Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  Renn Bondeau whirled to face him. ‘So you’re back. About time!’

  ‘What man of worth would be anywhere else?’ Ramon quipped, quoting from a famous play about a Rimoni general facing overwhelming odds during the Schlessen wars.

  ‘You think quoting some play makes you a general?’ Bondeau sneered, eliciting a laugh from those about him: Seth Korion quoted poetry all the time. ‘I can just about take Korion as a figurehead, but I’m damned if we’re going to all play second fiddle to you. I’m the only one here fit to command this army.’

  ‘The very fact you think so proves you’re not,’ Ramon replied tartly. ‘Do you even know where we are?’

  ‘South of Shaliyah, near the Efratis River. Which will be impassable for a week after this rain. It’s the biggest water-course in the region, which you’d know if you’d read the briefing notes before we left Peroz.’ Bondeau slapped the table triumphantly. ‘The gnostic storm at Shaliyah has triggered an early rainy season. If we continue south we’ll find the river in flood and no way across. We’ll be trapped.’

  ‘I read the briefing notes, and I spoke to traders too,’ Ramon said calmly. He walked into the middle, noting that the Brician and two Brevians appeared to be favouring Bondeau. ‘If you’d really done your research you’d know about a town called Ardijah. It’s about here.’ He jabbed his finger at an unmarked part of the map. ‘If this map wasn’t so badly drawn, you’d know that Ardijah has an Ordo Costruo-built bridge that lies above the highest flow of the river. The Efratis can be crossed there.’

  Renn tutted impatiently. ‘The town will be fortified! And even if we could cross, it only takes us into Khotriawal – we’ll be trapped between two enemies, rather than staying ahead of one! We should be marching back to Peroz—’

  ‘Peroz is four weeks’ hard march from here, across a searing desert. This rain is localised, don’t forget. It was hard enough the first time, but we don’t have four weeks’ stores, and worse than that, most of the men have worn through their shoes. Have you seen how many are limping along on bleeding feet? And that’s not even stopping to consider what the enemy are doing. If I were them, I’d have pushed cavalry west already to block the retreat of anyone who escaped Shaliyah. Ardijah is our gateway to freedom, not Peroz.’

  ‘The enemy don’t care about us,’ Bondeau scoffed. ‘They’ll be sending men north, to take on General Korion.’ He glanced at Seth and added witheringly, ‘That’s the real General Korion, not you.’

  For a moment Seth looked as if he would take umbrage, but once again he did nothing. It was as if his reaction was muted by something – fear, Ramon guessed. For all that he was a pure-blood, Seth had always been weak-willed. He looked Korion in the eye.

  Seth visibly quailed.

 

  Seth shook his head faintly.

  Ramon rolled his eyes. ‘You should take that back,’ he said evenly to Renn Bondeau. I’ll corner you into standing up to him, Seth. See if I can’t. ‘His honour demands a retraction.’

  ‘Oh, you speak for his honour, do you?’ Bondeau stepped towards him. ‘Maybe he’s just your puppet, Silacian? Do you have your hand up his arse to make him talk?’

  Ramon’s hand went to his sword-hilt, but before he could open his mouth, Seth finally broke his silence. ‘You will retract that, Renn,’ he blurted, his face turning crimson.

  Bondeau smiled triumphantly. ‘Or what?’

  ‘Retract, or I demand satisfaction,’ Seth blurted again, his eyes widening as if in horror at what his mouth was saying. ‘It is my right.’

  ‘How about we duel for the leadership of this army?’ Bondeau suggested in a sly voice. ‘That will show us who is more fit to lead fighting men.’

  ‘Brother magi may not duel,’ Jelaska growled, and most of the room murmured firm agreement, to Bondeau’s obvious displeasure. ‘Least of all when we’re caught behind enemy lines. We will find another way to resolve this.’ There was a mutter of agreement from the unaligned.

  ‘Pah!’ Renn stabbed a finger at Ramon. ‘This sneak seems to think he can play us all. Neither of them are any use in a real fight. All they did at Shaliyah was run.’

  ‘Seth is the ranking mage,’ Ramon retorted, putting aside the slur to his own courage. For now. He tapped the table. ‘More than that: he’s a Korion. I think we all know that his name is pretty much all that’s keeping this army together right now.’

  ‘There is a rukking world of difference between Kaltus Korion and Seth Korion,’ Bondeau snarled.

  ‘I know it,’ Ramon responded, before Seth could. ‘We all know it. But for forty years, the name Korion more than any other has been associated with victory. Those men out there are running out of hope, and the only thing we can do for them is to tell them that someone with the magical name of Korion is in charge – and that this fact might bring his father to the rescue.’

  The magi were all nodding at this, even Bondeau’s supporters, if grudgingly. Bondeau read the mood and threw up his arms. ‘We’ve been over that already,’ he said dismissively. ‘You may be right about the common herd needing to have a Korion in charge, but we’ve got to agree in this tent about who is really in command. I nominate me. I’m better qualified for it than any oily southerner.’

  ‘You’re not even a career battle-mage,’ Sigurd Vaas retorted. ‘I’ve served in the legions for thirty years.’

  ‘Mostly spent fighting the empire,’ Bondeau sneered. ‘I’m neither a rebel nor a mudskin.’

  Ramon felt hackles rise about him. To his surprise, Seth Korion waded into the middle, sweating profusely but with jaw set. ‘Stop this,’ he said angrily. ‘You all put me in charge and I’ll be in charge. I’ll listen to advice, but I’ll give the orders.’

  Ramon wondered if this was some sign of stepping up to his role – or perhaps he just wanted the glory. He glanced about the room, counting, and decided that Seth might have the numbers, if only because Bondeau was so unpopular. ‘I can live with that,’ he said finally. ‘Let Seth decide whose advice to follow.’

  If I can’t outmanoeuvre Bondeau, I deserve to lose.

  There was a murmur of assent. Ramon looked at Jelaska, who gave a faint smile of satisfaction. Bondeau glared about him, then his shoulders dropped. He spat disgustedly and made one last effort. ‘All right, General, here’s my advice: march to Peroz! It’s garrisoned, it’s safe and it’s in the right direction. Any other course is rukking madness!’

  To Bondeau’s utter disgust, Seth looked at Ramon questioningly.

  See, Renn? I win again. Ramon hid his smile as he walked back to the map. It was rough, poorly drafted and probably completely unreliable beyond very basic detail, but it was all they had. ‘We can’t go west without ending up in a trap, or death by sun and sand: whatever Renn thinks, we won’t make it. Anyway, don’t you think the people of Peroz know of Shaliyah by now? Echor left one legion to garrison it: anyone want to take odds whether they’re still intact?’

  He let them digest that thought, then moved on. ‘To the south of us is a region called El Efratia, named for the river that runs through the heart of it. It’s a floodplain. The currents are deep and strong in the rainy season, but it dries up swiftly to a much narrower flow during the remainder of the year. On the far side is Khotriawal, ruled by the Emir of Khotri. Do any of you know of it?’ He looked about at the shaking heads. ‘As it happens, I do. When I lived in Norostein, I billeted with the Mercer family. Vann Mercer was a trader and a soldier. He spent time in Hebusalim and other cities, and asked a lot of questions. He used to talk of Kesh all the time at dinner. In fact—’

  ‘Get to the point, Sensini,’ Sigurd Vaas rumbled.

  Ramon raised a hand. ‘Sorry. Right. So: Khotriawal. The thing is: it’s a free city. The people don’t consider themselves Keshi, and they don’t answer to Salim
– in fact, the Mughal of Lakh is from the Khotri royal family.’

  The faces about him were blank. ‘So what?’ Renn demanded.

  ‘So,’ Ramon replied, ‘we should go there. Salim can’t follow us without violating the border and starting a three-sided war, and I think even he would hesitate to do that while Korion Senior is pillaging the north.’ He looked pointedly at Seth. ‘So General, what do you think?’

  *

  Seth Korion sat uncomfortably on his horse and watched the army march past. It was dawn, and they had broken camp and were heading south. Making a decision the previous evening had been simple: only Ramon’s idea made any sense to him. Even though it felt utterly wrong to be marching south when home was north, it seemed to be the only way they stood a chance. Renn Bondeau was sulking, but even he’d been forced to concede in the end.

  As each battle-standard and maniple banner passed, Seth gave his most impressive salute, and the soldiers raised their arms and pummelled their breasts in response. It felt like a dress-up game, not the fulfilment of a lifelong ambition, and yet here he was, general of an army.

  Liar. You’re no real general. Father would die laughing at the very thought.

  Beside him, Ramon Sensini waited for the opportunity to talk. Seth let him stew for a while longer, because it troubled him to rely so much on the little Silacian. He doesn’t mean me well, I swear. Occasionally he glanced sideways at Chaplain Frand – Tyron – the only person he trusted in this whole army. His calm presence gave him the strength to turn to Ramon.

  ‘All right, Sensini, what is it now?’

  The little Silacian hissed impatiently and nudged his mare forward. ‘I’m so delighted you could make time for me,’ he said tersely. ‘Some of us have a rukking baggage train to organise.’

  ‘You’re the battle-mage of the Tenth,’ Frand replied mildly. ‘You got the supplies out in the midst of a rout – you’re clearly in the right role.’ He gave a sideways nod, the courtiers’ acknowledgment of a point scored in a verbal duel.

  Go Tyron! Heartened, Seth demanded again, ‘What is it?’

  ‘There are decisions you need to make.’ Sensini lifted three fingers, began counting them off. ‘One: we’ve got just enough food to get to Ardijah and that’s all. If we get baulked there, we’re in trouble. And—’

  Seth interrupted with a snort, ‘As if mudskins could stop us from crossing.’

  Sensini frowned. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s likely to keep raining heavily for some time now and a defended ford is hard to cross. What if the Khotri also have magi?’

  Seth went to open his mouth then paused. The enemy have magi. We don’t know how many or where. Frightening. A few days ago he would have said that was impossible.

  He looked at Tyron, who frowned. ‘Who’s to say if the fords will be as treacherous as you say? It can rain anywhere, anytime,’ the chaplain said.

  Sensini shook his head. ‘Not here, chaplain. According to the veterans it rains here twice a year, lightly in Janune and more heavily in Junesse. The storm at Shaliyah has brought the Janune rains early.’

  ‘In Yuros—’ Tyron began.

  ‘We’re not in Yuros,’ Sensini retorted, his eyes narrowing. ‘I thought you’d have noticed by now, prete.’

  Tyron flushed, then closed his mouth.

  Seth looked at Sensini crossly. ‘What was your question?’

  ‘There are two roads from here to Ardijah. One is shorter, but we’re likely to run out of water on the way. I want us to take the more southerly route, which is significantly longer but will bring us alongside the Efratis River. Then we can refill our water barrels as we make our way to Ardijah.’

  Seth pulled a face. How would I know what to do? Yet this decision could cost lives. He reached out mentally to Tyron.

  The chaplain glanced vexedly at the Silacian and admitted,

  Seth sighed. ‘Very well, the river road it is.’ He saluted the next battle-standard to pass. Fridryk Kippenegger was riding beneath it. I’m surrounded by barbarians and low-lives. ‘What else?’

  Ten minutes of rattled-off requests followed, far more than the promised three: where in the column the baggage would go, the order of march, where to scout and who should form the rearguard, and a multitude of trivia that Seth was appalled to find a general needed to think about. He did the best he could off the cuff, and finally the irritating Silacian nudged his horse into motion and bounced away.

  ‘Anyone would think he’s enjoying himself,’ Tyron observed. ‘You were at college with him, weren’t you? How did he ever get into a proper Arcanum?’

  Seth curled his lip. ‘He arrived with a sack of money and some mysterious note from his real parent, or so we assume. The principal never even told the other staff about it. His mother was a tavern girl – he never made any secret of that. But his father … who knows?’

  ‘The by-blow of some rich noble?’

  ‘Or some mage criminal. In Silacia the only magi are army men and their by-blows.’ Seth stared after Sensini as he trotted away. ‘Every time he speaks, it makes my stomach churn.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Seth hung his head guiltily. ‘The truth is, my friends and I were cruel to him. Regardless of his baseborn nature, I’m not proud of the way we bullied him and his friend Mercer. One shouldn’t whip animals for the mere pleasure of it.’

  ‘Trials make us strong,’ the chaplain responded, quoting the Book of Kore. ‘You were probably doing him a favour, beating the devils out of him.’

  Perhaps that’s why Sensini appears to be coping with this better than the rest of us? Seth shook his head. What had happened at the Arcanum hadn’t been right; he’d known it then and could see it even more clearly now. ‘What do you think the enemy are doing?’

  Tyron shrugged. ‘I don’t know. None of us do.’ He gestured towards the northeast. ‘I’ve sensed gnosis being expended from the direction of Shaliyah, but not a lot, and not near.’

  ‘It’s not supposed to be like this,’ Seth complained. ‘We’re magi – we’re not supposed to be blind. But now we’re all too scared to try our powers, in case it brings the enemy to us.’ He squeezed his reins tighter. ‘What if we’re walking into another trap? What if I’m going to get us all killed?’

  ‘I believe in you,’ Tyron Frand said encouragingly.

  That just made him feel the responsibility even more deeply.

  *

  Salim Kabarakhi I, Sultan of Kesh, sat beneath an embroidered canopy, sipping cool sharbat and nibbling on sweets as the victory parade wound its way past his balcony. He looked attentive, as if he was watching every movement avidly, but in truth, his mind was far away. Trumpets blared and people bellowed thanks and praise to Ahm and every apsara in Paradise; the cacophony was deafening, but he barely noticed it. The shimmering sea of rejoicing could have been a thousand miles away. Behind him, two dozen courtiers chattered softly in each other’s ears, little jokes and asides, little stabbing knives of wit. But he was above and apart, as always.

  We won. Ahm be praised indeed …

  His eyes drifted down a line of spears planted all along the route of the parade. They were stabbed butt-first into the earth, and impaled on the spearhead of each were the gore-caked heads of the fallen magi, eighty-three of them, including Duke Echor Borodium himself, pulled down by Souldrinkers while trying to flee. Salim had the duke’s crown and signet in his treasury, along with a few other personal effects. About a third of the enemy magi had died in battle; any captured by the Souldrinkers were dead and emptied and the rest were now prisoners or fled. The prisoners had been handed over to Rashid’s Hadishah for breeding.

  Never have we seen such a victory … But without the Enemy’s connivance, could we have done it?

  Salim looked towards the lower balcony, where Rashid Mubarak, Emir of Halli’kut, sat amidst a more martial retinue of cloaked magi. It was his Ordo Costruo renegades who’d conjured the mighty storm that had carved into th
e Yuros army and aided its destruction. Most were almost as white-skinned as the men they’d fought, lured to the side of the shihad by Rashid’s cunning persuasiveness. He looked the very embodiment of greatness, sitting among his retinue with the majestically beautiful Alyssa Dulayne at his side. His glittering robes outshone all but Salim himself.

  In truth, it was your victory, Rashid. He considered the man’s demeanour. Did the emir still know his place? Or will his magi turn on me next? They had always had a strange understanding. Rashid was a mixed-blood mage, and that made him hateful to the common Keshi. He needed a ruler who was prepared to support and protect him. But he was also ambitious – some might say exceedingly so – and to have to defer to a higher authority, especially a human, rankled with the emir, though he tried to hide it.

  As if sensing his regard, Rashid’s head turned to him and he raised a goblet in silent toast, then turned back to the parade. Salim watched him silently a moment longer, then followed the emir’s gaze to the opposite side of the parade-route, where a lower balcony faced his. On it stood a more motley collection of men and women, rough-dressed, laughing and cavorting uncouthly, pointing at sights in the parade like children. Not all were Keshi, or even of Antiopia, though most were as dark-skinned as peasants. They had a feral look to them, as if more used to sleeping beneath stars than ceilings. In the midst of them sat a powerfully built figure clad in robes the colour of a scabbed wound. His powerful, sensuous face looked carved out of granite; his skull was shaven but for a black top-knot bound with jewelled ribbons. Gold loops hung about his arms and neck.

  Yorj Arkanus. Our so-called ally.

  A tall, voluptuous red-haired woman with coppery skin sat at Arkanus’ feet: his mate, apparently: a Fire-magus named Hecatta. To command the Souldrinkers, one had to consume the soul of one’s predecessor, he was told – and in a barbaric twist, mated pairs fought for supremacy together. Arkanus and his wife were the Souldrinker warleaders.

  I think perhaps I can still trust Rashid and his magi, but what of these? They are slugskins, for the most part, for all they claim to hate the magi more than we do …