by David Hair
Then at last he paused to take stock.
Firstly, he checked his grip on the minds of the Ablizians. He’d lost almost twenty, but the remainder were gathered about him. The beast-headed warriors were in the process of butchering the Eternal Guard; all eight Keepers had already been reduced to charred corpses by the combined mage-bolts of his Ascendant warriors fighting in unison. The much-vaunted Ascendants had failed to overcome his creatures! The implications were astounding. No one can stop me! He extended his awareness and found remnants of the Eternal Guard at the edge of the town, retreating into the wilderness.
Where’s Naxius . . . ?
He cursed: the ancient mage had gone, or his wards were too strong to penetrate and find him.
So what about these . . . ?
He walked unsteadily to where the purple-robed Keepers were lying. They’d been burned to the bone; the few left with faces intact were filled with utter terror, confronting a power so great that even they, Ascendants all, had been rendered helpless. They were all ancient, he noticed: too old for the powers they wielded, perhaps, but this was still an incredible victory.
This spear . . . What have I wrought?
One of the Ablizians howled, calling him to a survivor: a young mage-noble, richly dressed, who’d fallen from one of the warbirds. His legs had been crushed by a falling mast and he was sustained only by self-administered healing-gnosis.
‘Who are you?’ Malevorn asked, crouching down and feigning sympathy.
‘Oljan Fruleau – General Bergium’s aide-de-camp,’ the young man gasped. ‘Oh Kore, it hurts!’ He gripped Malevorn’s forearm, wincing painfully. ‘Please, save me . . . I don’t want to die!’
‘None of us want to die. Why are you here?’
‘Naxius came . . . he commanded aid . . . in catching you.’ He blinked back tears. ‘General Bergium brought everyone . . .’ He sobbed aloud. ‘All the senior magi . . . were in the flagship . . .’
The senior magi! Great Kore, have I just crippled the Rondian First Army?
‘Was Kaltus Korion up there?’ he demanded.
‘No . . . he went south . . . a month ago. We had orders to . . . destroy a traitor . . .’
Malevorn scowled, and hardened his heart. Is this how you deal, Lucia? Is this your much-vaunted ‘honour’?
He straightened and addressed the nearest Ablizian. ‘Find me a relay-stave. Identify the bodies of the dead magi where possible and let me see them. Replenish your gnosis from the survivors. We’ll assault the main Rondian camp in three days.’
‘Please . . .’ Fruleau begged, reminding him that he existed.
Unwise. He spun the diamond spear theatrically, then plunged it through the young man’s heart. Then he drank his soul.
A better place awaits you, Fruleau: with Corineus.
Pallas, Rondelmar, on the continent of Yuros
Aprafor (Thani) 930
22nd month of the Moontide
Lucia Sacrecour waited in a room with a domed ceiling decorated with a translucent mother-of-pearl mosaic which shimmered in the candlelight. A low divan faced a scrying-bowl filled with liquid silver. Using it she could reach as far as Antiopia, with clearer image and sound than a relay-stave.
In Pallas it was midday, but in Antiopia it was evening. Even now Ervyn Naxius, with a contingent of Keepers, was finally reclaiming the Scytale of Corineus for the Empire. Outside, rain and wind lashed the Imperial capital from Roidan Heights to Tockburn-on-Water, but in here was warmth and simple, elegant luxury – that had always been her trademark in a court where the garish and ostentatious so often held sway. It was something she took pride in.
I’m a tasteful woman: a beacon of culture.
The silver shimmered and the symbol of the First Army command formed in red and gold on the silver surface. She lifted her hands, conjured it from a flat image to three-dimensional and accepted the contact.
A dark and utterly unexpected visage formed before her. Her words of congratulation died in her throat as Malevorn Andevarion’s burning eyes bored into her.
Her mouth was dry as ashes as she tried to comprehend. At last she managed,
Malevorn held up his hand.
she said meekly.
Kore, dear Kore, he means it . . . She realised she was shaking.
I’m so selfless, she thought, regaining her poise as she spoke. So dignified, even in this terrible moment.
He laughed.
She swallowed all of her pride and waited, head bowed.
She lifted her head.
She broke the connection before he did, and only then did she allow herself the small luxury of tears, for her son, and for her grandchildren. Not for myself, of course. Then she stormed from the chamber, bellowing for her sleeping aides, barraging them with commands as they staggered in, rubbing at their eyes.
‘Bring my council! Summon my generals! And the Keepers who are still here – I need them all! Rouse my son! Summon the Grand Prelate and the Treasurer! Now!’
As the bleary-eyed staff scattered she looked up at the twelve-foot-tall statue of Sertain, the first of the Sacrecours, in the centre of the courtyard. He bestrode the mountains with lightning in his grasp.
It was as if he spoke to her: We are gods among men, superior beings set on this world to rule it – the gnosis is the least of our powers; we have the money, the influence – the lineage! We were b
orn to rule – and I will tear down the world before I surrender it to an upstart.
She thought on that, and a plan began to form.
Yes, we will tear it all down, starting with that damned bridge. If Malevorn Andevarion wants to cross the seas, he’ll have to fly . . . and we will be waiting to meet him when he lands, exhausted and vulnerable.
Now . . . where in Hel is Naxius?
33
The Adversaries
Gnostic Trace
Just as every person looks and smells different, every mage has their own unique ‘trace’. Often it is associated with their affinities, but it is also said to reflect personality. Reports indicate that the gnostic trace of Emperor Sertain was like rough granite and brandy, while Baramitius was akin to vellum and tallow. Disguising this trace appears to be impossible, although methods of concealing it have been discovered.
ENIK TAMBLYN, THE THEORY AND PRACTISE OF THE GNOSIS, BRES, 913
Ebensar Heights, Zhassi Valley, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22nd month (of 24) of the Moontide
Alaron slithered towards the top of the rise, ducked beneath the lip of a small crater gouged by a hurled boulder and rolled in. A ruined Dom-al’Ahm loomed on the crest of Ebensar Ridge, beside the wreckage of a destroyed legion camp smouldering like coals on a dying fire. Yash darted in behind him. He was grinning fiercely, as if this were the best game since Hoop.
They’d been flying northwest out of Gatioch four days ago when they sensed the massive expenditure of gnosis coming from the Zhassi Valley – every mage in Ahmedhassa must have felt it: a sensation like distant thunder, rolling on and on for several minutes, sending a current through their skin, then fading out. Corinea confirmed that it was the same gnostic-taint she’d been tracking: they’d found Malevorn. Their maps, and Corinea’s best guesses at direction and distance, had him in the Zhassi Valley, in or near a town called Zarrabadh. They’d been making for there until last night, when another torrent of power had been unleashed further westward, at the fortress of Ebensar, which gave its name to the Ebensar Heights.
They landed the skiffs several miles away, behind a line of hills, and come in on foot. Far down the valley, at the edge of sight, was a sea of cooking-fires: the Keshi army. Finding the site where the power had been expended had been easy because the aether was still reverberating. That trace was like a cloud over the fortress and small town which crowned the ridge. Every building was shattered, blackened and smoking.
Alaron realised with a start that there was someone lying in the crater he’d slithered into, a bloodied, dust-caked Rondian ranker. He was clutching his side, a wet rattling sound accompanying every breath. Alaron crept to his side, kindling a gentle stream of healing-gnosis. A trickle of added Water-gnosis cleansed the wound and then sealed it, then he roused the man softly, a hand over his mouth.
‘Stay quiet,’ he whispered. ‘We’re friends.’
The soldier took in Alaron’s glowing periapt and pale skin and his eyes lit with relief. ‘Lor’ship, am I that glad t’see you! I thought I was a goner, see.’ His accent evoked the alleys of the northern cities of Rondelmar.
‘What happened here?’
‘Lor’ship, I wish I knew. The camp were already a mess, because all the gen’rals ran out on us three days back. They left some junior battle-magi in charge, like, but they was all at sea. Then this bloody Inquisitor rides in at dawn, like ’e owns the place an’ tells us to surrender or he’ll let loose ’is “Ablizians”. Well, the magi told ’im to be off, and ’e just laughs . . .’ The soldier started to shake and Alaron laid a hand on his shoulder until he’d calmed a little.
At last he went on, his voice fading in and out, ‘Then these animal-headed barstards – ’is Ablizians – they come outta nowhere, swear to Kore, an’ they bloody well ripped our battle-magi to shreds. Then they started on the rest of us, killing anyone they could find. I been playing dead, been ’ere all day an’ night. Not dared t’move . . .’
We’re too late . . . Or no, maybe not . . . ‘Are they still here?’
‘Lor’ship, I dunno; it’s gone quiet. But I been too scared to call out, ’cause these Ablizian things . . . they’re Souldrinkers, like in the stories! They been killing for sport. I saw ’em, but they en’t seen me yet.’ He clutched at Alaron’s arm fearfully. ‘Don’ bring ’em down on me, please – just get me out of ’ere!’
‘Hush. Don’t worry, we’ll see you safe.’ Alaron doubted the man would last many more minutes; he certainly couldn’t be moved, not without using so much gnosis that their enemies would know. ‘Tell me about the Inquisitor.’
‘That one – ’e’s a black-haired prick, and ’e carries this spear that glows like the sun.’ The man gasped, and blood bubbled from his mouth. He looked as scared as a child facing monsters in the dark.
Alaron glanced anxiously at Yash. ‘What spear?’
‘I saw it, Lor’ship: there was this great bolt o’ light, an’ it fried them battle-magi right up! You ’ave to watch out!’ He clutched weakly at Alaron’s arm and Alaron started to increase the healing-gnosis that was just about keeping the man alive – then a thin, ululating sound rang through the ruins above and he froze.
By the time the sound had faded, the ranker was dead.
Yash hissed in anger, while Alaron closed the man’s eyelids.
What are we facing? Malevorn’s destroyed an entire army . . .
Yash had crept to the lip of the crater and was peering into the ruined Dom-al’Ahm. ‘There is something moving on the takiya.’ When Alaron looked puzzled he added, ‘The takiya is the open space where the worshippers kneel and pray.’ The young Merozain huddled lower. ‘What if it’s them?’
‘We’ve got to face them sometime,’ Alaron replied grimly. ‘Go and tell everyone what we’ve just learned – use words, not the gnosis; these “Ablizians” might be able to sense gnosis-use. Bring everyone to the rear of the Dom-al’Ahm above, quietly as you can. I’m going to scout ahead.’
Once Yash had slipped away, Alaron climbed to the Dom-al’Ahm. The dome had been blasted open as if from within, leaving a ragged hole blackened by fire. Beyond the ruined shrine the takiya was strewn with dead bodies – Keshi slaves perhaps, and many armoured men. Beyond the prayer platform was a debris-strewn plaza in front of a broken-walled castle which looked to have been used by the Rondian high command, judging by the banners still hanging there. The ruins were smoking. The close-packed buildings of the town west of the fort looked lifeless. Whatever was left of the army itself was gone; the stench and wreckage of a hastily abandoned camp stretched away to the south.
The Rondians have been attacked and fled, but the Keshi don’t know that yet . . . Or maybe they do know something’s happened, but they aren’t coming near until they know it’s safe . . .
He re-entered the ruined Dom-al’Ahm, making his way through the halls to see what lay on the north side of the shrine. The edifice still echoed with recently discharged gnosis, prickling Alaron’s skin as he crept through deserted corridors strewn with fallen plaster and broken mudbricks. He found another plaza on the north side, scattered with more corpses and a pair of smouldering windskiffs; beyond that was a storm-tossed sea of tents, many burnt out. He couldn’t see anyone, but hooting noises could be heard in the distance – the sounds were too bestial to be human, but there were words in the calls, he was sure of it.
What’s an Ablizian? he wondered. Is that their call?
He heard Yash and the others and was heading back inside to the central dome when he glanced backwards, through the open doors, and froze. There was a figure on the takiya, a man-shaped silhouette with a lean waist and broad shoulders, carrying a spear. It walked slowly about, prodding at the bodies with the butt of its spear. Firelight illuminated its face, and Alaron stared.
So that’s an Ablizian . . .
The creature was, just as the soldier had described: animal-headed – this one had an eagle’s skull, man-
sized and rising from a thick neck and muscular shoulders, a feathered crest reaching all the way to the small of the back. It had a human torso with arms and legs, though, and walked upright. It was naked but for a loincloth, and its aura was a disturbing swirl of dark gnosis.
And it saw Alaron, even in the shadows and shrouded by illusion.
They stared at each other, and Alaron caught the sense of an encounter unplanned. With his inner eye engaged, he could feel the hum of communication. He reached out with mystic-gnosis to tune into the creature’s mind and isolate it, but touching its mind was like bumping into a hornet’s nest: the buzz increased and he caught an image of himself as seen through the eyes of the creature, projected to dozens of others. Unseen eyes blinked and turned his way from all over the smouldering ruins of the camp. Within a few seconds another Ablizian appeared, this one lizard-headed; it came gliding over a tangled pile of charred bodies and wrecked wagons some sixty yards away, and others followed. Their movements were eerily coordinated, as if the same mind was animating them all, as they closed in from all sides.
Alaron sent a warning to his group:
Corinea had an intent look on her face. ‘Don’t engage with them mentally. You’re not ready for that, any of you. Strengthen your shielding. Do you see the colours in the aura? They have access to every affinity and at great strength, just like you.’
Alaron gulped. More of his Merozains were arriving as the Ablizians formed a ragged line facing them across the corpse-strewn plaza. Beyond them were the smashed walls of the castle. There were now twenty beast-men before them, and even without engaging his gnosis he could sense more arriving; there was a thrum of combined might, growing as their numbers increased.
