Map’s Edge

by David Hair

  The girl froze, her warlike posture faltered and her mouth shaped a perfect ‘O’.

  But then she carved a symbol on the air and said, ‘Kaneska alla maho.’ A nimbus of scarlet flared around her, then faded as she dropped back into martial readiness.

  Zar gasped, ‘She’s a mizra-witch—’

  Banno quickly took aim again, but the girl blurred into motion, darting to one side and gesturing with an open palm – and an unseen force knocked the gun up and aside, just as the hammer clicked down, the firing pan exploded, the weapon spurted flame and the ball went shooting into the sky. The girl stumbled backwards, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping . . .

  As Banno gripped his flintlock to strike her with the butt, she recovered and, roaring in fury, brought her weapon flashing round. Moving like a dancer, she slammed the wooden blade into Banno’s temple and he dropped like to the ground like a sack of flour.

  Gasping, Zar tried to snap off a spell, but before she managed more than a syllable, the blunt end of the wooden weapon hammered into her belly and she folded over, panting for air. Then the girl launched herself at Zar, pinning her on her back in the dirt with one knee on her chest. She gripped Zar’s throat – but she didn’t squeeze. Instead, her big lustrous eyes stared into Zar’s with awe.

  ‘Mahotsu-kai?’ she asked, in an incredulous, amazed voice. ‘Shiro hada mahotsu-kai?’

  Then she snapped off another stream of words, her eyes flashed with light, and then to Zar’s amazement, she heard her words in common Magnian. ‘You are wizard?’

  She’s channelling her words through our familiars – they know both languages . . .

  Zar felt her eyes bulge, hardly able to breathe with the weight of the young witch crushing her. And Banno was lying unmoving beside them.

  ‘Please,’ she gasped, ‘we’re here in peace.’

  They stared at each other, open-mouthed, then the brown-skinned girl moved one hand from her weapon and touched Zar’s lips. Staring at her, she said, ‘I am wizard, like you. Where you come from?’

  But before Zar could reply, a score of men in what looked like boiled-leather armour poured through the poumahi arch. They all wore their hair in complicated topknots and carried polearms tipped with spear-points or axe-heads. Like the girl, they were brown-skinned, with heavily inked faces.

  The young woman got up, and only then did the men catch sight of Zar and Banno – they gaped at the strangers and took a step back, their own eyes wide in shock.

  Adefar, Zar whispered in her mind, do you know their tongue?

  In response, Adefar did the unexpected, flashing to Rima’s shoulder, where a lizard appeared. The two pressed their heads together, then Adefar returned and when next the warrior spoke, Zar heard him in Magnian, saying, ‘Rima, what are these creatures?’

  Not ‘who’; but ‘what’.

  The young woman, evidently Rima, was attracting admiring glances from the warriors as she draped her short feather cloak over her shoulders again. ‘I was just about to find out,’ she said, swaggering over to Banno’s flintlock and picking it up curiously. ‘Took you old men long enough to get here.’

  ‘What’s that?’ the burly leader asked, peering at the weapon.

  ‘Fire-stick,’ Rima sniffed. ‘It looks harmless.’ She tossed it to the man and stood over Zar, who was still clutching her aching stomach. ‘This one is a wizard, though. She belongs to us.’

  Us? Zar wondered. But that could wait. ‘We need your help,’ she croaked.

  The men started at what must have sounded like gibberish to them, but Rima squatted beside her and caught her chin again. ‘You must tell me who you are and where you come from, Pale Girl.’

  ‘My name is Zarelda,’ she answered, ‘and I can show you where I come from.’ She rolled over to check Banno was breathing, relieved to find he was, then climbed painfully to her feet. Without waiting for permission, she tottered back to the crest of the hill and pointed down at the valley, where the Bolgravian campfires still encircled the dimly lit hill-fort.

  ‘I come from down there,’ she croaked.

  Rima and her warriors joined her at the crest of the hill, sucking in their breath when they saw the fires, muttering questions in voices laced with disbelief.

  ‘Are they another tribe?’

  ‘Who are they all?’

  ‘Where have they come from?’

  ‘What are they doing in the forbidden lands?’

  Rima turned to Zar. ‘These are Tangato lands. To trespass here is forbidden. But you are mahotsu-kai – wizard – so you are safe, if my Master accepts you.’

  Tangato? Zar had never heard of such a people. She stared at the dark girl: close up, she could see that the patterns on the woman’s chin had been chiselled into her flesh, leaving ridges of ink-stained flesh. Are these savages? she thought, determined not to show how frightened she was. I’m an Otravian sorceress: I fear no one.

  ‘What about Banno – my friend?’ she demanded, trying to match Rima’s certainty.

  ‘Him?’ Rima smirked. ‘Him, we will eat.’

  5

  Madly beating heart

  Light faded and sound went dim, the sound of blade on blade dropping away, leaving Kemara alone with her madly beating heart, punctured and pumping blood where it shouldn’t go, and her fury, most of it directed at herself.

  You stupid bitch . . . you know never to trust a man . . . not that you’ll ever get the chance again . . .

  The damp cold of the stone was seeping into her body – until a dark presence overlaid it, filling her, heart and soul, body and mind, and the hole in her heart somehow inhaled, sucking the blood in her chest back into itself, then resealed . . . and thud – thud – thud – the beat restarted. Her lungs blasted a passage up through her throat, making her silently convulse; she vomited blood, then gulped down a mouthful of air: of life.

  Inside her mind, a masked face chuckled and whispered, Child, we’re not dead yet.

  Her eyes flew open and her senses exploded back to life.

  The chime of steel on steel reached her first: twenty yards away, she could see Trimble – no, Zorne: Toran Zorne – hammering at Raythe Vyre, who was fighting hunched over and left-handed, barely keeping to his feet. Even as she watched, Zorne lashed out with his boot, catching Vyre on the side of his right knee, and he crashed to the ground. He desperately threw himself into a roll, barely evading what would undoubtedly have been a finishing blow; instead, Trimble’s – no, Zorne’s – sword clanged off the stone bridge. The Otravian rose again, breathing hard, and lunged, forcing Zorne to back away.

  ‘Nearly,’ Zorne noted flatly.

  How did I ever let that man get close to me? she wondered. He’s hollow inside . . .

  Beyond them, there were now at least twenty Bolgravian soldiers lined up, the lead men holding torches and the rest with flintlocks raised skywards, watching Zorne play cat and mouse with his victim.

  Ready yourself, Buramanaka murmured, and this time Kemara found she could see him clearly in her mind. He was clad in overlapping strips of burnished bronze, like an armoured panther, and wore the scarlet mask she’d plucked from his tomb. He held a long-handled sword, gently curved and shimmering like liquid.

  No one noticed when she sat up stiffly; nor could they tell her blood was once again coursing through her. The duellists were locked onto each other; to the onlookers beyond, she was just a dark patch amid the shadows.

  Raythe was trying to rally when Zorne stuck him in the side, then kicked him in the groin. He went down in a heap.

  ‘I think the point’s been made,’ Zorne noted, signalling to the soldiers. ‘Bind him.’

  And Buramanaka whispered, Now, my child . . .

  She rose as energy shimmered through her: the blade Buramanaka had been holding in her mind vanished – and reappeared, cold and real, in her hands – and a new part of her brain quivered with knowledge of exactly how to use it. The leering blood-red mask formed over her face, becoming her, as she became it.


  She took a step, took two, and then ran, leaped, and soared right over Zorne’s head, over the crumpled Otravian and into the advancing Bolgravian soldiers . . .

  *

  ‘Eat him?’ Gerda on High! ‘No—!’ Zar stormed, shoving Rima aside and standing over the unconscious Banno, confronting a wall of tattooed dark faces and powerful bodies. ‘He’s mine!’

  Adefar made the words into their tongue and they all paused, looking her over: a pale, skinny, short-haired girl in strange clothing. A few snorted and one, a giant, ferocious-looking man, spat and strode towards her.

  She gulped as she faced his fierce visage with all those coiled markings. He jerked into a head-butt motion, and she instinctively gasped and recoiled – straight back into Rima’s hands.

  The Tangato woman interposed herself. ‘Don’t be such a porohea, Kamo,’ she sniffed.

  Adefar translated ‘porohea’ as ‘idiot’.

  ‘Bullying girls demeans you,’ Rima went on. ‘And this one is claimed for Hetaru.’

  The burly Kamo eyeballed Rima, ran his eyes down her body, rolled his massive shoulders and made a mockingly subservient gesture as he backed away.

  Zar let out her breath gratefully.

  Rima turned Zar around. They were nearly of a height, but the Tangato radiated capability beyond her years. ‘I was joking,’ she said. ‘We haven’t eaten prisoners for years.’

  Zar stared. ‘You were joking? At a time like this?’

  ‘There is always time for laughter,’ Rima declared, before turning back to Kamo. ‘There are invaders in our valley. Why don’t you do something about it, as a warrior should?’

  The big Tangato warrior touched his chest with his right hand with ironic deference, as if some private joke were at play between them, then he suddenly twisted and poked his tongue at Zar, leering menacingly.

  ‘Don’t be such a porohea,’ Zar told him.

  He snorted as if her defiance was beneath contempt, then sauntered away, snapping orders. But Rima was evidently impressed. ‘You and I are going to be friends,’ she chuckled, then she stepped in and pressed the tip of her nose to Zar’s, who retained just enough control not to pull away. Nose and then forehead pressed together was a strange sensation, almost as intimate as kissing. Rima’s breath smelled of mint-leaf and some unknown spice.

  ‘Koni’ka, Zarelda,’ Rima said softly. ‘Hayeri a mihi.’

  Welcome, Zarelda, Adefar whispered. Come among us in peace.

  ‘Um, uh, sure,’ she replied awkwardly.

  The Tangato girl smiled tolerantly, and stepped away. ‘We are Tangato, the Ancient and Always, the People of the Land,’ she said. ‘Come. The men will see to the fighting. I must take you to Hetaru.’

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ Zar protested. ‘There are two sides down there – two tribes. One is in the fort – they’re good people. The others, the greycoats, they are evil.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Rima replied. ‘These are Tangato lands and that valley is a forbidden place, so they must all die. Come, the Master awaits.’

  ‘No!’ Zar backed away. ‘My father’s down there—’ She floundered, then inspiration struck. ‘He’s a mahotsu-kai as well – he’s guiding us through these lands – so you have to help us against the greycoats.’

  Rima cocked her head, curiously like a bird, looking perplexed. ‘Your father also? Subarashi.’

  Incredible, Adefar fed her. Fantastic. Unbelievable.

  The Tangato sorceress strode after Kamo and drew him into a rapid-fire exchange, then turned back to Zar and said urgently, ‘Come, I must take you to Hetaru, quickly.’

  But before they could go, a new figure appeared in the arch of the poumahi and everyone present went absolutely still.

  Zar’s first impression was of vivid colour – a splash of bold red with gold embroidery so thick that the fabric barely moved. The face was starkly white, as if painted, topped by a tall pile of black hair, carefully braided and coiled atop the head and adorned by gold chains.

  Zar couldn’t tell if the figure was male or female for the elaborate robes concealed all shape, and the gait made it look like they were gliding. Behind them came more colourful figures, then a group of burly men beside a palanquin which was empty except for an elaborate, glittering throne.

  But Zar’s eyes were fixed on the figure with the painted face. Female, she guessed from the accoutrements, a glittering painted fan and rings on every long, delicate finger.

  Rima’s switch from strut to subservience was instantaneous. Dropping to one knee, pulling Zar down with her, she unleashed a torrent of words that Adefar translated as, ‘Long life to you, Great Queen. I exist to serve.’

  Zar kept her eyes lowered for all of five seconds, before burning curiosity – and the thought that Otravians didn’t kneel – got the better of her and she looked up.

  The newcomer was standing before her and the white face wasn’t a face at all, but a mask. Red lacquer lines around the chin were similar to Rima’s, but more elaborate. The masked visage was severe, narrow-eyed and covered all of her face, but the eyes were human, gleaming beadily, like a bird’s, and focused intently on her.

  ‘Please,’ Zar blurted, her words tumbling out in their tongue, ‘help my people.’

  ‘Do not speak uninvited,’ Rima hissed. ‘I’m sorry, Great Lady, she’s—’

  ‘Gaikiko,’ the lady, interrupted, her voice cold, inflexible. Foreign, alien.

  Her entourage crowded around. They were clad in a panoply of glittering silks in every bright hue and wearing masks of copper, some fashioned like animals, some human. They murmured to each other as they stared down at Zar.

  ‘Foreign,’ Rima agreed, ‘but a sorceress.’

  ‘Ah,’ the courtiers muttered. ‘Mahotsu-kai.’ Sacred.

  With a flick of her wrist, the Lady folded her fan to a needle-point, reached down and touched it – it was as sharp as a stiletto – to Zar’s chin and lifting it, as Rima had done earlier, she said coldly, ‘Yabanhito’– which Adefar translated as ‘barbarian’. ‘If she is a sorcerer, take her to Hetaru. She belongs to him now. All other foreigners must die.’

  ‘No!’ Zar shouted, rising to her feet.

  The eyes behind the mask bulged indignantly, but before anyone else could speak, Rima rose, grabbed Zar’s arm and snapped, ‘Kizetsu—’

  Stupefy, Adefar translated helpfully as a fist of darkness scattered her awareness across the stars.

  *

  Sometimes, you must make the hard calls, Elgus Rhamp reminded himself. It doesn’t always feel good, but alive beats dead, and that’s the biggest truth of all.

  The lads didn’t like it either, and that was understandable: no one liked crawling to the kragging Bolgies – but what choice was there? We had a good run, we’ve seen a few sights and now, if Persekoi keeps his word, we’ll live to tell the tale.

  That had to be better than being slaughtered so far from home that their ghosts would wander for ever.

  He was waiting with Crowfoot and Bloody Thom at the main gate. Banno should be here, but no one could find him, or Zarelda Vyre. That girl must be quite a lay, to turn his head so. If he could get his surviving son out of this alive, it’d be a good night’s work.

  If not, I’ll take one of Gravis’ whores and make more . . .

  Then a greycoat runner appeared. ‘Is ready, yuz?’ he said, in that hateful accent.

  ‘Aye,’ Elgus growled. ‘Come ahead.’

  Persekoi wanted his own men to lead the attack and Elgus was fine with that. There was too much fellowship now between his lads and the Teshveld folk for this to be easy. ‘Set a few men to guide them in,’ he told Crowfoot. ‘Let the Bolgies do the killing.’

  The Bolgravian runner returned a few minutes later with the first ranks of grey-clad men, their uniforms looking ghostly in the ringlight. Persekoi was at the front, his blandly handsome face confident, his mind already on future rewards.

  ‘Sir Elgus,’ he said loftily, ‘is ready,
yuz? You come with me, share in triumph, mmm?’

  In other words, if this is a trap, you die too.

  Elgus gestured towards the higher slopes. ‘My sword is yours.’

  Persekoi peered at Elgus’ old broadsword, a relic of a time when all soldiers wore armour and guns were too unreliable to be any real threat. ‘You keep,’ he smirked. ‘Put over mantelpiece to show children.’

  This is my father’s sword, you wanker, Sir Elgus didn’t retort. Instead he bowed and fell into step with the komandir, leading the first wave of Bolgravians into the fort. In moments there were dozens of them inside, winding their way upwards to where the villagers slept. Their bayonets were glittering silver, needles of death. Elgus wondered how many would have to die before those left surrendered. More particularly, he wondered if Persekoi could be trusted.

  Where are you, Banno? he worried. Wherever it is, keep your head down . . .

  He clanked along beside the Bolgravians, still boiling over the dismissive jest about his sword, but feeling like an anachronism in his armour. Persekoi was right: the old ways – his ways – were dying out. Men didn’t fight head to head now, but shot each other from yards apart, without having to look their opponents in the eye. This was war the imperial way: massed slaughter replacing old-fashioned guts and glory.

  Like it or not, I have to roll with it. The future belongs to Persekoi and his ilk.

  They climbed up through the empty first tier, for the Teshveld folk had bedded down in the old huts on the upper levels, behind the inner palisades. The cooking fires had all died down and no one was around to challenge them—

  —until a sudden volley rang out, tearing up the silence: flintlock muzzles were flashing above them, sending balls whistling through the palisades and hammering into the ranks of Bolgravians. He heard shrieks from the wounded, but most folded with little more than agonised grunts, tumbling to earth as a second volley, this time of arrows, sleeted down, skewering the grey-clad soldiers as they scurried for cover – but there wasn’t much: they were almost completely exposed to the attackers above them.