Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  His blithe, uncaring tones were worse than any ravings might have been. Jehana shrank in on herself, understanding just how certain he was. ‘I . . . I won’t break . . .’ she stammered.

  ‘When all humanity begs you to?’ He stepped towards her and this time when she tried to move away he gripped her in unseen kinesis bonds and held her, stroking her collarbone, throat and chin before resting his fingers on the copper mask that covered the rest of her face. ‘This mask is a special artefact I’ve constructed just for you. Through a combination of mystic-gnosis and illusion, I can link you to the mind of Abraxas without recourse to ichor – and Abraxas can sense everything his victims are going through.’

  Jehana felt herself go white under the copper mask. ‘No—’

  ‘Ah, but yes,’ Naxius purred. ‘Forced empathy is the way forward, my dear. You are going to share every sickening crime Abraxas and his possessed brood inflict on the helpless until you are begging me for mercy – and still it will go on. I’m going to break you until you’re ready to tear down the entire world just to get out of it.’

  She tried to run, but he held her in place as effortlessly if she were a child, then sent a cold stab of energy between her eyes.

  She fell, fell and kept falling . . .

  . . . into a web of mouths and claws that covered her sky and pulled her into a vortex of eyes, a forest of raking limbs that reached for her. She was naked and tenebrous, a wraith on a howling wind, but every sensation felt real, from the blasts of sulphurous heat that burst from the open mouths of the vast body to the pain when fingernails raked her back. Then a giant claw seized her, closed on her waist and pulled her into a massive maw that swallowed her and she fell screaming—

  —into the body of an old man, moments before two giggling possessed men plunged hands into his open belly and began to pull his intestines out—

  —and then into a young girl as a heavy, stinking body lowered its weight onto her back and an awful ripping sensation tore her nethers apart—

  —and into a young man chained to a stake on a heap of coals and timber as a snarling daemon lit the pyre—

  —into a woman lying in the dirt, watching black threads of fluid crawling up her arm from a bite wound and hearing the foul voice of the daemon crawl into her skull, until she sat up and studied the slumbering frames of her husband and children, huddled in the snowbound hut, with fresh eyes—

  On and on, so many ways to suffer, so many ways to inflict hurt, to be defiled and destroyed, so many ways to die – and the worst thing was that all of it was happening right now. This was Yuros, this was the plague unleashed by Naxius and it was going to ruin all of Creation . . .

  Make it stop, her mind shrieked. Make it stop.

  7

  The Cats of Dupenium

  Secession

  It is impossible to conceive of the fall of any empire not plunging the world into devastation. For this reason, the stability and integrity of the empire must be paramount and any threat of secession must be stamped out swiftly.

  MYKLOS TORMAND, IMPERIAL VOLSAI, PALLAS 820

  Dupenium, Northern Rondelmar

  Febreux 936

  Coramore Sacrecour woke to find three more cats wedged around her in the crypt, all purring softly and snoring. The air was frigid and it stank, but thanks to her companions it was warmer than when she’d closed her eyes. The darkness was almost total, but there was a strange, pale, unmoving light shining through the broken door.

  She nudged aside the cats and the bones of whichever forgotten Sacrecour adherent had been buried here; an extinct line, she presumed, to be so neglected. She crawled off of the burial shelf, clambered to the floor and stood on aching legs, feeling curiously lightheaded as she crept to the door, wrinkling her nose at her own stench of sweat and the plunge down the garderobe chute. Tentatively, she put her eye to the hole in the door, then stared.

  She’d thought someone had left a lamp in the mausoleum, perhaps to lure her out, but instead what she saw was a line of white light running along the floor. She had no idea what it was, but it certainly hadn’t been there before. Puzzlingly, it illuminated nothing: it was simply a line of light in the black.

  The cats joined her, rubbing against her as they stalked past and out into the darkness. In a moment she was alone, with a gnawing dryness in the throat. ‘Dear Kore, I’m starving,’ she whispered to no one. She crawled through the broken door and stood, reeling dizzily.

  I’m a princess – I deserve better than this . . . Then her mind went to Cordan. What if they’ve harmed him? The urge to go to him was almost overpowering, but Ostevan was out there somewhere. Was he waiting in the dark to pin her down and force the daemon back into her body?

  She crawled up to the puzzling line of light, which ran dead straight along the narrow pathway between the tombs and sarcophagi. She raised a finger, meaning to touch it, when one of the cats hissed.

  She froze as another wave of dizziness struck her and for an instant she was looking so closely at the line of light that she could see that it was made up of tiny linked filaments of energy – then she had a vision of a man bent over it, drawing it with his fingers, making branches of light shoot out along the walkway. A moment later, she had the name too: Brother Quintus, a mage-priest in Ostevan’s retinue.

  It’s a gnostic trap, she suddenly realised. Quintus put it here to find me. She carefully withdrew her finger, wondering why she should suddenly be able to see such things. Is this my magical awakening? she wondered, quivering in excitement at the thought, then she paused. Or is it something to do with the dwyma? Is this a gift from Aradea?

  Either way, Brother Quintus’ ward had her fenced in and she had no idea how she’d get out of the mausoleum now. She backed away in despair until one of the cats rubbed against her leg and then jumped up, caught her robe in its claws and pulled. Hope rising, she let it lead her along the wall behind the sarcophagi into a maze of stone and statuary, deeper into the tombs. Finally she felt a cold draught and spun, sniffing the air like an animal. The cat, meowing at her, walked serenely to a place against the wall where a little heap of loose soil suggested there might be a hole, and sure enough, some of the bricks had crumbled away. Coramore had to work to widen it enough to squeeze through, but soon she was scrambling over roots and loose stones.

  When she saw light, she had to stop herself wailing in relief. She had emerged from some animal’s abandoned den at the far edge of the cemetery, shrouded by a leafless tangle of blackberry thorns right against the wall. She scooped up the snow covering the bushes, fighting to restrain herself from wolfing it down, but cupped in her hands, it melted quickly enough and soon she was gratefully slurping down the cold, clean fluid.

  Smoke hung in the air, wafting from chimneys just visible in the pre-dawn light. Was Cordan awake, she wondered, and more importantly, was he safe? What could she even do?

  Scrying is blocked by stone and water, so I have to find shelter – but first, I need food. She might look skinny but she’d never gone without in her life.

  But that was the girl she’d been before Abraxas had invaded her soul. The daemon had revelled in faults and frailties, weakness and vice; it preyed on diseases of body and mind. It had shredded her innocence in passing, leaving a more calculating being behind.

  I have to remain underground – but perhaps I can come out at times like this? Surely even Ostevan must sleep?

  She clambered through a gap in the wall and found a muddy alley full of snow-covered detritus. The cat followed, mewing softly. At the end was another alley, and now the wondrous smell of baking bread was mingling with the smoke. Her mouth filled with liquid and her stomach growled.

  Then a yawning middle-aged woman emerged and placed a bucket beneath a cloth-wrapped tap. She watched the woman pump water into the bucket, then take it inside.

  The instant she was gone, Coramore rushed to the tap and drank her fill, fighting not to break down in tears as she knelt there in the mud. The cat rubbed against
her, licking the drops she spilled. Through the door she could hear laughing banter: a clutch of baker-women complaining of the cold and their husbands and their work, guileless chatter that made her ache for company, anyone, even for the stupid bints she’d shared her childhood with.

  She pressed an eye to the keyhole and saw that the back door opened directly into the baking chamber. It would be impossible to enter unseen. The smell of fresh bread was a torment, so near but out of reach, but the cat was making it clear they should move on. Together, they crept through the mud, her slippers sticking in the slush.

  Peering round the corner of the building, she saw a man with a heavy stick standing in front of the bakery’s front door, stamping his feet while lifting a steaming mug to his mouth. The smells of broth and bread mingled on the air. When he turned away, Coramore peeked through the window to see a stout old couple placing freshly baked loaves into the racks behind a low counter.

  She realised with a start that she wasn’t the only one watching: across the street a gaggle of children gathered beneath a verandah were watching hungrily. Nothing but torn layers of cloth protected them against the cold. Their yearning eyes were huge as they watched the bakery.

  Then the door opened and the children – there were at least two dozen – came flooding forward as the old man appeared with a basket in his hands, beaming about.

  ‘G’mornin’, lads ’n’ lasses,’ he wheezed, and gestured them into an orderly line. The children’s faces shone with more reverence than Coramore had ever seen on the faces of Uncle Garod’s courtiers, and sorted themselves into a queue with the smallest at the front, biggest at the back. The old man gave each of them a bun – they weren’t steaming, so she guessed they were the previous day’s leavings – and when he ran out, he called inside and the old woman, surely his wife, brought more, this time fresh-baked.

  ‘Now get along, afore we get some real customers – this is a business, not a bloody charity!’ the baker scolded, laughing, and the children scampered off, cheeks now pink and eyes bright. ‘Best part o’ me day,’ he chuckled to his wife when they’d vanished.

  Then the woman caught sight of Coramore. Her heart thudded in terror. Does she know who I am? Has Uncle Garod told people to look out for me?

  But the woman called out, ‘Here, lovie, did ye miss out? Jus’ ye wait there,’ she cooed, producing a large, fresh-backed bun. ‘Here, lass, it’s yours, if ye want it.’

  Timidly, Coramore reached out for it, wary of any sudden movements, and the moment her fingers closed round the bread, she snatched it and ran, terrified that any clear glimpse of her face could lead to ruin. She shot down the alley, vaulted the rubbish, slipping and skidding on the icy muck, the loaf cradled against her chest. At the end she paused for just an instant to look back and saw the man with the stick peering down the narrow alley, but he didn’t call out or follow.

  Once out of sight, she ate her prize, again forcing herself to eat slowly, then the cats closed in and guided her through the unfamiliar back streets to the docklands, which were slowly coming to life. She wasn’t the only one sleeping rough, she realised as she crept past a young man with wrists as skinny as hers who was so still she couldn’t tell if he was even breathing.

  The cats took her to a culvert that flowed into the River Beck, a subsidiary of the Bruin. There she found a narrow shelf on one side that was clear of the water and just big enough for her to perch on. She huddled there, frightened and shivering, as the city woke, trying to ignore the stench from the sewage flowing from the well-to-do homes around Dupenium Castle, shuddering whenever one of the boats constantly passing the end of the drain just a few feet away scraped the stonework, until she fell into an uneasy sleep.

  She remained unfound throughout the day, waking at sunset chilled to the bone and starving and too scared to move, hearing the laughter and ribald jollity of dockworkers and sailors drinking only a few yards away.

  They’d turn me in for a copper – or do worse . . .

  Her stomach was empty and burning with acid, her throat dry as parchment and her thin limbs felt hollowed out. ‘Help me,’ she whispered – to Kore, to Aradea, to anyone who might care about a girl alone in a frightening world. ‘Please help me.’ Her eyes stung and she felt herself trembling uncontrollably, her courage ebbing away . . .

  Coramore?

  The voice – Queen Lyra’s voice – rang inside her head like a clarion call and it felt like someone had laid a hand on her shoulder and jerked her back from the edge. She went rigid, strangling a cry as all her senses quivered.

  Lyra? Coramore whispered, straining to hear, waiting with bated breath, but nothing else reached her, just the night noises of the docks. Hours passed and despair seeped back in while the night fell silent.

  And then a dark shape jumped onto the end of the culvert and yipped – but not in a threatening way, more like an urgent greeting. It was a fox. They stared at each other, then the fox made a soft coughing sound, turned and vanished.

  The cats had handed her over.

  She crawled to the end of the culvert and peered out, but what little she could see of the docks was empty. Under a rare starry night, the moon was basting the river in pale light. It took her a few moments to spot the fox again, but when she did, her heart leaped.

  The fox, silvery in the moonlight, was sitting on a small coracle tethered to a post, the sort a child might use to go fishing.

  Shivering in excitement, Coramore crept out and crept along the shore to the coracle. The fox was gone, but that didn’t matter: the message was clear. There were no paddles, but she found a pole. It took but a moment to untie the mooring rope and clamber aboard, and then she was spinning out into the current.

  She was four hundred miles from Pallas and her uncle’s army was ahead of her on the river. She supposed she should be frightened, but she wasn’t: she was in Aradea’s hands, and Lyra had heard her call.

  *

  At the confluence of the Beck and Bruin was the town of Beckford, where Garod Sacrecour’s remaining barges awaited the morning, when another legion would take to the river and float down towards destiny. All evening Dupeni soldiers filled the taverns and brothels lining the docklands, doing what soldiers the world over did: eating, drinking, rukking and fighting.

  By midnight, though, the streets were quiet except for the Night Watch, ambling down the cobbled streets, collecting drunks and hauling them off to cool their heels overnight in the gaol.

  No one saw the coracle with the small figure huddled in the stern as it drifted by. The little craft bobbed along as the currents of the confluence threatened to trap it, then sent it spinning away into the vast, sluggish flow of the Bruin.

  By the middle of the night it was miles downstream.

  *

  Ostevan was watching Garod Sacrecour and Brylion Fasterius beat the Hel out of an old man when a message was handed to him. It was written in Germane’s handwriting; he would have only just written it, into a colleague’s mind, from Pallas, four hundred miles away.

  The rebellion leadership have reached out. G.

  Ostevan smiled quietly to himself and discreetly burned the scrap of paper while the two men in front of him continued to smash up the face of their prey. They were still full of fire, but Ostevan was bored now.

  ‘Enough, gentlemen, please,’ he said. ‘We do need him mostly alive.’

  With Coramore still eluding him, he’d been forced to take a risk and present a false dwymancer, some rustic greybeard chosen for his craggy, weather-beaten looks and well-lived-in furs. He’d scrambled the man’s brain so badly he now actually believed he was a dwymancer; he’d been cackling about ‘blasting your souls with the power of the Elétfa’ through broken teeth.

  Reluctantly, Brylion Fasterius unballed his bloody fist and released his grip on the old codger’s collar. Ostevan’s greatest fear had been that in the bloodlust of violence, Brylion would reveal his own daemonic possession, but somehow he’d managed to keep just the right side
of going completely berserk.

  The battered man slumped to the ground, barely conscious. Garod kicked him one last time, then turned to Ostevan. ‘You’re sure his blood is enough to keep Lyra from striking us?’

  ‘Fear not. She won’t be able to touch you,’ Ostevan drawled, devoutly hoping he’d find the missing princess before it became critical. ‘But he does need to be alive for his blood to be efficacious.’ He shared a glance with Margentius Keeper; he was one of the few people in on the ruse, but he knew to keep his mouth shut. ‘If you will give us leave, gentlemen, we’ll take this from here.’

  Garod rubbed his knuckles, sending healing gnosis to seal the broken skin and remove the pain, while Brylion panted his way back to relative calmness. ‘You’d better be right about this,’ the Duke muttered. ‘Half the army’s already loaded on the barges.’

  ‘We’re watching the skies, your Grace,’ Margentius responded smoothly. ‘Our best weather magi are scanning the clouds from here to Pallas. The moment a storm forms, we’ll know.’

  ‘And you’ll be able to counter it?’ Garod insisted.

  ‘We shall,’ Ostevan lied firmly.

  The duke and his cousin looked satisfied with that. Giving the broken man on the floor a vengeful look, Garod stalked out, leaving Brylion glaring hotly at Ostevan. He knew as well as Ostevan that the real dwymancer was still at large.

  ‘Kore’s Balls, you’re a fine gambler with the lives of others, Ostevan,’ Margentius breathed, pushing the door closed. The only one without a daemon-spawn, he had no idea how close he stood to such predators.