Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  Malevorn found himself more than a little awestruck by the sheer number of people, and the size and grandeur of the buildings lining the river.

  Huriya flung out a hand theatrically and announced, ‘The Imuna River, which also flows through my home city of Baranasi.’ She walked down to the river, but Malevorn hung back, intimidated by so many men and women, all dressed in the brightest of colours. The cloth was mostly threadbare and cheap, but here and there he could see richer-garbed families were also making their way through the crowds. It looked like everyone came to the river to immerse themselves in the muddy sludge and chant – prayers, he guessed: Omali-worshippers.

  There were more people than he’d seen in his life, except maybe at the great Imperial parades in Pallas, on special days … but Huriya had claimed earlier that this was just an ordinary day.

  He shrank against the wall, feeling strangely small, and watched Huriya go right down to the river, skipping like a child until she got to the final step, then she knelt and wet her brow. He’d thought her agnostic, but it looked like she was praying.

  Her face was solemn as she returned to him.

  ‘They say that bathing in Imuna cleans away all of your sins,’ she declared.

  ‘Handy. Didn’t take long.’

  She giggled. ‘I didn’t even need soap.’ She waved a disdainful hand behind her. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Certainly. Anywhere but here.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘It’s barbaric.’

  ‘You really do have no soul at all.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He looked about in bewilderment. ‘Where do we go?’

  ‘This way.’ She led him back into the press of the alleys and as he followed, he felt more than ever that he was depending utterly on her to survive this maelstrom of alien humanity. I’m just a toy to her, an extravagance.

  The place she took him was a guesthouse, where she used the gnosis to beguile the host into welcoming them inside without any exchange of names or coin. The place was a monument to opulence, a palace of sandstone and carved cedarwood that must be worth a fortune in this place without forests. Gauzy curtains hung everywhere, and a heady smoke leaked from behind closed doors. The staff, male and female alike, were all young and beautiful, dressed in silk skirts and nothing else. Music and singing filled the air and the main room was decorated with brightly coloured statues perched on plinths, so lifelike he was amazed – until he realised that they really were alive: real people covered in body paint and cloth, each one very slowly moving into a different pose as they passed.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asked.

  ‘A whorehouse masquerading as a place where rich pilgrims can stay after immersing themselves in the river.’ Huriya looked about her with faint disdain. For someone who had grown up poor, if her tales were to be believed, she looked utterly at home – and by no means impressed. Perhaps the souls within her had seen better.

  For himself, Malevorn was fascinated. Who wouldn’t want to be a rich man here? Is this how the emperors lived? But he was also increasingly on his guard. What is she trying to prove, by bringing me here? Does she mean to seduce me? The thought of copulating with any Noorie repelled him, despite her lush sensuality. She’s wasting her time.

  Huriya ordered food and wine to be delivered, then she dismissed the servants and threw herself into the middle of the vast divan, shedding silks as she moved. ‘What do you wish for?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘Opium? Spirits? Music? Dancing girls? We can have anything we want here.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘We need to prepare for tonight.’

  Huriya laughed. ‘Prepare? For what? Bullying an old man?’

  He gritted his teeth. ‘Let me have my gnosis back. And a sword.’

  She shrugged carelessly. ‘A sword, perhaps – swords don’t frighten me. But I don’t think you’ve been anywhere near well-behaved enough to be trusted with your magic.’

  ‘You should be preparing, scouting, making sure your people know their roles.’

  She just giggled and looked about her. ‘No, I want to be clean! And perfumed, and fed. And I want a tongue inside my yoni, followed by a long hard lingam.’ She laughed lewdly. ‘I’ve gone without for too long.’ She struck a whorish pose, beckoning. ‘Don’t you want to play?’

  Not with a mudskin degenerate like you. His lip curled. ‘I’ll relax when I hold the Scytale in my hands.’

  ‘That will never be, slugskin.’ She looked vexed. ‘Go away then, sulk in a corner for all I care.’ She pulled a bell rope and shouted, ‘Bring me wine!’

  *

  Hours later Malevorn was still burning with anger as they left the pleasure house. Night had fallen and the long blade of a crescent moon hung like a scimitar above the eastern mountains. He flexed his fist and breathed deeply of the cooling air, but it was still thick with river-mist and the smoke of hundreds of thousands of cooking fires, hanging over the city and reducing visibility to a few yards. He could just make out the forty or so pack-members milling about in the ruined building they had claimed. They all looked replete, having gorged themselves on souls as well as wine and food. He wrinkled his nose in contempt. The stench of their animal mating still hung in the air; Huriya too had wasted the preparatory hours on drunken sex with a pair of male whores while Malevorn waited in another room, trying to clear his mind and prepare for a fight.

  At least they’d given him a weapon – a Keshi scimitar – and some ill-fitting mail. He tested the sword’s balance again, familiarising himself with the curved blade; it required a different fighting style to the straight swords he’d been brought up with. And all the while he missed Raine Caladryn, who would have been just as iron-willed as he was, just as grimly purposeful. He’d shied away from thinking about her in the months since she’d died because missing someone was weakness. But Kore’s Blood, he’d have paid anything to have her standing with him now.

  I wonder which of this damned pack drank her soul? He’d never been told, and had never asked.

  Huriya gathered the pack, a queen among her subjects. Any pretence that Wornu controlled the pack was long gone; they were all her creatures now.

  ‘My children, tonight we seek two prizes, the Scytale of Corineus and the widow of Meiros and her children – each is equally precious, but there is no guarantee they are here, so that is what we are seeking to determine. You will follow me into the vizier’s house and spread out, using caution and silence, at least until the alarm is irrevocably raised. It would be better to accomplish this without attracting any outside notice, but all servants and any guards within must die. If the young mage Mercer is there, kill him. The vizier and Ramita, if she’s here, must be brought to me alive. Is that understood?’

  The pack murmured their assent.

  ‘One final thing.’ With her hands on her hips, she glared around the room. ‘If any try to claim the prizes I have named as their own, they will be made an example of. This is not a time for seeking personal gain. All will gain equally from these prizes. Is that understood?’

  The shifters muttered their obedience, and Malevorn wondered if any would hold to it. Then Huriya clapped her hands and said, ‘Let the fun begin!’

  A low collective moan of eagerness rose from the Souldrinkers, who then fell into the agonised contortions of shapechanging into their favoured beast or half-beast. Malevorn moved into Huriya’s shadow, blanking his mind of everything but the task at hand.

  ‘Good boy,’ she approved with a condescending smirk. ‘Watch my back.’

  I surely will … my queen … I know exactly where my blade will go in.

  They made their way carefully through the sleeping city, past walled buildings with guards who peered at them curiously, and the sleeping homeless, thick as flies around the steps of the temples. The tiny alley-shops were all shuttered and locked. The stray dogs who normally ruled the night streets of Teshwallabad yelped and fled the Dokken pack, and night-watchmen who might have been inclin
ed to investigate found unwitting reasons to turn aside.

  At last they came to the edge of a great open plaza, and for the first time saw their destination. Vizier Hanook’s home was an impressive construction of stone and latticed windows. A few gleams of light shone from behind shutters on all three floors. Armed men guarded the rooftop battlements and the main doors. It was an inner city fortress, built with an artist’s eye.

  The pack crept to the edges of the shadows, then fanned out to surround the building. Huriya led Malevorn to a point opposite a side door. Her face was serenely confident.

  ‘What is my role?’ he asked.

  ‘Protect me,’ she answered simply, and as she spoke he could feel the gnostic threads close about him, ready to enforce her will over him if required. He carefully blanked his mind of all his resentment of her.

  They waited, still as statues, until Huriya looked up as if in answer to a silent call. Cut off from his gnosis, Malevorn could not feel the signal that pulsed out, but he could guess at it, for on all sides the Souldrinker pack took to the air or padded softly forward. The first casualty was a guardsman on the rooftop, shot by Wornu’s mate Hessaz. Instantly birds became people who dragged him from sight before spreading across the roof.

  Huriya turned to him and offered her hand. ‘Come.’

  He clasped her tiny hand, and with effortless Air-gnosis she bore them both up into the air. The wind rushed past his face for a moment, then they were landing on the shadowy rooftop, which turned out to be a beautifully tended and ornate garden, with cupolas sheltering fountains and pools with golden fish. More bodies were being dragged aside, and he could hear the wet ripping sound of teeth in flesh. They found two doors leading downwards, one beneath a graceful cupola covering a staircase to a closed double-door, the other less grand, so perhaps meant for the servants.

  Wornu flowed from bird to human form and descended to the double doors. The packleader paused at the closed portal and looked back in confusion. ‘Seeress, it is warded.’

  Malevorn saw uncertainty cloud Huriya’s face. ‘You are certain? How strongly?’

  ‘Strong enough,’ Wornu growled, displeased. ‘I thought there were no magi here.’

  ‘The Rondian boy – Mercer?’ Huriya asked, looking at Malevorn.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Malevorn answered, adding, ‘but he’s only a quarter-blood.’ Perhaps he’s here, and the Scytale too …

  The Dokken hadn’t expected any gnostic resistance, and this small reminder of their centuries of persecution at magi hands was enough to cow some and enrage others. ‘What do we do?’ Wornu asked, his brutish face contorting with suppressed rage.

  Huriya nibbled her lip, then announced, ‘We will strike swiftly as planned. Break down both doors at once, and kill any who resist, except our targets.’

  Malevorn eyed the group disdainfully. Stupid bitch, sending her fighters into the unknown. But he didn’t care enough to warn them. He could see that Wornu at least understood the risks.

  What if Quintius and his Fist are here? he thought suddenly, and wondered how he felt about that possibility. They’d treat me like any other Dokken, no doubt. Or maybe worse …

  The pack did as Huriya commanded, bunching around the two staircases. With the gnosis, barring clever use of the strengths and weaknesses of different Studies, defence beat an equal attack in the short term, but long term, a weaker attack could undermine permanent wards. Huriya was the equivalent of an Ascendant and Wornu a pure-blood, and thanks to the deaths of Dranid and Raine, there were at least two more in the pack with pure-blood strength, Kraderz and Medelos. So they had enough power to destroy most wards swiftly – but the gnostic reverberations would instantly warn those within.

  We’ll have to be swift once we’ve broken through. And somehow I’ve got to get free of this Chain-rune and get my hands on the Scytale. He eyed Huriya’s back as she gave the signal and the Dokken leaders hit the doors with all their force.

  The counter-blow was staggering: the doors exploded, not inwards, but outwards, the defensive spells set into the doors smiting Wornu’s shielding in coruscating red and blue light while fire and splinters like spears erupted in all directions. The massive Souldrinker roared in fury, unharmed but furious. Malevorn glanced at the other doorway and saw that Medelos had not been so fortunate: the half-trained fool had not thought to shield and he was so badly burned and broken that he was all but unrecognisable. Those behind him staggered way, except for one quick thinker, a bat-headed man named Elando who knelt over Medelos’ ruined face and inhaled the mist rolling out.

  Without thinking Malevorn stepped in their direction and shouted, ‘Get moving, you rabble!’ One or two shot him looks of hate, but they began to pour down the staircase as the first shouts of alarm rose from below.

  *

  Ramita stood in yet another sari so stiff with gemstones that if she fell asleep standing up, she would probably remain upright. Her next encounter with the mughal would be a formal dinner, involving some of his courtiers: another attempt to make her compromise her position and remove the final impediments to the marriage.

  Around her a crowd of tailors fussed like chickens. There was no gaiety or levity as there would have been at home, just a group of immaculately dressed middle-aged men making sober observations about the size of her bust and hips as they took precise measurements. They had been at it for hours and she was about ready to scream.

  ‘Just a few more minutes,’ Jindas-sahib, the royal tailor, said without a touch of sympathy, or indeed irony, considering this was the eighth time he’d used the phrase that evening. The other six tailors were variously too absorbed or too tired to react at all.

  The twins were in the nursery, playing with a maidservant before their final feed for the day, and her breasts felt full and uncomfortable. She longed for these fussy old men to relent and let her go.

  Hanook was sitting on a stool, watching the scene with a look of anxiety leavened with amusement. Their eyes met briefly. It was two days since the audience with Mughal Tariq and their blazing argument in the tunnel afterwards. He’d been at court most of that time, trying to find a solution to the impasse over her powers. Dareem had been busy too, working away in his own suite upstairs, writing letters to courtiers, pulling strings and setting the groundwork for the revelation of Lady Meiros to the world. She hated being at loggerheads with Hanook, for she liked him – not just because he was kin, but even more poignantly, he reminded her of her dead husband.

  Alaron would be in the library at the other end of this floor, or maybe upstairs in bed by now. She wished she’d had the chance to talk to him, but he was preoccupied with the training regime he’d started at the monastery; it invariably left him exhausted and abed early. Or perhaps he was avoiding her.

  Is Hanook right? Am I being unreasonable because part of me just wants to run away with my loyal Goat, and damn the world? She was sure that wasn’t the case, but the nagging feeling remained, that she was being selfish rather than strong. It undermined her resolve and weakened her will.

  Tomorrow night I’ll decide, she promised herself. They will give in, or Alaron and I will leave.

  ‘Enough,’ said Hanook, clapping his hands. ‘We are almost there. The rest will follow tomorrow.’

  The tailors stepped back, looking put out, but Ramita felt herself reel and had to catch her balance lest she fall off the stool. Dear gods, I am tired. She looked at Hanook gratefully.

  ‘This sari accentuates the best features of your form and colouring,’ he told her, waving the tailors away to the far corner of the room and lowering his voice. ‘Mid-hues to downplay your darkness, fewer pleats and more flair to minimise your hips. Tariq favours skinny girls.’

  And ones with nipples like flowers. ‘He is a shallow child if that is all that matters to him.’

  ‘Lady, he is a gentle soul, and you will come to feel affection for each other, of this I am certain. I believe the two of you represent the start of a new era for Lakh.’

&
nbsp; ‘Have the Godspeakers been told yet?’ she asked doubtfully.

  ‘All in good time,’ Hanook replied. ‘There will be moderate members of the clergy present tomorrow night, noted for their flexibility and realism. Once we win them over, the majority will be swayed. The dream of Lakh supremacy will overcome their repugnance for the magi.’

  The thought was a queasy one. Repugnance could turn to murder very quickly. ‘If you cannot find a way to ensure my autonomy, I will not agree to this,’ she reminded him firmly.

  He went to reply, but his words were drowned by a massive boom!, like a giant heartbeat.

  Then came a sound that hit her like a blow to the chest: she felt a mighty crash in her ears and through all her gnostic senses, throbbing through the whole palace, shaking the floors.

  Like nightmares given voice, beast calls echoed distantly through the corridors.

  *

  Alaron was walking back to his room with the rolled-up notes in his hand and his head full of thoughts. So much was happening, soaking up the hours, and he still had much to decide. He was unravelling the Scytale, but what to do with it? Ramita and the mughal was another problem – and then there was the exploration of uncharted gnostic territory. He was keeping up his kon-staff practise on his own now Yash had gone to his new monastery. Alaron missed him; the young monk was the only person here whose company didn’t come with an array of complications. Between the physical and mental stresses, he was exhausted, and more than ready for bed.