Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  ‘I have a plan for anyone I might face,’ Hetta replied. ‘She and I have similar skills, but my blood is purer, while she’s arguably the better with a blade. I’d take her down from a distance – that’s my normal plan anyway. I like to bind my arrowheads with Contact-runes – it’s draining on me, but when they strike they unleash a counter-spell against shielding and wards. The second and third arrows are shot to kill or maim.’

  ‘And the mudskin?’

  Hetta peered at the bathing figures. ‘He’s a big brute, isn’t he? We know nothing of him, but he looks physically strong, so again, I’d stay clear. Let Vardel distract him, then hit from the flank, from a distance.’

  ‘What range?’

  ‘I can hit a stationary target or a someone moving predictably from over a hundred yards, but beyond that even the very best can’t count on hitting every time.’

  Impressive. ‘I wish we’d met earlier.’

  They shared another silent moment and he wondered what her little mouth would taste like. There was a sense of danger that he liked. I think she means it about going slow, though. Well, right now, so did he. He reached out and patted her arm. ‘We should get back.’

  She smiled appreciatively. ‘Sure. When do we go in?’

  ‘They will likely sleep when the sun is at its zenith, so let’s move then.’

  35

  Poisoned Arrows, Poisoned Words

  The Creation of the World

  Then did Sivraman-ji bring forth the Milk of Creation, in which his children swam: the Naga, snakemen of prodigious strength and skill. The Naga churned the Milk of Creation, and from the raw stuff of Chaos they forged the lands.

  THE NIRMANA-SUTRA (OMALI BOOK OF CREATION)

  Coastal Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

  Rami (Septinon) 929

  15th month of the Moontide

  Though there was no gnostic scrying, Elena could feel eyes on her as she dried herself. She had weak shielding up, but she was more worried for Kazim than herself. He wasn’t capable of the subtlety required, so he had no shields at all and was relying entirely on her warnings.

  The lamiae always kept a watch on the various approaches to the river valley, and when one of their scouts had hurried in the previous night and reported a large force of mounted white men on the upper slopes where the remains of the Greyhawk lay she’d known at once what they were facing. The description the scout gave of the Yurosian leaders told her exactly who they faced.

  The last thing she wanted to deal with now was Gurvon Gyle, not when she was still trying to process the astonishing discoveries of the days before, when the lamiae elders had revealed that Alaron Mercer, her wayward nephew, had somehow managed to help them reach this place – their ‘promised land’. The lamiae were refugees, fleeing the Pallas Animagi who’d clearly been breaking all the Gnostic Laws on constructs – and probably doing so with imperial sanction. But even those facts weren’t what playing most on her mind, astonishing as they were.

  The Scytale of Corineus!

  Somehow this fabled artefact had come into Alaron’s possession – his, and some gypsy girl who was also the daughter of Justina Meiros, the granddaughter of Antonin Mieros himself! She couldn’t imagine how this might have happened, and Kekropius knew little – but he’d held it in his hands: the most valued artefact on all of Urte. It made no sense, that the emperor’s most prized possession was abroad in the hands of her nephew and a Rimoni girl, but however unbelievable, that did indeed appear to be the case.

  Kekropius told them Alaron and the girl had left almost nine months ago, seeking Justina Meiros, and had never returned, which is why the lamiae – who seemed to regard her nephew as some kind of patron saint! – prayed for his return daily.

  Elena loved her nephew, of course, but whilst she’d never have said as much to Tesla or Vann, she’d never been overly impressed by the boy. He’d been vague and naïve, and appeared to have no self-belief at all. It’s hard to believe he could ever amount to anything, let alone become the saviour of a whole new race of beings!

  The next obvious question was: Should we be going after him? She’d been turning that question over in her mind, but hadn’t reached an answer; both heart and head said he was well beyond her reach.

  Anyway, right now we have more urgent issues.

  She’d already warned Kekropius of the possibility of pursuit, but the lamiae were not prepared to move, not with crops in the ground and several of the females due to give birth. And they weren’t afraid.

  She looked at Kazim, who was very self-consciously trying not look like he might be aware of danger. ‘Did you see the glint on the spyglasses upstream?’

  He shook his head. ‘Can we get inside? I feel’ – he grinned nervously – ‘quite naked out here.’

  She jiggled her breasts at him. ‘So you don’t want to give them a show, then?’

  ‘No!’ he said, uncharacteristically prudish. ‘You are my woman, not a performer.’

  She snickered at him, shifted her hips from side to side. ‘Last chance, lover.’

  ‘Just get in the tent,’ he growled, lifting the flap and gesturing at her.

  Once inside, all trace of levity vanished. The lamiae had excavated a tunnel, leaving them just enough room to dress, which they did, as rapidly as possible. Her sword was hidden by the riverbank so that she would look unarmed to any observer. Kazim squeezed past her and buckled on his scimitar. ‘I hate to leave you out there,’ he told her as he lowered himself into the tunnel.

  ‘I’ll be fine. They’ll try and take me alive, but they won’t be so fussy with you.’

  ‘I will not be fussy with them either.’

  ‘Take care, my love. These lamiae aren’t trained, but there are more than sixty of them ready to fight. That’s more firepower than most armies have. Now go: they’re already in position.’

  He touched his fingers to his forehead then his lips. ‘Sal’Ahm, Alhana. May He protect you in the time of trial.’

  ‘His Light on you also, Kazim Makani. See you in the fight.’

  He vanished and was replaced by Kessa, who’d been waiting underground. She was the most skilled of the lamiae when it came to mental communication, so she would coordinate between Kekropius’ warriors in the caves above and Elena and Kazim below. Elena took a moment to be impressed that the lamiae were far less affected than magi by such things as being underground when it came to gnostic communications and scrying. Perhaps that was because they spent much of their time as cave-dwellers. Something to explore another day, perhaps.

  ‘Are they coming? the lamia woman asked. ‘We are all ready. I have been speaking to Kekropius in my head. He struggles to keep the young hidden so long.’

  ‘Patience is for older heads,’ Elena remarked. Kessa was barely nineteen herself; that was old by lamia standards, though she had not yet began to decline physically. She was entrancingly beautiful, especially in this dim light, with her severe, flawless face, her long, hair-like comb and her high, perfect breasts. But that would have been to ignore the bluish-green hue of her skin, and the pair of snake trunks that served her for legs. Although more or less half-human, she was altogether alien, and she clearly regarded herself as an entirely different species. She’d told Elena only yesterday, ‘The Makers made us to be superior to your kind.’

  ‘You are frightened for your mate,’ the lamia observed now.

  ‘Terrified,’ Elena admitted, wondering, What happens to the other if one of us dies?

  ‘How old is he?’ Kessa asked curiously.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Forty-one.’

  ‘Is it normal for an older human female to mate with a younger male?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ she admitted, ‘although I am a mage and we generally live longer than humans, and don’t show the years so much – but even so, society would be scandalised.’

  ‘It would be a good arrangement though, yes? He has much energy.’

&nbs
p; ‘Ha! He wears me out!’

  Kessa grinned wickedly. ‘You and he are much in love. We can all see this with the inner sight. Your magical bonds are very strong. Is this normal also?’

  ‘No. I don’t really understand it,’ Elena admitted. ‘He is of a different kind of mage, one who can steal gnosis from others. I think that our falling in love has created a unique bond that two normal magi, or even two of his kind, could not forge.’

  Kessa blinked in that reptilian way she had. ‘Such creatures as he are spoken of in our tales of the Makers. Our ancestors saw them there.’

  ‘What? The Animagi had Dokken in their breeding camps? Holy Kore! That’s … appalling.’ Kore Scripture commands that Dokken must be eradicated, not … ‘What were they doing there?’

  ‘Our tales do not remember, only that they walked free among the Makers.’

  ‘Incredible. That goes against everything we’re taught.’ But I shouldn’t be surprised, not with all the hypocrisy I’ve seen coming out of Pallas.

  She had more questions, but Kessa stiffened and her eyes became unfocused. Then she looked at Elena. ‘Kekropius says that two of the humans have passed the cave-mouths above and another has been seen near the river. It is time to show yourself.’

  Elena took a deep breath, then nodded. With an alarmingly swift movement of her snake limps, Kessa swayed close to her and pressed cold lips to her cheeks. ‘Good fortune, Aunt of my milkson. Be safe.’

  ‘Milkson?’

  Kessa smiled shyly. ‘Alaron is my milkson,’ she said, her expression complex. ‘You and I are sisters, Elena.’

  Elena didn’t know the term, but she recognised the pride in Kessa’s face. Did she adopt Alaron or something? She awkwardly hugged her back. Embracing a naked half-human half-snake female was decidedly strange; it left her feeling like she’d stepped into a dream. But she was moved too. ‘I am proud to be kin to you and yours,’ she replied formally.

  She clambered out of the tent and went to the riverbank, feeling very exposed. She sat and worked on looking like she was relaxing and enjoying the view across the river, while with her right hand she located her hidden sword. There was a little nagging blur on the far bank: someone cloaked in illusion. They’d know if she focused too closely on it, so she kept her surveillance light. It was enough to know they were there. The hardest part was leaving her shields light, when anything could be about to loosed at her at any moment.

  She fingered the hilt of her blade and tried to imagine all the ways they might take her down.

  If I’ve misread this situation, I’m about to die …

  Two heartbeats later, the first shaft was loosed.

  Her wider shields, the ones that picked up incoming projectiles, screamed a warning and her reflexes took over. She pumped her inner shields as an arrow punched into them low down. The tip exploded in a jagged burst, like lightning-bolts shooting through her shields and cracking them like a pane of glass. Though she had expected the attack, she found herself crying out in alarm – and then real fear as she felt her shields come apart.

  She spun and jerked sideways as an arrow and a ball of fire arced down from two points on the mountain above. The fireball struck the tent and exploded with a force that knocked her sideways. The arrow parted the air where she’d been the moment before the force of the fireball struck and slammed into the earth.

  Kore’s Balls, what’s happened to my shields? She leaped off to the water’s edge so that the bank would block sight of her from the mountainside, and as she did, a trumpet blared from upstream and riders burst into sight, careering across the flats towards her, barely two hundred yards away. If she’d not already known they were there, it would have been the perfect ambush.

  She was still unnerved by the sheer number of riders, but she had to concentrate on trying to remove this damned gnostic effect the arrow had triggered.

  For a few seconds she couldn’t identify it, then realised it was some kind of static counter-spell. Clever! She tried to negate it, but it ate into that spell also, weakened it and then withstood it. She cursed in frustration: not only was this spell new to her, but worse, it’d been cast by a stronger mage.

  Time and distance must weaken it … She looked around warily, but the archer, who must have had a better vantage than she thought, fired again and this time the shaft tore through her frayed shields and slashed open her left arm as it passed. The pain dissipated what was left of her shields and left her wide open …

  … just as someone erupted from the water, a long, thin blade extended, and punched it through her left thigh.

  She yowled, slashing sideways as she fell.

  Gurvon!

  His face was frozen in an impassive grin that held no humour at all and his eyes were blazing in concentrated fury as he blocked her automatic riposte and stabbed again. She jerked aside, but her leg gave way in a blaze of pain as blood flooded her thigh. The pain was raw and deep.

  He thrust again but this time the drag of the river unbalanced him and his blow slid wide. She desperately battered his blade away as the riders pounded closer and closer – but not yet so close that the lamiae would rise.

  I have to survive a few more seconds.

  She feinted a jab, then slashed at his face. At least the damned arrows had stopped, but she was frightened to back up and expose herself again. The counter-spell was still distorting her ability to reach the gnosis, leaving her with just her blade and her fast-failing footwork. Gurvon emerged from the water and found better footing, and once he’d clambered up he started battering at her guard. With his hair plastered to his skull he looked like some wide-eyed fanatic. A two-handed blow at her side forced her to block and as their hilts locked he rose and slammed his forehead at her face. She jerked away, at the cost of falling half-upright against the bank and he pushed his weight onto her, rammed his knee into her groin, jolting her pubic bone, then ground the same knee into her wounded thigh. It was both excruciating and numbing all at once. Then her leg gave way and she began to slide below him. With what remained of her strength she heaved upwards, then rolled sideways and out from beneath him, but too quickly he regained his own balance.

  She struggled upright again in the moment of respite, her thigh throbbing painfully and unable to bear more than a fraction of her weight. They both extended their blades, rasping them together, testing each other’s strength. All the while the horses thundered closer, and the smoke of the burned tent filled the air.

  ‘Give up, Elena,’ Gurvon told her, his voice coming in gasps.

  ‘Puffed already?’ she snarled, then gritted her teeth. The counter-spell planted by that damned first arrow was weakening slowly, allowing her to force a thin stream of healing-gnosis into her thigh, barely enough to matter. ‘You should train harder.’

  ‘I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.’

  ‘You’re such a tease.’ She grimaced through the pain in her thigh, which was hurting far more than a clean cut should. Her eyes went to his blade, which she now saw to be coated in a viscous black tar. ‘When did you start using rukking poisons?’

  ‘Since I met the new you. She’s younger and prettier and she knows all sorts of tricks.’

  ‘True love, huh?’ Her voice began to slur. Rukka, I’m going to faint. It’s all I seem to do these days.

  ‘Who knows? Speaking of which, where’s the mudskin you’ve been dirtying yourself with?’

  Just keep talking, you prick. ‘He was in the tent,’ she replied, trying and failing to slow the spread of the venom. Her left leg was a dead weight. She shifted, trying to work out if she could hop backwards, but Gurvon lunged forward again, seeking to disarm her as the horsemen came streaming into the open space beneath the cliffs, whooping and hollering triumphantly, their lances high, their pennants waving in the breeze. The ground shuddered and the river water was trembling. From high on the bank, someone sent a fireball bursting into the air.

  But she couldn’t afford to take her eyes off the flashi
ng blade that was coming at her from all sides at once. Her own was increasingly sluggish, and then—

  One moment she was trying to block a high cut, the next she was staring down at a thin line of steel embedded in her side. She gripped Gurvon’s venom-encrusted blade in her left hand and tried to pull it out, but he twisted it viciously, almost severing her fingers. Her side felt like it was being ripped apart. Pain enveloped her awareness. She didn’t so much black out as white out in a sheet of searing agony.

  *

  Got you! Finally! Gurvon pulled his blade out of Elena’s side as she collapsed, groaning, and kicked her sword into the river. As her eyes rolled back and she went limp he swiftly yanked out her dagger and sent it after her blade. She was alive, which was preferable, but more importantly, she was well and truly out of this fight. Perfect. He gripped her legs and dragged her up the bank. Arnulf Rhumberg was standing there, peering down from the back of his khurne with a satisfied smile.

  ‘Where’s the Noorie?’ he asked nonchalantly.

  ‘In the tent,’ Gurvon replied. ‘Charred meat.’

  Rhumberg grunted. ‘She dead?’

  ‘No. The venom isn’t fatal. She’ll wake soon … and wish she hadn’t.’ As he gazed down at Elena, Gurvon realised that unlike the last time he’d had her in his power, this time he really did feel nothing. She was just an impediment now. He’d moved on: he was on the verge of new things, great things, with a kingdom to seize and a new woman who could be everything Elena had been and more.

  Rhumberg’s horsemen were milling about, some looking for things to break or kill, others just pumping the air with their fists and yelling. On the steep slope above, Niklyn Vardel was shooting celebratory fireballs into the sky. Further along, he could see Hetta Descholt breaking cover, bow in hand. She gave him a firm wave. He could see the flash of white teeth in her smile and warmed to the idea of her even more. He wondered how far he might get over a celebratory cup tonight.