by David Hair
They tried to kill my queen!
‘My Lord?’ Brunelda asked uncertainly.
‘Go!’ he barked, but then he took pity on her crushed face and with an effort, he softened his voice. ‘You’ve done well. But I need to be alone.’
Mollified, but clearly still wanting him, she left and he forgot her instantly, pouring himself a large Brevian whiskey and lounging in the armchair, trying to breathe through his anger.
When Lyra’s mine again, I’m going to destroy every man who stood against her.
11
The Test
Fire and Ice
It is instructive that in cold Yuros, fire is seen as the primary element of Lucian, Lord of Hel, while in the hot East, ice is the realm of Shaitan, the Evil One. We see that which is most alien as the chief threat.
HAISAH, JA’ARATHI IMAM, PEROZ 866
The Elétfa
Febreux 936
‘Gricoama! Luhti! Zlateyr!’
The rotting chamber swallowed Valdyr’s cries, draining them of force as the darkness drew in its breath, then exhaled mockingly. He reached for the dwyma, but found nothing there. Alone in utter darkness, his balance failed and he lurched, stumbled and fell – and the rotting wood entombing him cracked and he spun away into nothingness. His limbs flailing as the air whipped by, he cried out in terror, expecting the end at any moment.
On and on he fell, the wind ripping at him while his heart hammered and his screams grew hoarse, the terror magnifying until he felt like his heart would rupture, his lungs would collapse, his head would explode, and in that long moment he realised that he could really die of this overwhelming fear, that he was on the edge of seizure . . .
And with that realisation came the knowledge of how to survive, as he had when a youth in the Keshi breeding-houses. He dug deep inside and found what he’d called his inner cave, the place where even Asiv couldn’t reach him, where his senses and emotions were dulled beyond numbness, where touch was no longer felt, smells and sounds passed unnoticed and humiliation and hatred were as meaningless as joy. A place to endure until his tormentor was finally done with him. He crawled inside.
How long he was in there, hunkered under a blanket of nothingness, he had no idea, but when he emerged he was still falling . . .
No, floating . . . Tentatively, he opened his eyes, but found pitch-darkness, and panic still lurking . . . and he knew that if he fell into that fear again, this time he’d never stop falling. He clung to the fragile calm, put all his faith in it.
It got me through Asiv . . .
It was a mistake, to think of his abuser.
Instantly, a dark chuckle resounded, so deep it made his whole body vibrate, which became uncontrollable shaking a moment later when his brain caught up and he recognised the mocking laughter. Instinctively he squirmed and shrank, his clothing vanished and his body reverted to that of a naked boy.
A moment later, a big, warm, sweaty hand grasped his bare thigh. He convulsed in shock, thrashing back to the edge of panic as a second hand grasped his other leg and suddenly he was back in the cellar room beneath the breeding-house laboratory, lying on the filthy mattress where all his worst moments had played out. The suffocating sheets were tangled around his face, the ripe perfume of the body crushing him filled the air. He relived the agony of being lanced, the ghastly feeling of having the hated other’s sweat and drool and seed soaking through flesh and bone into his very soul.
Panic struck him, vision went red and he screamed, ‘Nara – NARA!’
*
. . . and Lyra jerked awake, ripped from her dreams of fire and ambush by a vision of a young black-haired youth, one she felt she knew, lying pinned on his front by a grey-haired Ahmedhassan man with Gatti braids, pale brown skin and a pot-belly. She recoiled at the violence in the man’s face, the cruel lust shining from his face.
Disoriented, not sure if she was even awake, her reaction was purely instinctive: she sent herself, streaming through the dwyma’s endless strands until she was wrapping her arms around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him into her grasp and shouting into his blank eyes, ‘Valdyr –
?I’m here – I’m here . . .’
His abuser’s eyes went black and he lashed out, his long nails ripping her cheeks. She shrieked in pain, almost lost her grip, but clung on, her eyes locked on the boy’s – which finally cleared and he saw her . . .
*
Nara? NARA!
When he saw the blonde woman, fear for her outweighed Valdyr’s terror. Guilt for having dragged her into this and rage at seeing her assailed combined; he twisted from his abuser’s grasp and slammed his feet into Asiv’s chest even as he hurled himself into Nara’s arms. The Gatti mage was sent spinning away, but Valdyr was ripped from her arms even as they shouted their relief at finding each other.
He hit the ground, cracking the back of his skull and winding himself. Lying there, gasping and disoriented, he realised Nara was gone and he was himself again, adult and dressed and alone. He sat up slowly, still breathing hard, pulling himself together. When a soft muzzle pressed into his nape, nuzzling him, he stroked Gricoama’s unseen head while his racing heartbeat slowed and his shaking subsided.
A faint glow penetrated the darkness: a distant opening along a tunnel of rough wood. Through it he could see the stair continued to spiral up the outside of the mighty tree. He rose to his feet shakily and with Gricoama, walked out of the passage into the open air.
I got through . . .
But that gave him no comfort, because if the test had been to conquer his paralysing terror of Asiv, he’d failed. Again. Just the memory was enough to unman him.
I’ve not outgrown it or overcome it. I still fall apart before him.
That realisation was almost enough to reduce him to a sobbing heap, because he felt as if he’d never be free. For a moment he was tempted to walk to the edge and hurl himself into the black. But instead he gripped Gricoama’s shoulders, clinging to the great wolf for strength, for he had none left of his own.
The path up the great tree went on, so he began to climb again, bereft of hope. I’m sorry, he whispered his apologies to Luhti and Zlateyr, to Kyrik, to Nara and to the dwyma itself. Asiv will get me in the end – but while I can I’ll keep going, for you.
Lapisz, Mollachia
Asiv Fariddan jerked out of the waking dream, trying to fathom what had just happened. One moment he’d been standing at a window and then he’d had the most powerful memory-illusion he’d ever experienced, as if someone had thrown him back in time to when young Valdyr Sarkany was impaled on his shaft in his secret den beneath the breeding-house labs. But it wasn’t just memory – because he’d also seen Valdyr as he was now, big and brawny with his scarred back and long black hair and moustaches. Not that he’d fought like a man.
He struggled like a child, he smirked. There’s nothing to fear from little Valdyr.
But who was the woman who pulled him from me?
He kindled a relay-stave and reached out to the Master.
Hegikaro, Mollachia
Asiv’s daemon legion was only days away, according to the scouts. The last of the refugees had arrived and all non-combatants had been sent to the beginning of the Registein trail with instructions to press on and beg refuge if Hegikaro fell.
Though Rondians don’t shelter ‘natives’, Kyrik thought bitterly.
He had runners go through the town to announce an assembly in the square that afternoon. If the town was to be properly prepared, there were things that needed to be said. At the appointed hour he walked out onto the steps, wearing a light circlet around his head rather than his heavy crown, and armour rather than courtly attire. Kip was with him, and Milosh Nirabhy. He’d had the middle of the plaza roped off, leaving a narrow aisle that led to a postern gate on his right. Everyone was peering at it in some puzzlement.
A trumpeter blew a short blast as he surveyed the pale, anxious faces below. Eight in ten were men; but there were women too who’d elected to
stay and fight – most were hunters’ wives, proficient archers in their own right.
Kyrik began, ‘My friends, we’re living through a terrible season. The East has invaded West and daemons walk the daylight world. All we can do is ride out the storm.’
The gathered crowd nodded fearfully, glancing sideways at each other. They’d clearly expected – and hoped for – words of inspiration, not a litany of their fears.
‘In such a time,’ he went on, ‘it feels like every miracle is a dark one, that all the powers of the world are ranged against us. But I am here to tell you that not every omen is evil. Not every wonder contains horror.’
He waved a hand and a line of big-horned cattle began to file in through the postern gate and down the roped off aisle, walking through the crowd to the central pen.
‘Several years ago, a people enslaved by the empire managed to escape. They were a special people, mage-warriors every one of them, and they forged a life for themselves in the wilderness. But the empire continued to pursue them, so they were for ever on the move.’
The Mollachs were looking at each other in puzzlement, eyeing the cattle in the pen before them in confusion, wondering what this herd had to do with their king’s tale.
‘Are we to have a feast before the battle?’ someone shouted. ‘Been a long time since I had roast beef.’
Kip snorted under his breath.
‘There will be no feasting until the battle is won,’ Kyrik replied, ‘but listen: for these mighty mage-warriors finally came to a mountain valley, a beautiful land, and decided that there they would stand and fight.’ He raised his arm and shouted, ‘Do not be afraid! This is a mighty sign from Kore Himself, that He sends us the aid we sorely need: not angels, but the next best thing.’
‘Yar,’ Kip shouted, unable to contain himself, ‘he sends you the Bullheads—’
As one, the Mantauri stood on their hind legs as their bodies reconfigured.
The burghers shouted and Kyrik could taste their alarm. He remembered the bloodbath they’d only just averted when the Mantauri had revealed themselves to the Vlpa Clan a few months before and shouted, ‘Do not fear!’ He conjured light and shields around himself to remind them that he was a mage, to draw their eyes and give them pause enough that no one did anything stupid.
With those at the back as curious as they were fearful, and blocking any at the front who might have considered fleeing, the buzz of scared burghers gradually calmed.
’I introduce the Mantauri,’ Kyrik shouted, projecting his voice with the gnosis. ‘They are constructs, sanctioned by Empress Lyra herself’ – a white lie is allowable, he told himself – ‘and they have come to aid us in this dark hour.’
In Lantric myth, the Mantauri were the barbaric companions of great heroes. Now he reminded them of that. ‘Like Ouros, the companion of the hero Rokalus, the Mantauri hate the darkness. They are here to protect us!’
Kyrik watched his people – fervent believers in Kore to the last – absorb that. Mantauri from the old tales, he heard some say. Ysh, this is possible – but how can they be here? Why are they aiding us? Then heads began to nod in understanding. Ysh, that is what Mantauri do, a few insisted. The empress sends aid, others added.
Rationalise it however you like, Kyrik thought. He doubted Empress Lyra cared about Mollachia, but if the thought gave his people courage, all the better. ‘Maegogh, why are you here?’ he shouted, and the crowd stared, wondering who he addressed.
‘Kirol Kyrik,’ Maegogh rumbled, stepping to the fore of his beast-men, ‘we are here to fight the darkness.’ He made a fist and conjured light around it, illuminating the square.
The crowd recoiled again, but not so far, nor so fearfully. A few even cheered.
‘They speak – they’re magi – they’re here to fight for us—’ Now people were babbling wildly to their neighbours, or praying, some with tears streaming down their faces, in thanks for answered prayers.
Maegogh led his people to the stairs, where Kip’s Schlessen made a show of embracing them, then they all bowed to Kyrik, demonstrating their willingness to accept his command, another necessary step to gain acceptance with the watching Mollachs. Finally, their weapons were brought forth and brandished and the mood changed again as cheers resounded through the assembly.
‘Good,’ Maegogh rumbled to Kyrik as they surveyed the townsfolk. ‘Now we can work openly.’
Kyrik shook his giant hand and was about to respond when he felt a pulse of gnostic energy above and behind him. He glanced back, then swallowed.
Hajya stood on the balcony overlooking the square, clad in Sydian riding leathers and a Sarkany family cloak. In her hand was her periapt, gleaming pale blue like a luminous sapphire. She must have found it among Asiv’s abandoned possessions.
He felt his heart constrict at the murmur susurrating through the gathering in the square. In that moment he felt both incredibly proud and very, very frightened for her.
She’s not strong enough for the days to come . . . I should never have brought her here.
*
After the ‘unveiling’ of the Mantauri, the pace of work trebled, for their gnosis and sheer physical power made the heaviest tasks so much easier. Even repairing the southern breach went ahead in leaps and bound. Every day was filled with sweat and exertion. The ordinary people, at first leery of getting close to the giant constructs, were soon won over by their phlegmatic nature and immense strength. The more gregarious of Maegogh’s people made inroads into winning confidence with shows of good humour and for a while, Kyrik felt an immense sense of possibility.
But the scouts’ reports were harrowing: five thousand possessed soldiers were advancing upon them.
‘They’re more like animals than men,’ one reported, but his colleague was shaking her head.
‘They’re worse,’ she said. ‘Animals don’t kill and torture for pleasure. Beasts don’t turn men into more beasts.’
Kyrik didn’t try to silence such tales – he needed his people to understand what they were facing – but he countered with stories of his own, telling them how silver could weaken and even kill the possessed; how sunlight disoriented them. He told them that the enemy were flawed.
Every night he retreated to the royal suite to tend Hajya. She was horribly sensitive to the approach of Asiv’s army and the daemon infesting their souls. Although her body had at last been purged of the ichor, her mind was sensitive to the daemon’s incessant vile babble. Every night was an ordeal, drifting in and out of nightmares and waking Kyrik with stream-of-consciousness echoes of the mind of Abraxas. There was no question of resuming life as man and wife, not when she was teetering on the edge of an internal abyss.
Then came the day they’d feared, an hour before sunset, when Asiv Fariddan’s forces poured around Lake Drozst with none of the synchronised pomp of a real Rondian legion, no drums, no trumpets, no marching hymns – just a horde who moved in silence.
The watchman on Haklyn’s Tower saw them first. He called urgently to his fellows below. Moments later a pair of scouts who’d been brave enough to take horses west along the valley road came clattering through the gates, yelling, ‘They’re coming – they’re coming!’
Kyrik stood with Kip on the battlements. The Schlessen giant pulled on his gauntlets, glaring down the valley with a look of satisfaction. ‘I hate waiting,’ he growled, before bellowing down to his Schlessens in the courtyard below, ‘Minaus calls us to war – do you hear him?’
As if in answer, thunder rumbled in the southern peaks and every superstitious man – which, with soldiers, meant all of them – made some gesture to ward off evil or seek divine blessing. They put tools aside, strapped on helms and climbed up to the battlements to see, while the burghers, from aged men and women to barely grown youths, took up their own weapons and followed.
‘How many?’ Kip asked.
Kyrik conjured using clairvoyance to gain a closer vision of the foe. Every legionary had black eyes and dark bloody drool around t
heir mouths. Their uniforms were torn and stained and a great many appeared to have discarded their weapons. Maybe they prefer to use teeth and nails. The thought chilled him.
He put that aside. In the Second Crusade he’d been a wind-mage, flying skiffs on scouting missions, so he’d learned how to count formations. ‘Four thousand in view, more coming. I can’t see Asiv . . . no, wait . . .’ He focused upon a clump of horsemen who had trotted into view. Asiv could probably have dispelled his conjurations, but he didn’t, so Kyrik saw an inhumanely handsome Ahmedhassan in rich velvets and furs riding a black-eyed stallion, surrounded by fifteen wound-ravaged, ebony-eyed battle-magi of the Rondian legion. They hissed as if sensing his scrutiny, but still no one dispelled it.
Kyrik broke the spell before Asiv latched onto it and spoke to him. He had no desire to hasten that conversation. ‘He’s here, and he’s got all the battle-magi with him. they are all possessed.’
Kip scowled and spat. ‘We could use a little help, Bullhead,’ he admonished the skies, before turning to Kyrik and adding with a lopsided smile, ‘He never listens.’
‘Neither does Kore – or the rukking empire,’ Kyrik replied.
Kip snorted, then looked pensive. ‘You, me and fifty-odd Mantauri,’ he said quietly. ‘We can hold out a while, but I can’t see how to win.’
‘Neither can I,’ Kyrik admitted. ‘A possessed battle-mage is worse than any ordinary mage, from what I’ve seen – and Asiv is an army on his own. They’ve got enough men to encircle us, leaving nowhere to run.’
‘Minaus spits upon the coward who runs.’
Kip was so much the essence of the Schlessen barbarian it felt almost like an act. Perhaps inside he’s screaming in fear? Kyrik thought, then he decided that was unlikely. No, I think he actually loves all this.
‘I just wish Valdyr was here,’ he said . . . then he thought about that and corrected himself. ‘No, actually I’m glad he’s not.’
