by David Hair
Kore sees everything. He knows this is wrong. He will guide me.
Or Sensini will …
They do say that Kore finds the strangest mouthpieces to speak his will.
The reunion with their own forces was supposed to be a joyous day, not a confrontation, but here they were, facing a death-camp and a line of Inquisitors. He recalled what Ramon and Severine had told him at Peroz, about the khurnes and how they got their intelligence. The very thought sickened him. He recalled his father boasting at a pre-Crusade banquet of the thousands of khurnes and hulkas that would be accompanying his army …
We’ve slaughtered people to make brighter animals. Is that truly the work of Kore?
Below was the camp, a horde of Keshi crowded in a rectangular pen, with small ranks of legionaries stationed on all sides – not many, but the Keshi looked pacified. As they made their final approach, he concentrated on the Fist arrayed to meet him: eleven khurne riders, all but one in Inquisitor black and white, the Sacred Heart emblazoned on their chests. They were in full armour despite the heat, and mounted, as if ready for the parade-ground. Their lance-pennants were fluttering in the faint breeze.
His eyes dropped to their mounts. They don’t even hide them. They know what they are and they don’t care.
His eyes went to the eleventh rider, no Inquisitor, but so swaddled in his dun robes that no flesh could be seen. He narrowed his senses to focus on that man, and picked up the distorted aura that Ramon had described.
A Souldrinker. He shivered.
The Inquisitor Commandant at the front, a burly, steel-faced man, trotted his big black khurne forward to meet him. He raised a hand in the traditional greeting of equals, which rankled. We’re not equals. I’m a general. He gave the senior-to-junior salute a little tentatively, but took heart from catching an approving nod from Sensini at the corner of his vision.
The commandant scowled faintly and modified his salute. ‘I am Ullyn Siburnius, Commandant of the Twenty-Third Fist.’ He looked about him with all the disdain of the mighty Inquisition for lesser beings. ‘I was led to understand that I was to meet General Korion?’
‘I am Korion.’
‘You, sir?’
‘General Seth Korion, commander of the Southern Army since the Battle of Shaliyah.’
Siburnius made a show of confusion. ‘Despatches reported that no units survived, er … General.’
‘Fog of war,’ Ramon Sensini put in. ‘You know how it can be.’ He indicated the pens. ‘We’ve come to close down this camp.’
‘On what authority?’ Siburnius asked coldly.
‘On mine,’ Seth replied, trying to sound as calm as Ramon. ‘I am the senior ranking officer of the Southern Army post-Shaliyah and I have assumed command of all military operations in Southern Kesh and Dhassa.’
‘General Kaltus Korion assumed full command of the entire theatre of war after Shaliyah,’ Siburnius retorted.
‘Father assumed we were all dead. He was wrong. Therefore his assumption of authority was premature. I’ll talk to Father about that when I see him.’ Who will scream at me and spit in my face and humiliate me. But I’ll deal with that later.
‘Regardless, the Inquisition have the right to operate how and where we decide, throughout the lands.’
‘Duke Echor forbade the Inquisition from operating in areas under his jurisdiction. If I recognise the standards, the maniple aiding you here is one of Echor’s, sent specifically to guard the southern flank of his army, not create prison camps. Where is their commander?’
Siburnius looked rebellious, but indicated a cluster of legion officers waiting behind the row of mounted Inquisitors. ‘Tribune Gestryn is with his men. I outrank him.’
‘Then I will have words with his Legate when I meet him. In the meantime, my forces wish to enter and close this camp. We ask that you go to Vida to ensure the garrison commander there awaits us. My men have marched hundreds of miles in hostile lands and deserve a heroes’ reception.’
Siburnius’ cold eyes met his, a look designed to freeze him. It did: Siburnius was exactly the sort of man his father surrounded himself with, men of the world who flattened anything in their path. They’d always terrified Seth. He felt himself begin to waver. The Inquisitor drew himself to his tallest height, and began to declaim, ‘This is a commercial operation—’
‘So where are the traders?’ Ramon interrupted.
Siburnius’ mouth opened and closed, as if he were incapable of anything except ranting. ‘I said, this is a—’
‘We all know what it is,’ Ramon interjected again, his voice filled with disgust. ‘Exactly what it is.’
Siburnius’ eyes bulged and locked onto the little Silacian. ‘Sensini, isn’t it?’
Ramon grinned impudently. ‘With two Ss.’ Then his face hardened again. ‘How many Keshi have you murdered here, Commandant?’
‘Murdered? How dare you—’
‘Oh, shut it,’ Ramon told him with deliberately aggravating condescension. ‘We know, Siburnius. We know.’
It was oddly pleasant to see someone else trying to deal with Sensini, but Seth could sense that the commandant was about to explode. Time for him to intervene. ‘Siburnius, we believe this camp is illegal. You must leave now. For the honour of the empire.’
‘We expect you gone within the hour, Commandant,’ Sensini added, ‘and if we see any move made against the prisoners, we will intervene.’
Siburnius straightened, and his face turned ugly. ‘You don’t have the authority, General. I have a commission signed by Emperor Constant and Arch-Prelate Wurther! I am backed by the laws of Kore himself! We are doing the work of the emperor and the Church and we will not be thwarted. Take your men and leave!’
Their eyes locked, and Seth felt under assault by the absolute rectitude of the Inquisitor. All his doubts returned, because he knew he really didn’t have the authority to order this man away. The Inquisition were more or less independent of the army – and he really wasn’t legally a general, either. In a court of law, he’d be shredded, mocked and then arrested.
What can I do? I’ve tried.
He half turned away and looked at Ramon Sensini, whose face fell faintly. It was as if he’d always expected Seth to just give up, right from the start. For some reason it infuriated him.
Then pride and his own sense of fairness took over – but not in a way he’d ever before experienced. For a moment he was about to let loose at Ramon, then he realised that was just stupid; instead, he whirled back to face Siburnius in time for his anger to erupt. ‘No, Commandant!’ he shouted, ‘you will do exactly as I have told you! I don’t care what pieces of paper you think give you the authority to murder thousands of innocents, but I do not recognise them! I’ll tell you what I do recognise: I have twelve thousand men and you have ten. Get them out of my way now, or we’ll kill the lot of you.’
Holy Kore, did I just say that?
But he had, and as he stood there, struggling to hold his gnosis in check because he dearly wanted to smash this damned Inquisitor and all his cronies, he resolved to stand by every word. He saw Siburnius’ eyes bulge, saw the Inquisitors behind him blink in utter disbelief, saw auras flare and gnosis kindle. He couldn’t look away, not in the face of ten Inquisitors; all he could do was pray that the sounds he heard behind him weren’t twelve thousand men running away.
Three seconds of utter silence passed as he tried to keep from blinking, then:
‘Cohort, present arms!’ shouted Pilus Lukaz.
He heard a massive crunching thud as spear butts were thumped into the ground, then raised, the sound taken up rank by rank behind him as the shouts of the officers carried down the lines in either direction. His heart was in his mouth; he felt it hammering, but he kindled wards and put his hand on his sword-hilt.
All the while, his eyes were fixed on Siburnius.
Blink, or die.
The moments crawled by, the suppressed violence almost tangible in the air. The pressure was building a
t his back and in his face, begging for release.
Siburnius blinked. ‘Very well,’ he snarled, ‘if right and reason are things you believe yourself to be above, General, I will save lives here and withdraw.’
‘Save lives … yeah, about thirty thousand Keshi lives,’ Ramon drawled.
Seth glanced sideways: Sensini looked to be the calmest man on the field.
Siburnius threw a barely serviceable salute at Seth and eyed Ramon contemptuously. ‘I will see that there is an appropriate welcome for you all at Vida,’ he promised, then he turned his khurne and surged away. His Fist wheeled as one to follow.
Siburnius reined in before Tribune Gestryn. ‘Prepare your men to march, Gestryn.’
The tribune looked up at him, then at Seth. His whole body seemed to swell slightly. ‘I must report to General Korion,’ Gestryn said, in a self-disbelieving voice. He saluted Siburnius smartly, then turned away.
The Inquisitor gaped at him, then shot Seth a look of pure hatred. He raised his hand and his Fist galloped away, the eleventh rider, the Souldrinker, trailing them. They were gone inside a minute and all down the line, Seth could feel the tension dissipating. Cheering broke out spontaneously in some of the ranks, though it was quickly quietened by the officers.
Seth let his breath out slowly. He felt faint, overstretched, dizzy as if he’d just tried to stand up too fast. ‘Sweet Mother …’ he whispered. ‘Holy Kore.’
Ramon slapped his upper arm and grinned. ‘Well done, Lesser Son. I knew you had it in you.’ He trotted his horse forward and raised an arm. ‘All right, you lot! Roll forward! Let’s take control here!’
*
Tribune Gestryn maintained he did not know what the Inquisitors were doing; his job was to run the camp and follow orders. For now, at least, Seth had little choice but to believe him. There were more pressing logistical problems to solve: they needed more water, and food too. Their supply situation had been entirely adequate when they left Ardijah, but five thousand extra mouths were going to see them on low rations again by the time they made Vida.
Gestryn’s maniple was part of the Vida garrison, he told them. there were two more camps this side of the River Tigrates, and that raised the question of what to do about them.
At a meeting of the magi, Ramon was insistent. ‘We have to liberate them all.’
Jelaska, sitting close to Baltus Prenton with her thigh pressed against his, shook her head. ‘It would be the right thing to do, but we’ve got to reach Vida by the end of Septinon – that’s less than two weeks away.
‘So you’d leave them all to die?’
‘We can’t help them,’ Hugh Gerant stated. ‘We don’t even know how many other Fists are here – what if we run up against a hundred Inquisitors? There’s only eighteen magi in this army.’
‘A hundred Inquisitors? That would be half the Inquisitors in the East,’ Severine responded sarcastically, cradling her round belly and fanning herself. ‘Don’t make them out to be scarier than they are.’
‘Even one more Fist and they’d be more than we could handle,’ Gerant replied.
Seth looked around him. He’d had to explain why they’d run off a Fist of Church knights, and that truth, that the Church was harvesting souls to create intelligent beasts, had been so vile that it won them all round. Gerdhart, the Brician chaplain, had even quoted verses from a Kore Scriptorium that condemned the slaughter of even heathen; apparently it demeaned the slayers. And the laws of the magi concerning construct creatures – laid down by the Church itself – expressly forbade such acts.
‘Salim’s army is only a week behind us,’ Jelaska reminded the group. ‘They’re tracking us with skiffs and cavalry. If this takes too long, we’ll miss our deadline for crossing the Tigrates and they’ll come down hard on us.’
‘Then what do we do?’ Severine asked.
The tent fell silent and all heads turned to Ramon.
Why does everyone always look to him? Seth thought morosely. I’m a Korion – I’m the general here. Then he waited with the rest, because he had no idea what to do either.
Ramon sat back in his chair, scratching his nose. Then he looked around the circle. ‘You know, I think we need to make this Salim’s problem.’ He looked at Baltus. ‘Do you think you can arrange a parley?’
*
Cymbellea di Regia huddled beneath a blanket amidst the Keshi and Dhassan refugees. She didn’t know what to do. The women around her, many also pregnant, were scared, and the advent of more Rondian soldiers was of no comfort. No one spoke to her – they still believed she’d had her tongue removed. She wasn’t alone; apparently it wasn’t uncommon here for a rapist to silence his victim that way. Her guts were rebelling from inadequate food and the queasiness of early pregnancy.
The Inquisitors were gone, the gnostic barriers down, but there was still no sign of Zaqri. She had thought of calling to him, but Dokken were anathema to magi and if Ramon’s people saw him they’d be obliged to try and kill him.
That’s if he’s still alive.
Neither her blanket or shift had been washed for days and they reeked – there was no washing water and there hadn’t been any food for two days. The number of ‘work gangs’ taken out into the wilds had increased in the days before Ramon’s army arrived and all her escape plans had foundered because of the patrolling Inquisitors’ vigilance. She’d been trapped, as helpless as anyone else in here, and that frightened her.
She hung back as the new Rondian legionaries rolled wagons into the pen and began handing out food. She could feel Water-gnosis being expended at the watering hole. Even though she was now supposedly safe, the soul-draining energy of the camp continued to grip her. She felt no volition to move, just cradled her stomach and wondered what on Urte to do.
A mounted man rode past, a slight figure in the robes of a battle-mage, and the Ahmedhassans recoiled from him in fear. A mage, close up. She flinched as well, thinking only of hiding, but her face was drawn upwards.
It was Ramon, but his eyes slid blankly over her and belatedly she realised that she was still wearing her illusory disguise. She cancelled it at once, without even checking to make sure no one was looking. As her features remoulded a woman who happened to be glancing her way gasped, made the sign against the Evil Eye and started backing away. But Ramon had felt the expenditure of gnosis and spun in her direction. ‘Cym?’ he called, ‘Cym!’
He dropped from his saddle and flung his arms around her, but she just stood there in a kind of stupor, while the refugees edged away.
‘Hey, Sneaky,’ she whispered, choking up. ‘It’s so good to see you.’ Then her inner dam shattered and she cried so hard it physically hurt, her eyes stinging and ribcage aching with the force of her sobs.
For an instant Ramon looked shocked – of course, in her spiratus form she’d been so assured – but he must quickly have realised that of course she’d been another person then, out of her body, free to run. Here, she was a captive of flesh and fear, so he hugged her close. ‘It’s okay, Cym-amica, it’s okay. I’m here.’
‘Since when has that ever made things okay?’ she murmured, trying to recapture the strong, spiky person she thought she was. ‘It usually means disaster.’
He gave her another squeeze. ‘That’s my girl. Come on, let me take you away from all this.’ His face was full of questions, but she was relieved when he restrained himself, even though she could see it took a visible effort. ‘Come with me.’
He drew her over to his horse and with one arm around her shoulders, the reins in the other hand, forced a way through the crowds, ignoring the dark faces peering curiously at them. Behind them she could hear raised voice, and one frightened woman – the one who’d seen her change – started shrieking about afreets and Shaitan. But legionaries were stepping in to surround them, rough-looking men encased in leather and metal, their stubbly faces weathered and peeling, and then she and Ramon were outside the pen and standing before a heavily pregnant young Rondian woman with a cascade of
brown ringlets and a lot of freckles. She waddled forward and took Ramon’s hand. ‘Who’s this, Lovebug?’
Ramon coughed and stepped away, ignoring Cym as she mouthed, ‘Lovebug?’ at him. ‘Sevvie, this is Cymbellea di Regia. Cym: this is my … er … Severine.’
Cym eyed the woman cautiously. ‘Hello,’ she said. Severine looked nothing at all like she’d imagined any lover of Ramon Sensini’s. She’s Pallacian! He’s Silacian! They’re pregnant! Sol et Lune, but war breeds strange bedfellows!
The two women looked at each other awkwardly, and as her eyes rested on Severine’s distended belly, she realised Ramon’s lover was doing the same. Apparently Severine saw little she liked. She looked accusingly at Ramon and demanded, ‘Who is she to you?’
‘Cym’s an old friend, from my days in Norostein.’ He stepped between them. ‘She was caught up in the camp – she needs food and drink. She’ll be coming with us.’
Severine’s hand went to her mouth, her pretty face twisted and she spat out, ‘Then feed the ugly bint yourself!’ and stomped away. Behind her, a towering Schlessen and a grey-haired woman failed to conceal their snorts of laughter. After a moment the grey-haired woman hurried after Severine.
Cym watched Ramon as he wavered between pursuing Severine or staying with her. ‘That went well,’ she observed dryly.
Ramon coughed. ‘Si, si – she’s, um, well, she’s a little highly strung just now,’ he tried to explain. ‘She’s due in a couple of weeks.’
Cym’s hand went instinctively to her own belly, but Ramon said nothing – then he stiffened, his eyes going to something behind her, as a big hand fell on her shoulder. Her whole form quivered with utter, absolute relief as she whirled about, then Zaqri pulled her into his arms and engulfed her. She inhaled his sweat, the smell of sun-soaked cloth and hair, the hint of lion fur and blood, and drowned in the heat of him, revelling in the tensile steel of his muscle and the mountain-like solidity of his chest. She clung to him, struggling to breathe, repeating over and over, Sol et Lune, he’s alive. She didn’t know whether to cry with joy or to scream in rage. Part of her had thought that the gods had killed him to solve her vendetta dilemma, but she would still have to deal with it all herself. For now, she was just glad he was alive.
