her words over. Tami seldom spoke against Elgus, but when she did, she was always proved right.
Banno knew he wouldn’t listen, though, not this time. Father will do this . . . I can’t stop him. The best I can do is get Zarelda through it. But will she ever forgive me for not giving more warning?
Elgus stroked his big grey beard, moving his mouth like he was sucking on a lemon: his thinking face. Finally, he spoke. ‘Right, give me your vote. Crow?’
‘We’re going to do this sometime,’ Crowfoot began. ‘The closer we get to the blood-dust, the more prepared Vyre’s going to be. I’ve seen a praxis-sorcerer in battle and it’s not pretty, so we need to pick our moment carefully. If he returns safe from the ambush he’ll still be wary; but if he finds nothing amiss here, he’ll think we’re with him and his guard will drop. That’s the time to strike, not now.’
Elgus raised a hand to stifle an exasperated curse from Osvard. ‘Thom?’
The swarthy veteran scowled thoughtfully. ‘Strike now. Seize the daughter as a hostage. Slit a few throats – we know who. Then set up an ambush along the lakeside to catch Vyre and Vidarsson and that Shadran pansy, if they even survived the imperials. Sooner it’s done, the sooner we can assert full control. The Mater will fall into line, and so will the rest of the hunters.’
‘Yes,’ Osvard said, thumping a fist into his palm, ‘yes—’
Elgus fiddled with the ponytail knot in his beard, then turned to his woman. ‘Tami?’
She smiled in that way that always made Banno feel that she had two games going at once. ‘I could make a case either way, but we need to proceed carefully. I support my lord, Elgus, in whatever he decides.’ Which was effectively not a vote at all.
‘Pah!’ Osvard snarled. ‘Why ask a kragging woman? We have to strike now, like Thom says.’
‘Banno?’
It was a risk, but he shook his head. ‘I’m with Crow.’
‘Another feckin’ woman,’ Osvard sneered, his eyes burning.
‘Shut it,’ Elgus growled. Then he ruminated some more, and nodded. ‘Let’s do it tonight.’
*
&nbs
p; It was a still night, the first windless evening in what felt like months. Kemara jolted awake, roused from a lurid dream of a demon-masked Aldar lover licking her thighs.
There was a blurred shadow on the canvas of her tent, and footfalls rustled in the wet grass. She went rigid, her mind racing. Her four patients were in the next tent, but they were asleep. Do I raise the alarm and precipitate whatever’s happening, or do I try to steal away?
Only one of those paths offered a chance of survival.
Maybe it’s just a sentry? she hoped, but there shouldn’t be any nearby. She eased herself from beneath the blanket, fumbling for the hilt of her dagger, conscious that it was the lesser of her weapons.
The air quivered at the mere thought: Buramanaka was awake, waiting.
The moment she spoke her summoning, though, whoever was out there would hear – even a whisper in this taut silence would sound like a shout. So all she did was slither sideways, eyes fixed on the gap between the canvas and the ground, where a couple of inches of foot and ankle were visible, in touching distance.
Then something pressed against canvas, a circular imprint an inch round – a flintlock muzzle, perfectly aligned with the middle of her bedroll. She heard the hammer click.
She writhed sideways and stabbed through the narrow opening, the dagger plunging into the man’s boot as the night exploded in a roar, flame belching through the canvas and something ripping through her blankets, thudding into the ground beside her head.
The gunman gasped in pain and the dagger was ripped from her hand, so she hurled herself out of the tent flap into the night, twisting to see a man holding a smoking flintlock silhouetted against the planetary rings. Her patients called out fearfully, but he hobbled to her, gun raised to slam the heavy butt down on her skull.
‘Kaneska alla miz—’ she began, knowing she was already too late.
But then someone barrelled out of the dark and slammed into her attacker, hammering him to the ground. Ringlight flashed on a blade that plunged once, twice and again in a series of wet thuds, grunts and weak gasps. Then her rescuer rolled off the attacker and collapsed.
