by David Hair
‘I am not surprised: he stopped here on his journey south.’
Alaron felt his eyebrows go up. ‘Really?’ What does he know? He tried to slide a probe into the man’s brain, but to his shock the old man blocked him easily. He turned to face him warily, in case this old man revealed other surprises. ‘The Ordo Costruo taught you.’
‘They did, but we are not magi,’ Puravai said carefully. ‘Lord Meiros found that his ideals had much in common with ours. His people taught us skills to better equip us for the royal courts, where lies and deceits are common. This relationship of monk and mage began many years ago, before even the completion of the great bridge.’
Alaron felt a weird sense of Destiny, whatever that might be, unfolding before him. To be here, with Antonin Meiros’ widow, at a place her husband has stood … It made all his questions feel wrong, and for a long time he just stood there, stunned into silence.
The Zain master waited silently with him, unperturbed. ‘How did you come to these mountains?’ Puravai asked eventually.
‘I was trying to take her home,’ Alaron answered, which wasn’t too far from the truth. ‘How do you make people the best they can be?’ he asked, trying to sound sceptical, though it felt important for him to know.
Puravai looked him up and down. ‘By breaking them down and then remaking them, piece by piece.’
‘Even magi?’
‘Most magi believe they are already perfect.’ Puravai’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you?’
Hardly. Alaron swallowed. ‘I’m going back to Ramita now.’
Puravai smiled, and let him go.
7
Interrogation
Theurgy: Mesmerism
Do not meet an enchanter’s eyes. Recite prayers or mantras inside your head. Repeat your own name internally, or concentrate deeply on a single thought. Your mind is the king in an elaborate game of tabula. Protect it well.
JULIANO DI TRATO, SILACIA 555
Eastern Dhassa, on the continent of Antiopia
Safar (Febreux) 929
8th month of the Moontide
From his vantage place at the door Malevorn Andevarion stared down at the hunched form strapped to the chair, then looked away, out across the rocky ground and waste-heaps. The Fist had arrived in another Dhassan town that was trying to scratch out an existence in a desert. What passed for the rainy season here was already over: a few weeks of light rain that vanished into the parched earth. Salty haze filled the air from the ocean, a good sixty miles west – it was all that allowed the main crop, some type of peppercorn, to grow at all. Deep wells provided what little fresh water they had, and the villagers spent most nights hauling it up in buckets to feed their straggle-leafed crops. The amount of labour required just to survive was appalling.
Why do they bother with these pointless bloody lives? he wondered. Surely even slavery in Pallas would be preferable to this.
The arrival of the Fist’s windship had paralysed the village. The warbird dwarfed even the largest houses and left the villagers awestruck and unresisting. The Inquisitors had taken all their food and as much water as they could carry. The villagers will have to move or die soon, in all likelihood, Malevorn thought. From what he could see, that was a kindness.
‘Well?’ he heard Adamus Crozier ask, and he returned his attention to the room. Raine Caladryn was bending over a Rondian captive, her hand on the prisoner’s forehead. Beside her stood Commandant Fronck Quintius and a battle-mage from the local garrison, a stupid young Pallacian named Enott. Enott had been alternately questioning and pummelling the prisoner for a week now.
‘He’s alive, and still shielding his mind,’ Raine reported. She sounded faintly impressed. ‘I could break it down, but it’ll take time and leave him mentally damaged.’
Quintius considered. ‘Is he a mage?’
‘No, but someone has taught him how to protect himself.’ She glanced at Enott, her ugly face contemptuous. ‘This cretin could’ve killed him.’
Enott ducked his head, humiliated before the Crozier and his Inquisitors.
The Fist had arrived at the village that afternoon, summoned by a patrol which had detained a trader who claimed to know a person of interest to their hunt: Vannaton Mercer. Discreet offers of reward had lured the man out from behind the curtain of silence the Merchants’ Guild usually erected to protect their own – typical of the breed, in Malevorn’s view. Enott had decided to start the interrogation early – no doubt hoping for the glory if he’d managed to crack the informant before the Fist had arrived.
We’re lucky he’s alive at all.
Malevorn vaguely remembered Vann Mercer, who’d always attended the family events at Turm Zauberin. Once he’d even brought his wife, who was the mage of the family. She had been left hideously burned from her military service and remained veiled throughout, but Malevorn had glimpsed her arm: the mess of mottled scar tissue made it look as if she’d melted. He remembered how he and his cronies had joked about the unlikely couple, wondering how any man could bear to lie with such a benighted hag, how the Hel he had ever brought himself to mount her. No wonder Alaron had turned out such an imbecile, with parents like that.
Vann Mercer was part of the Noros Revolt. He was traitor-scum and we should’ve hanged the lot of them.
Adamus Crozier stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Sister Raine, we need to know where Mercer is now. Extract what we need, as swiftly as possible.’
Raine’s eyes lit up, though she hesitated a moment. ‘This man is a Guild trader, sir. The Guild—’
‘Let me worry about that, Sister,’ Adamus said airily. ‘Brother Malevorn will assist you.’
Raine ceased protesting. ‘At once, sir.’
‘Meanwhile, get this imbecile out of my sight,’ he added, turning to Enott, ‘before I flog him.’
The Crozier waited until Quintius and Enott were gone, then turned to Malevorn and Raine. ‘Brother, Sister, this is our first lead in six weeks. Every day the danger increases that the prize we seek will show up in the hands of someone who is a genuine danger to the Empire.’
‘Is that likely?’ Raine asked.
‘It is possible. The Scytale must be understood to be used, and there are few who have the required knowledge.’ He preened slightly. ‘I do, of course. But we have no idea what these Dokken might know – and there are Ordo Costruo traitors fighting for the enemy too.’ He looked down at the unnamed trader. ‘Find out what he knows of Mercer. I don’t care how.’
As soon as he’d gone, Raine went to the door, locked and warded it, then pulled the thin curtains across the small window. Malevorn followed her, caught her from behind and clasped her to him. Their steel armour ground together as he nuzzled her neck; she turned in his grasp and her hot mouth enveloped his. They kissed fiercely while his heart began to pump with increasing urgency.
‘Kore’s Blood, I’ve been longing for you,’ she gasped. ‘It’s been weeks.’
They crashed to the floor, still kissing even as they were hiking chainmail skirts and hauling down breeches. He rammed himself into her, grunting and scrabbling on the wooden floor, every thrust making the floorboards rattle, and came swiftly, the pent-up need impossible to deny. But he used his gnosis to keep his cock hard, hammering into her, all need, no finesse, until she came too, her body going rigid and her eyes glassy as she convulsed, panting and groaning, in his arms.
They lay uncomfortably entwined on the floor until they noticed the trader staring at them with equally glassy eyes.
Raine gave a throaty laugh. ‘Ah well. Playtime’s over. I suppose we should get on with it.’
*
An hour later, with the room hastily freshened and their uniforms restored, Malevorn opened the door to admit Adamus and Quintius. They marched in and peered indifferently at the unconscious trader. ‘Well?’ Quintius asked. He prodded at the body, but there was no reaction. Raine had torn his mind apart and he would likely never regain consciousness.
Raine lifted her chin. ‘I am s
orry, Holiness. He knows nothing of where Mercer is, or the prize we seek.’ She looked ready to be berated for her failure.
‘You’re certain?’ Quintius asked angrily.
‘He knows nothing, sir.’
Quintius jabbed a finger at her. ‘Your skills have been highly praised, Caladryn. This is a grave failure—!’
Adamus tutted vexedly. ‘Oh, come down off your pony, Quintius. If the man knows nothing, he knows nothing. Would you rather the Acolyte invented something just to keep you happy?’ He smiled indulgently at Raine and Malevorn. ‘This pair are two of our best, Commandant.’
Quintius wrinkled his nose, but he bowed his head faintly, the closest thing to an apology Raine was ever likely to get. ‘Then now what?’
‘Mercer must have been tipped off,’ Adamus murmured. ‘Orders to detain him have been circulating through Verelon, Pontus and Dhassa for months now and nothing. So someone is hiding him.’
‘Jean Benoit?’ Quintius growled.
‘Most likely,’ Adamus agreed, prodding at the broken trader. ‘Kill this fool and burn the body. Hang a few villagers and put it about that they murdered him. I want us gone before sundown.’
‘Where?’ Quintius sounded dispirited, already feeling the weight of blame settling on his shoulders. The Inquisition did not brook failure.
‘South. The Dokken we’re trailing are moving that way so all we can do is follow them, and hope.’
Malevorn looked at Raine.
*
Hopeful or not, the Fist continued the pursuit southwards, seeking anything in the arid landscape that might put them back on the trail of Alaron Mercer and the Scytale of Corineus. By the time they were southwest of Hebusalim, it was as if the Third Crusade did not even exist, and the trail was not just cold: it had vanished completely.
But their luck finally changed somewhere west of Bassaz. Quintius’ farseer detected a flare of gnosis where there should be none, discharged as if in distress, and immediately swung the windship towards it. They found a cohort of Rondian cavalry, out on wide patrol from Bassaz, who’d caught something in their steel traps far stranger than a jackal or a desert lion. The beast lay there trembling: a naked figure, half man, half antelope, caught in mid-transformation. His broken leg was still clenched in the vicious jaws of the trap.
The Dokken’s mind was warded, but he wasn’t Arcanum-trained, and the Inquisition had much experience in such skills. This time the crozier oversaw the task personally, leaving Malevorn and Raine to assist, and the Dokken broke quickly, barely needing the hideous medley of physical and mental agony Adamus had prepared to open the mind of the antelope-man. The Souldrinker was Brician, a strange mixture of feral youth and innocence, as if he were more animal than human and could not believe that one creature could so cruelly use another. He broke swiftly and completely, his mind and body ruined past even gnostic redemption.
‘The Dokken travel in similarly skilled packs,’ Adamus reported to Commandant Quintius. ‘His are all shapechangers. They have a Seeress guiding them, but there are tensions in the pack.’ He grinned widely. ‘This is clearly the right group: they are hunting a Lakh female – and a Rondian male!’
‘Do you recall the Rimoni bint we saw at the island?’ Raine added. ‘They have her in their hands, and she’s the source of a lot of dissent. The prisoner says their packleader is protecting her, and probably rutting her. Apparently these animals don’t like any of theirs mating outside the pack.’
‘More importantly,’ Adamus announced, ‘we know where the pack are gathering next.’ He looked at Raine and handed her his dagger. ‘Well done, Sister Raine. You are commended. You may finish the interrogation.’ Raine bowed over the blade, kissed it then carefully pushed it into the Souldrinker’s heart, while Adamus turned to Quintius and said, ‘We will need steeds for a land attack.’
‘And more men?’ Quintius asked.
‘We have enough for the task. I don’t want others involved in this mission, not when our task is so sensitive.’
Malevorn met Raine’s eyes. The dead Dokken had spoken of almost a hundred of his kindred gathering. Is just one Fist truly enough? But the greed in the air was as palpable as the stink of blood, and he knew that no help would be summoned.
*
Malevorn and Raine were on deck, standing just out of touching reach, by mutual agreement – there were too many hostile eyes about. Dominic was with them, his eyes downcast, exuding his usual faint reek of shame. They’d been on the Dokken trail for two more days now, flying southeast. Southern Dhassa was spread below, flat and brown and featureless.
They were flying lower than usual, as if seeking a specific place, and Malevorn was contemplating asking Adamus outright what was going on when Artus Leblanc swaggered past, eying the three of them disdainfully and smirking when Malevorn met his stare. There was something in Leblanc’s manner recently that he didn’t like – it was as if he knew something that pleased him immensely, something that wasn’t going to be good for Malevorn.
Then a lookout shouted, pointing towards the ground, ‘There, Captain – we’ve found it!’
Within minutes the ship was landing beside a large corral. As they descended, the creatures in the pen became clearer. ‘Great Kore,’ Malevorn breathed, feeling a frisson of excitement. ‘Khurnes!’
The new intelligent horned steeds had been a cause of much excitement in the Inquisition, but Malevorn’s Fist had not yet been assigned theirs, so it was a genuine boost to land and be given his new mount. The khurne he was assigned was a bay, with a bronze-coloured twisted horn emerging from its forehead, just above the eyes. The horn was wickedly sharp, but it was the eyes that drew him: they were strangely alert and focused. Around them, the rest of the Fist were making themselves known to their new steeds. Raine’s was black with white socks and a blaze, and she was looking at the creature with something like lust in her eyes. He felt the same: the beasts were power and grace embodied.
‘Be careful around him,’ he warned her softly.
‘I can handle him,’ Raine replied. ‘No problem at all. You watch me.’
*
They rode out the next day. Windships were a magnificent weapon of war, but they were hard to hide, and Adamus wanted to take the Dokken by surprise. The Souldrinkers’ rendezvous point was near the southern coastal range, a week’s ride away; that would give them all time to bond with their new mounts. The khurnes were a delight to ride, with a powerful, flowing gait, and they were capable of following even complex mental instructions. There was something disturbing about their intellect, but their obedience was absolute.
Quintius’ Fist still treated the survivors of the Eighteenth as outsiders, and Leblanc was wearing that irritating smirk whenever he looked Malevorn’s way, but Adamus obviously favoured them still, which gave Malevorn heart as the Fist closed in on the place the Souldrinker prisoner had told them about. They found the shanty he’d spoken of deserted, but filled with signs of recent habitation – by both humans and jackals, the spore so fresh that they could almost smell their prey.
Do they have the Scytale? Or have Mercer and the mudskin evaded them? Malevorn felt his enthusiasm rekindle. We will find him: this is my destiny: I’m going to become an Ascendant and my family will be restored to glory. He glanced sideways at Raine, saw similar dreams in her face, saw his own soul reflected in hers. Yes, this is our destiny, both of us.
All his life he’d expected – and demanded – the best of all things. That had most certainly included girls. But he’d never felt anything like what he felt for Raine. Pretty gi
rls were shallow. Nice girls were vapid. Well-bred girls had nothing but their title and their posturing. But this one …
I want ambition and lust in a woman and I don’t care that the package she comes in is imperfect. I want her.
8
Personal Growth
The Sunsurge
Every twelve years, the tides drop to their lowest point and the Leviathan Bridge rises from the sea, the most visible sign of the Moontide, which has come to define the epoch. But before the construction of the Bridge, it was the Sunsurge that had the greater impact. This is the two-year period midway between Moontides, when the opposite occurs – the seas rise to their greatest levels, in many places inundating low-lying coastal areas. During the Sunsurge the winters are marked by huge snowfalls, and the summers by incessant rain and flooding. The severity of the Sunsurge can still define the lives of whole generations.
ORDO COSTRUO ARCANUM, PONTUS, 832
Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) to Jumada (Maicin) 929
9th to 11th months of the Moontide
Gradually Alaron’s anxiety over pursuit lessened. He was sure the combination of the sea and the mountains would block any attempt to scry them, and he could detect nothing hostile in the Zain monks who were looking after them; no one had asked them anything in the least bit untoward or prying. When he went to check out the skiff, he was offered use of the monks’ workshop to make repairs. The wood here was mostly poor stuff, but there was just enough to repair the landing-struts and hull, and Ramita could grow more to replace what he’d used once she was up and about again.
