by David Hair
No, not ‘last’. Never that …
Her hand on his lent him strength; more than that, it soothed him, calmed him, helped him think. He called the wind and this time it came and caught the sails, sending them lurching forward with growing momentum. But when he looked back, the bakhtak was almost on them – barely forty yards away, and so close he could see its glowing violet eyes.
‘Take the tiller!’ he shouted, twisting and rolling into the small aft cavity behind the pilot’s bench. The craft bucked as their weight changed, but he kindled a mage-bolt and hurled it at their pursuer, then another, then another, firing wide thrice, before finally one connected. The thing shrieked as the white light blazed at it and drew back, snarling.
‘Okay, let’s try it,’ Elena called breathlessly. There was plenty of power in the keel, and the wind was behind them so all she had to do was steer. Kazim prayed she was up to it, because she looked worn-out, like a preview of old age. The starlight had turned her hair silver and etched lines in her face. And the bakhtak was closing in again.
*
Rutt Sordell stood guard over Etain Tullesque atop an open-topped tower, the highest in the emir’s palace. The height allowed better linkage to his death-summoning. Somewhere to the northwest, the creature was pursuing Elena Anborn and her Keshi ally, whoever he was. From up here Rutt had clear views over the town and lake. The streets were restless, but a line of torches revealed reinforcements: more Rondian soldiery arriving, following a forced march through the night.
Rutt smiled to himself. Actually, ‘reinforcements’ wasn’t precisely the right word.
Tullesque was deep in concentration and oblivious to his surroundings. Controlling a summoning of any sort required some degree of the mage’s attention; one this powerful required full concentration, and the longer the chase went on, the harder it was to maintain that. Rutt had guided Tullesque to the tower top himself, helping him every step so he did not slip and lose the link.
Or to put it another way: Tullesque is completely in my power …
The column of torches had reached the gates of the emir’s fortress now. No doubt their arrival would cause considerable consternation, for these were not Dorobon men, or more Kirkegarde, but Endus Rykjard’s mercenaries – officially the Pallacios XX, but known in the army as the Blackthorns. Rykjard’s lieutenant, a giant Hollenian mage named Arnulf Rhumberg, had been in mental contact with Rutt for an hour or more now.
Rutt approached Tullesque carefully. ‘What is happening, Grandmaster?’ he asked, as loudly as he dared.
Tullesque’s eyes, glazed and bloodshot, continued to stare into the skies. Slowly, awkwardly, his lips moved. ‘Trapped … I have her …’
Excellent.
Rutt looked to the east. Dawn was about to become a factor. ‘You must hurry, Grandmaster. The night is passing.’
Tullesque nodded to show his understanding. ‘It … won’t … be long … now.’
Someone hammered on the door at the foot of the stairs that led to the rooftop and Rutt hurried over and hissed, ‘Quiet! The Grandmaster must concentrate!’
‘Sir, there are mercenaries at the gates. What are our orders?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Tribune Brayle, Magister.’
One of Tullesque’s officers. ‘They are our reinforcements, Brayle. Admit them at once and send their commander to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man clumped away and Rutt leaned against the door, breathing a little heavily. Deception was not his greatest skill – he was Argundian, and prided himself on his honesty. I’m not a saint, but lying is not among my sins, he liked to say. But needs must, sometimes. He hurried back to Tullesque’s side, praying that the Kirkegarde Grandmaster was about to solve the Elena problem for them once and for all. He arrived just as Tullkesque burst into a strange dance.
‘Now!’ Tullesque roared. ‘Strike to kill!’ He clenched his fists, then crowed in triumph, ‘Dead! The bitch is dead!’
*
Elena set the skiff hurtling towards what was little more than a hole in the cliff-face. The winds coalesced behind them, propelling the little vessel at an increasingly terrifying speed. She dared not look back, but she could feel the chill of the spectre’s presence right behind them.
Then they hit the cutting, the shale of the slopes whipping past no more than a yard beneath the keel. The right-hand cliff was almost touchable and the left one was getting closer as they soared along the cut – then suddenly the earth fell away and she had to haul the tiller about with all her diminishing strength. The sails flapped and the boom flew across, barely missing her face, as a rock wall loomed ahead.
She felt Kazim’s gnosis flaring again as he started firing bolt after bolt behind them, and she heard the spectre yowl each time a bolt connected … then it fired back. The purplish bolt of light flashed past her left shoulder, just an inch or so away from her, and hit the rock wall. Kazim’s shields flared, such a drain on her that she almost lost control as a dizzying wave washed over her.
‘What was that?’ he shouted.
‘It’s the ghost of a mage!’ she replied. ‘It’s got its own gnosis! Hold on!’
The cleft veered right, along a ridgeline like a serrated stone knife, then she hauled left again and drew the wind with her, aiming for a lighter patch of darkness dead ahead. They shot out into space again and sideswiped a boulder, cracking timbers and jolting them both. The craft tipped sideways and she frantically threw herself to the right, using her bodyweight to counteract the tilt, hanging half-in and half-out of the skiff. Then the mast struck the left-hand cliff and snapped, halfway down.
The whole craft spun, almost flinging her out, but somehow she managed to cling on as they struck the slope and began to careen backwards down the scree. For a few seconds the craft righted itself and she found herself staring past the stump of the mast at darkness above them. ‘Kaz!’ she screamed, as they shot down a steep slope littered with boulders. Kazim was still with her, hunched over and firing another volley of mage-bolts up the slope as the spectre appeared at the top, howling in fury.
Then the slope vanished beneath them and they were airborne again – but not sustainably. The keel was badly damaged and leaking power and they started tumbling downwards, completely out of control. She had time to glimpse a flat plain, with a river winding towards a glittering expanse: the sea.
Then they struck a lower slope, the hull splintered at the front and the craft lurched sideways in a spray of earth and stone, and then she was falling away, weightless. Her last glimpse was of Kazim flying over the top of her, spinning head over heels. Then something smashed into the back of her head and the world collapsed into blackness.
*
Kazim used kinetic energy to enfold himself as he spun in the air and turned the uncontrolled fall into a cartwheel and an almost graceful landing on one knee, facing upwards, his scimitar drawn and a mage-bolt ready on his finger-tips. Then he dropped to the ground as the skiff hurtled past him and he heard it hammering into the boulders below. He threw up shields as his eyes sought Elena in the wreckage.
No, no no no—
Had he been anything less than he was, he would have been slain – but as the bakhtak dropped from the sky, he felt it come and turned his readied mage-bolt on it. Finally he caught the thing with his full power, and Ascendant-level energy blasted into it at close range, hurling it down the slope, its flesh so brightly illuminated that he could see its bones. Its rags burned away, what little hair was left on its skull crisped, and it landed with a thud some twenty feet down the slope and lay there, sizzling in the thin snow that crusted the slope.
There was a dark mound on the slope above where the skiff had flipped over.
His eyes penetrated the gloom, making out splayed limbs and an unmoving body. He couldn’t feel her mind, for the first time that night, and his heart hammered, his throat went utterly dry and his chest contracted until he could barely breath.
‘ELLA!’
Nothing.
Then from below he sensed a presence and turned as the twig-like arms of the bakhtak began to move, like a corpse rising from a grave. It came upright, its snapped left leg re-straightening, and the snow formed on its bones, becoming a kind of flesh. Violet light rekindled in its eyes
Lord Ahm …
He backed towards Elena, but the bakhtak flashed overhead, a blur of darkness and he screamed in sheer terror, more afraid than he had ever been in his life, as it reappeared above Elena’s broken form. She didn’t even move as it reached for her.
‘NOOO!’
Using a combination of his own natural athleticism, Ascendant-power telekinetic force and blind, unthinking desperation, Kazim covered the distance in a second. He grasped the numbing ice-flesh of the dead thing and pulled it from her. It turned on him and opened its mouth of rotting teeth and purple death-light, illuminating the hideous, rotting face as it snarled.
The silver arc of his blade, lit by gnosis, swept through the bakhtak’s neck, power flashing and his scimitar almost melting with the energy he was pouring through it, but something snapped; the skull flew, bounced, and rolled into a snowdrift and the corpse dropped.
His left hand, his whole left arm, had gone utterly numb, but he dropped his ruined hilt and poured fire into the corpse, and then the head, and kept burning until only charred nothingness remained. For the first few seconds he felt it struggling to reform and rise, then the dark light in it winked out, the flames turned a clean and healthy red and the snows became water and flooded away.
He dropped to his knees beside Elena and just held on, pouring back all he’d taken from her until there was nothing left to give.
That was how they were found, him wrapped about her, their flesh as cold as the stones.
*
Rutt gestured and Arnulf Rhumberg’s massive blade plunged into Grandmaster Tullesque’s back. The Kirkegarde commander gasped once, but anything he might have done to preserve himself was undone by the gnosis-bolt Rutt blasted into his face.
‘You were supposed to behead him,’ he grumbled as the corpse slid off Rhumberg’s sword and fell twitching to the stone.
The massive Hollenian, a towering mountain of blond hair, shaggy furs and layers upon layers of chainmail, grunted unrepentantly. ‘He had his arms up, didn’t he? Awkward angle, that.’ He rectified the matter with another blow, severing the neck and almost breaking his sword on the stones. ‘There, got ’im, din’t I?’
Sordell could hear the tramp of Rhumberg’s men below as they took over the palace, asserting control by sheer numbers. The Kirkegarde wouldn’t be happy, and soon they’d be even more suspicious, but … how’ll they prove anything?
A few seconds earlier, right after announcing that Elena was dead, Tullesque had staggered and then stood there, silent and motionless. Some trauma had flashed along his link to the spectral summoning, leaving the Grandmaster stunned for a few heartbeats.
Just long enough to kill the prick, Rutt thought, smiling cheerily. ‘Ah, here we go.’ A leggy black scarab more than four inches across was forcing its way out of Tullesque’s mouth. He let it drop to the marble floor, then stamped on it. The crunch made the giant Rhumberg wince.
‘Fuckin’ hate insects, I do,’ the Hollenian remarked, shuddering. He wiped his sword on Tullesque’s white cloak and said blithely, ‘Don’ mind chopping a fella down, ’specially cunts like ’im, but bugs … I bloody hate ’em.’ He looked at Rutt admiringly. ‘Glad you got that big fucker, sar.’
‘So am I.’ Rutt wiped off the slime on his boot-sole on Tullesque’s gleaming tabard. ‘How many men have you brought?’
‘Lots, sar. Four maniples. That’s two thousand men, that is.’
‘I know how many men in a maniple, Rhumberg.’ The Hollenian was an Earth mage, simple-minded, but blazingly effective on a good day. ‘How have the Kirkegarde taken to your arrival?’
‘A bit disgruntled, sar.’
‘I expect losing their commander won’t help.’
‘What’ll we tell them?’
‘That he lost control of his summoning. Tragic, really. If any of them question it, arrest them for subversion.’
Rhumberg grinned. ‘Yes, sar!’ He saluted, and hurried off, leaving Rutt alone.
For a while he just stared into space, wondering whether Elena really was dead. And what about her companion? ‘Someone killed that damned spectral-mage,’ he mused aloud. ‘I suppose we’ll have to go and find out who.’
‘We will indeed,’ said a familiar voice behind him.
Rutt spun round, his face lighting up. ‘Boss!’
Gurvon Gyle grinned. ‘Rutt, well met!’ They shook hands, clapped each other on the back.
‘What are you doing here, Gurv? I thought you were going to stay in Brochena.’
‘Not when you’ve found Elena. I want her dead, and though I trust you more than anyone to get the job done, I wanted to deal the killing blow myself.’ He spat on Tullesque’s corpse. ‘I’ve flown all day and night on gnostic winds to be here.’ He looked about him. ‘Where’s Mara?’
Rutt drew back a little. ‘She’s dead,’ he said, faintly regretful. ‘Elena killed her.’
Gurvon blinked once. ‘By the Kore! I always thought Mara was indestructible.’
‘So did I, I suppose.’
There didn’t seem much else to say.
Gurvon gripped Rutt’s shoulder. ‘Samir. Arno. Vedya. Now Mara. They were the heart of us, the core members of the Grey Foxes. Now Elena’s killed them all.’
‘She might be dead too.’
‘Until I see the body …’ Gurvon sighed. ‘In a way, I hope she isn’t. I want it to be one of us who finishes her, not some stinking pure-blood like Tullesque.’
‘Hey, I’m a pure-blood now,’ Rutt protested, an uncharacteristic smile creeping across his face.
‘So you are.’
‘Who’s in charge in Brochena, Gurv, if you’re here?’
Gurvon tutted softly. ‘The rest of the Regency Council, each watching the other. Hans and Endus know not to cross me, and Heale and Margham don’t have the nerve.’ He clapped Rutt on the shoulder. ‘My friend, can you keep a secret?’
He turned and looked at him. ‘Of course, Gurv – it’s why you hired me, remember?’
‘I have a guest with me: politically, very dangerous. I want you to find me a secret place to stow them.’
‘Of course.’ Rutt thought for a second. ‘Timori Nesti? Brochena getting too hot?’
‘Keep it dark, Rutt.’ Gurvon touched a finger to his nose. ‘So, where did Tullesque’s creature last see Elena?’
‘Tullesque kept me appraised, and I tuned in on the chase myself. It was around forty miles northwest of here. Give me a few moments with a map and compass and we’ll have the spot, more or less.’
‘Do that. I want a mounted detachment ready to leave by midday. I’ll lead it personally. Until I see the body, I’ll not believe she’s dead.’
28
An Audience with the Mughal
The Mughal’s Dome at Teshwallabad
The Mughal Dome is a miracle to behold, an immense palace that glitters in the sunlight and can be seen for miles around. It is perhaps the most beautiful of all constructions in Ahmedhassa, and a tribute to the skills of our people and the unnamed foreign engineers who aided us.
PINATH SALKEMISH, ROYAL ENGINEER OF THE MUGHAL, TESHWALLABAD
Teshwallabad, Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia
Shaban (Augeite) 929
14th month of the Moontide
Ramita Ankesharan held Nasatya against her left breast, and fed him the bottled milk. His brother wailed in protest at having to wait, but she sent him calming thoughts and he quieted. Her breasts were still distended and the skin stretch-marked, but the ache from weaning was beginning to recede. Six months old, she thought proudly, though it felt like for ever, being nursemaid and dairy cow for her babies and their insatiable appetites. But how they
are growing!
It was wonderful to be in her homeland, though Teshwallabad was not Baranasi, where her heart was. In some ways, it felt like being back in Hebusalim: shut away in a marble palace while the wail of Godsingers filled the hours, and all the same restrictions: do not go outside; do not be seen at the windows. Stay safe.
I just want to go out! I want to go down to the markets and haggle for sweets. I’d even settle for just going outside.
It had been three weeks since they’d arrived in Teshwallabad, and being in Lakh made her miss her family more keenly than ever. Vizier Hanook had hidden them in the south, in Dili, hundreds of miles away. He had given her the details, including their new names, and promised a reunion when the danger had passed, but she chafed for that moment. Separation from the bustle and noise of her brothers and sisters was like losing a limb, and being so long without her mother was hollowing out her heart.
I wish I could just leave here and go far away, to somewhere where no one knows who I am. Just me and my sons. And my family. And perhaps my new bhaiya …
She smiled fondly at the thought of Alaron Mercer meeting her mad family. How would he cope with Mother and Father and their constant, goodhearted squabbling? Or the twins, stampeding about? And what about Jai and Keita and their child – though Hanook had not seen them, so who knew where they might be?
Alaron would go grey within a day of meeting us all.
The young Rondian was away in the library, where he had been spending most of his time; Hanook was more than happy that Alaron was content to scribble away in the semi-shadows. Alaron had been genuinely excited by the old vizier’s library, though Ramita struggled to understand; she had learned to read only last year and she still couldn’t match the way Alaron could scan a page in seconds and understand it; a skill as magical as the gnosis itself. She tried to imagine a world in which all young children were taught such skills, but her mind baulked.
Nas gurgled and pulled his mouth from the bottle, so she laid him on a towel on the floor to roll about while she fed Das. Both had thick black hair, which they surely got from her, but their skin was pale gold, the colour the noble women of Lakh all craved. Dark skin like hers betrayed a low birth-caste or a life in poverty, the legacy of her forebears who spent their lives labouring outdoors in the punishing sunlight. Her sons would be envied, that was for sure.
