Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  Febreux 936

  Latif and Ashmak stood waiting outside Senapati Onfali’s pavilion, heads bowed and eyes averted, as officers and magi came and went. If anything, Ashmak was even more uncomfortable than Latif, even though he was a mage.

  I was an imposter in Court circles, but I was taught how to belong. This is another world for Ashmak. ‘Keep your eyes down,’ he reminded his friend.

  ‘The commander won’t listen,’ Ashmak hissed. ‘We’re wasting our time.’

  He was probably right, but they had to try. Yesterday five hazarabam, each unit a thousand-strong, had been marched out of Lowertown and down the road to the east, ‘to be rewarded for their valour.’ They’d returned the next evening. Now their camps were lifeless by day, without even cooking fires, and outsiders were being turned away. Latif’s mind was churning at the implications.

  Prince Waqar said the sultan is daemon-possessed. He spoke of a Yurosi kingdom of black-eyed savages who shun sunlight. And another five thousand are to march down Eastern Road tomorrow – including us. We must make the senapati believe us . . .

  The camp was rife with rumours, but it wasn’t easy to ask questions in a place like this. Whatever happened though, there was no way he was going to take that road tomorrow.

  A shaven-skulled young kalfas bustled up to them and addressed Ashmak. ‘Honoured magus, the senapati will see you now.’

  The other men waiting, human officers without the mage-blood that opened all doors, looked at them resentfully.

  Ashmak clearly wanted to back out, but Latif replied firmly, ‘We are grateful.’

  The pavilion was cluttered, parchments strewn over a desk beside an officer’s cot and a wooden cruciform bearing the general’s armour. Senapati Haseem Onfali, overall commander of the division, looked exhausted. He glanced up from the scroll unrolled on the desk and scowled.

  ‘You are of Piru-Satabam III, ai?’ he grumbled, continuing to write while they sank into the required prostrations. ‘Why can’t you see your own commander about this matter, whatever it is?’

  Latif and Ashmak sat up on their knees and Latif responded, ‘Great General, there is a rumour going around the camp of a Yurosi disease. The men are afraid that those men going down Eastern Road are returning infected.’ He dropped his head and stared at the mat under his knees.

  They knew their story, the best they could come up with, wouldn’t be enough on its own and sure enough, the senapati shook his head impatiently. ‘If I listened to every rumour that swept through this camp, nothing would get done. So unless you have proof . . .?’

  Latif raised his head again. ‘I bear the token of a great prince, one who will vouch for me on his return to camp.’

  Onfali looked at his scribe and flicked a finger in dismissal. There was only one prince absent from camp and Xoredh had condemned Waqar Mubarak as a traitor.

  And they’re saying Waqar’s eagle-construct broke free and flew away . . .

  ‘Tell me more,’ Onfali said, his voice hushed, as soon as they were alone.

  Latif pulled out the signet ring Waqar had left with him and placed it at Onfali’s feet. With a troubled glance at the tent-flap, the general took it. ‘How came you by this?’

  Latif took a deep breath. ‘It was given to me by Prince Waqar himself. He told me that you can be trusted.’

  Waqar had said no such thing, but Onfali was a Ja’arathi, one of the moderate Amteh, and he had a reputation for fairness. More importantly, he’d been Sultan Rashid’s man, one of a fast-shrinking circle of men who owed their position to the former sultan.

  Onfali pursed his lips, then returned the signet. ‘Tell me what you know,’ he ordered.

  My story is ludicrous, but if he doesn’t believe me, we’re doomed, Latif thought, then he started, ‘Prince Waqar found evidence of a disease, one that drives men out of their minds. Initially it enhances ferocity, but ultimately, it is fatal. He believes those close to the new sultan are deliberately infecting our men ahead of the next assault.’

  ‘Men close to the sultan?’ Onfali repeated. It was forbidden to slander the sultan, but advisors could be criticised, if one was careful. ‘What kind of disease?’

  ‘It’s spread by blood – by bites, or through infected food and drink.’ Latif described what Waqar had seen in Mollachia, whole communities decimated by hordes of ravenous killers.

  ‘Are you saying this infection is being spread by someone somewhere down Eastern Road?’ Onfali asked, then he mused, ‘We’ve been ordered to march down there tomorrow.’

  ‘I know. Please, Senapati, we must not go—’

  Onfali’s face was an agony of indecision: without proof, this was all just hearsay and rumour. Predictably, the senapati took refuge in delegation. ‘This is too big a matter,’ he muttered. ‘Admiral Valphath must be briefed – it must be his decision . . .’

  Latif winced. That meant more delays and more chances that Xoredh would get wind of what was happening. But in Onfali’s position, he’d have done the same. ‘Great Senapati,’ he said humbly, ‘I beg you, be very careful whom you summon. Powerful men are behind this, men who will not wish to be thwarted.’

  Onfali peered at him. ‘You seem a perceptive fellow – have you served at court? You look familiar?’

  Latif kept his head bowed, his expression subservient, thankful that with his hair hacked short and his beard grown full against the cold, not to mention his weathered skin and hands, he looked little like the urbane Salim. ‘No, Great Senapati.’

  Onfali didn’t look satisfied, but he bade them wait outside and summoned his kalfas. Runners went out and returned, first bringing in a grey-robed Ja’arathi Godspeaker named Zaar, a confidante of Jhiram Henayon, the highest-ranking Ja’arathi in Ahmedhassa. He was followed by Admiral Valphath, the windfleet commander who also saw to the army’s supplies, who bustled in looking anxious.

  At last Latif and Ashmak were summoned back to repeat their allegations.

  Onfali looked at Valphath, who looked at Godspeaker Zaar.

  ‘I would dismiss it, were it not that I have corroborating evidence,’ the Godspeaker said. ‘With the ascension of Sultan Xoredh, my Ja’arathi clergy have been barred from certain camps – but one of my more . . . um . . . determined colleagues tried to enter the camp of a hazarabam newly returned from Eastern Road. He was menaced by savage men and he swears he saw bite wounds, as well as signs of . . . um . . . reduced civility.’

  Latif’s heart thumped. ‘That is exactly as Prince Waqar reported, Lords.’

  The three men looked at him. ‘Where is Waqar now?’ Valphath demanded.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Latif replied. ‘I met the prince by accident – I witnessed his arrival and warned him when I saw he was being stalked by assassins. This was before he was declared outlaw, so I had no idea other than to prevent a grievous crime against our royal family. After he used his gnosis to escape’ – Latif paused to make the sign against evil, as a suspicious and ignorant archer ought – ‘he thanked me. He told me the attackers suffered from this disease.’

  The trio exchanged glances, then Valphath asked, ‘Were you once a scribe, archer? You speak well for one of your station.’

  ‘Prior to being enslaved and conscripted, I was taught my letters by a trader,’ Latif lied.

  ‘He taught you well,’ Godspeaker Zaar commented. ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘Latif, Great Lord,’ he replied, wishing he’d chosen another alias, but none of them showed any recognition.

  Onfali exhaled heavily. Looking around, he admitted, ‘I’m not convinced we have enough to act on, but could we contrive some excuse that the sultan would accept while we investigate?’

  They put their heads together, murmuring, until Valphath said, ‘Ai, let us speak of an epidemic—’

  He broke off as a shrouded figure pushed his way unannounced into the pavilion and instantly dropped his hood.

  ‘Prince Waqar!’ the three men exclaimed as one, while Ashmak and Latif shared a fra
ught, relieved look.

  Waqar looked tired, dark circles heavy under his eyes, and his clothing was dishevelled, but there was a quality in his face that Latif recognised: the implacable Mubarak streak that had propelled Rashid to the summit of the world.

  ‘Please, don’t kneel,’ Waqar told them. ‘As an outlaw, I cannot claim royal rights. We have much to discuss.’ He looked at Latif. ‘My friends, it is better for you if you leave now.’

  Latif went to protest, but Ashmak laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘My Prince, we obey.’ The battle-mage hauled him up and murmured, ‘He’s protecting your secret. The longer you talk to those men, the more likely they are to recognise you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Latif conceded, following Ashmak from the pavilion. It was now dark outside, and they took a lane running between the tents lit with torches where more supplicants were still hovering, although the kalfas was calling, ‘The senapati will see no one else. Audiences for the day are closed—’

  Suddenly cloaked men appeared from all sides, drawing weapons and shoving men aside. The scribe tried to shout a warning but a blue blaze flashed through the night and he clutched his face, crumpling to the ground.

  ‘Ahm on high!’ Latif exclaimed, opening his mouth to shout a warning, but Ashmak’s rough hand slapped over his mouth and he was slammed to the ground. He struggled, but Ashmak’s grip was unbreakable.

  A man in black Hadishah robes called, ‘Is that one of the traitors?’

  ‘I’ve got him,’ Ashmak snarled, shoving Latif’s face into the mud. A nimbus of mage-light flared around his free hand and he pointed towards Onfali’s tent. ‘The rest are inside.’

  The mage-assassin grunted, ‘Good work,’ and ran on.

  Ashmak grabbed Latif’s collar, hauled him to his knees and hissed, ‘Sorry about the muck. Let’s get the Hel out of here.’

  They moved like prisoner and captor while more Hadishah flooded past and the clamour around the pavilion reached a crescendo. When flashes of energy lit up the night Ashmak snapped, ‘Run!’

  *

  Xoredh Mubarak, clad in a grey robe and wearing his Beak mask to hide his identity, sat astride his horse, overlooking the field where more of his army was being fed to the Lord of Rym’s possessed monsters. Five thousand newly infected men were screaming and writhing madly on the ground.

  It hadn’t been difficult. The Shihadi soldiers, told their unit was being rewarded for their valour, were marched off to a clearing a mile out of camp and plied with alcohol and opium. As intoxication set in, Cadearvo sent in possessed whores and the infection quickly spread, the prostitutes biting the men, who then started biting each other.

  The screams were changing now: the progression was almost musical to one who appreciated such things. Inside a few minutes, the resistance of all but the most devout had collapsed and those still struggling were simply butchered. Abraxas didn’t like to be denied the pleasure of breaking such men, but time was short.

  Xoredh turned to Cadearvo, the tower of flesh soon to be known the world over as the Lord of Rym. ‘This process must be accelerated,’ he urged.

  The huge ogre looked Xoredh in the eye despite being on foot. ‘Haste risks exposure. If word spreads, panic will set in and your men will desert in droves. We are powerful, but we need every one of them.’

  ‘But if—’

  The masked ogre planted a thick finger on Xoredh’s chest. His golden eyes blazing, he growled, ‘Too many of your masked brethren betrayed us, Beak. Do your duty – follow your orders – or the Master will create a special Hel just for you.’

  Xoredh was sick of the bullying and longed to lash out – but he wasn’t stupid. ‘Ai.’

  ‘Do not test my patience again.’ Cadearvo turned away and gazed at the carnage with a satisfied growl. ‘Go. Organise the next batch of specimens.’

  Xoredh seethed, but had no choice but to leave, cantering off to join his escort, a dozen possessed mage-knights, once his closest friends and now just another set of eyes for Naxius to watch him.

  I should have kept you free, my friends.

  He didn’t know why he suddenly felt sentimental – in truth, he’d had little but contempt for those “friends”: they were just people he’d collected to protect him and do his bidding. But now he found himself remembering the good times – the drunken parties, the girls they’d shared, the weaklings they’d broken.

  We cut a swathe through the court, he recalled. We were feared. Now there’s just me.

  He spurred his horse to escape them, wanting to ride alone, but they thundered inexorably in his wake down the dark wooded road – until an unspoken ripple of warning brought them all to a halt and he whipped off his mask, seconds before a clutch of torches appeared. A group of men were walking down this road, but he’d forbidden it to anyone unless invited. At once his hackles rose, especially when he recognised Ali Beyrami, the fanatical Amteh imam. He was escorted by more than fifty men, mostly former Hadishah.

  Beyrami was about the only person in the army Xoredh couldn’t swat with impunity, so he rode forward, silently ordering his minions to keep their distance so the clergyman wouldn’t get a good look at them. There were too many signs of their true nature now and Beyrami wasn’t blind.

  ‘Greetings, Imam Beyrami,’ he called.

  The holy man prostrated himself in the pine needles and mud, as did his escort. ‘Great Sultan,’ he called, rising. If he found it strange that Xoredh and his men could ride at the gallop in the darkness, he said nothing of it. ‘Your kalfas said to seek you here. I have news, but—’

  ‘My kalfas was forbidden to divulge my whereabouts,’ Xoredh interrupted. ‘Shall I have his ears lopped for his failure to listen?’

  Despite Beyrami’s reputation as a zealot who’d put whole villages to the sword for alleged Unbelief, he didn’t waste the lives of fellow Believers as blithely. ‘I’m sure your verbal chastisement will suffice, Great Sultan,’ he replied deferentially ‘Rumours are rife in the camp that there is something amiss down this road – disease, people are saying. A Yurosi plague.’

  ‘Rumours? Lies, more like.’ Xoredh leaned forward. ‘Who is spreading such falsehoods?’

  Beyrami’s eyes flickered to the men massed behind Xoredh, but he didn’t appear to see anything untoward. ‘Who knows how such tales start, Great Sultan? But I imagine you have matters in hand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Xoredh responded, wondering, Is this the time to harvest his soul? With his clergy spreading the ichor, the process could be speeded up vastly. But Beyrami had magi in his escort, which meant there would be losses on both sides, not to mention the risk of exposure. The Master has counselled patience.

  Passing up the urge to kill him, Xoredh made a gesture of dismissal and went to ride on – then he paused and asked, ‘What was your news, Imam?’ A pretext to explore this road, I don’t doubt.

  Beyrami hesitated, then said, ‘The governor’s flag no longer flies in Norostein. He has either fled or fallen, but either way, it doesn’t look likely that the empire will relieve the siege.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Xoredh conceded, thinking, Something Beyrami has seen or heard in this conversation changed his mind about what he intended to tell me . . . He studied the imam’s hard face carefully for apprehension or conflict, but found only his normal impassively devout expression. When he probed with the gnosis, he found nothing but a schooled mind.

  I’ll infect him, but not tonight, he decided. I will need to make preparations before I take such a prominent man.

  ‘Goodnight, old friend,’ he said aloud. ‘I have checked the supply dump – the only thing down this road – myself, and I can assure you there is nothing to worry us there.’

  Beyrami prostrated himself again, then Xoredh slammed spurs into his horse’s flanks and burst into motion, his men hard on his heels. In moments the old Godspeaker and his retinue were far behind.

  Tomorrow night, he thought as he rode. I’ll bite him myself.

  *

  Waqa
r woke, spluttering, as icy water on his face shocked though his senses. ‘Waghh—’ he groaned, already chiding himself.

  I should have kept Tarita close, but of course I thought I could handle anything. Idiot!

  Men had burst into the pavilion, sending spells hammering into his mental defences. He’d tried to defend the non-magi, but Valphath, Onfali and Zaar had gone down instantly and the gnostic strikes from all sides had overwhelmed him, until light exploded inside his temple and his awareness winked out.

  He strained against his bonds, but the knots were immoveable and his gnosis was Chained. Someone loomed over him and he tried to kick out with his bound feet, but unseen hands gripped him and slammed him onto his back.

  Faces formed in his dazed vision.

  ‘Please, do not struggle,’ a woman said in Keshi.

  That was unusual enough to make him pause and focus on a pudgy Dhassan girl in full bekira-shroud kneeling over him, only her moon-shaped face visible. A periapt dangled from her neck. Two heavily bearded, muscular men with scarred faces loomed behind her.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded of the female mage, going for bluster. But she made a harbadab gesture that essentially meant, For the love of Ahm, shut up.

  ‘He’s awake, Master,’ she called over her shoulder.

  She stood aside for just about the last person on Urte he wanted to see.

  *

  The Copperleaf tavern currently serving as Ramon Sensini’s mess hall rang with song as those with the greatest staying power dug in for a long night. Ramon peered down from the balcony overlooking the taproom and decided it wasn’t doing any harm: the tavern was out of beer and those carousing had just come off duty. He knew when to crack the whip; tonight it wasn’t necessary.

  ‘Come on, Vania, let’s do the rounds before bed.’

  Vania di Aelno, back in uniform, had been complaining that her nun’s habit had been warmer. ‘Whose bed?’ she asked perkily. ‘I could do with some shared body-heat.’

  Ramon laughed. ‘Each to their own.’

  ‘Dullard. I thought you had more spunk when I signed up.’

  ‘And I thought you’d be quiet and demure. Life’s full of disappointments.’