by David Hair
I should be calling on the dwyma and preparing to hurl storms at the Sacrecours. I should be making rousing speeches. I should be doing something . . .
But negotiating her own surrender had left her mentally and physically exhausted and utterly depressed. Did she have the right to kill tens of thousands more men just because they were unfortunate enough to have Garod Sacrecour as their lord? Swap uniforms and her own Corani would be indistinguishable from Garod’s Dupeni: they were all Rondians, after all.
And what of Solon Takwyth’s army? Would her own even fight it?
And what will Rildan say when he’s old enough to know that I signed away his throne, so that I could be a trophy wife to a foreigner? Will he thank me or hate me?
‘Dear Kore,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t even know any more if you exist. But I’m at my wits’ end and I don’t know what to do. Every choice is wrong. Everything I do feels dirty. Robbing the churches, corrupting a bank . . . Takwyth . . . the Mob . . . I can’t cope any more. If this is power, I don’t want it. So please, tell me what to do.’
Kore didn’t answer.
Maybe silence itself is the Voice of God. If so, it was of no use to her.
Feeling bereft, Lyra drifted down the stairs to her garden. The guards outside Greengate put hands to hearts when they saw her through the grille and one called, ‘Yer Majesty, some fella’s been wantin’ t’see you. Came an hour ago, but we sent him on ’is way.’
It was unusual that someone would come to this part of the keep at all; the public entrances were on the far side. She was about to ask for details when the dwyma stirred and a young voice spoke, a girl, frightened and alone, who whispered, ‘Help me.’
She instantly forgot the guards and hurried away into her garden. It was almost completely dark, but this was her place: she could find her way by touch alone. Owls hooted as she reached the pool and saw Pearl drinking, shimmering white in the gloom.
‘Help me,’ that voice whispered again.
Lyra had once used the dwyma to heal Coramore, casting out Abraxas and purifying her blood – had that given her the dwyma gift? But it didn’t matter how: Ostevan was in Dupenium, so the girl must be in terrible danger. She flung herself to her knees and stared into the water – then the reflection of the swirling sunset clouds above and her own silhouette faded, replaced by an outlined shape of a cowled head, and Coramore’s voice pleaded, ‘Please, help me.’
‘Coramore, I’m here,’ Lyra sent back – but in a dizzying swirl her perspective shifted and then blurred, her vision following a trail of liquid light, a silver river winding towards the rising moon.
She’s on the Bruin, she guessed – and leaped to her feet as Pearl made a nickering sound in her ear. She whirled and embraced the pegasus, cradling her head while her mind raced. She looked down at herself: she was wearing leather gloves and a thick coat against the cold, and for once she’d put on long boots that day instead of her usual delicate slippers. It was as suitable travelling gear as any she had.
‘Milady?’ Basia was calling from the balcony; she’d clearly been gone too long for her bodyguard.
They wouldn’t let me go . . . but Coramore needs me. She’d come to care for the girl, despite all that lay between them. And if she didn’t go, who would?
This is stupid, she told herself. I have Rildan – and what could I even do to help her?
But only she could sense Coramore’s dwyma-contacts and find the girl. And Pearl was so swift, it wouldn’t take long . . .
She knew that her roiling frustration and despair were pushing her to act rashly – but a powerful sense of purpose exploded in her breast and she was suddenly sure that Kore really had spoken to her and this was His answer.
*
Basia limped along Lyra’s balcony, peering down into the gloomy darkness of the garden below her. If Lyra was beside her pool as usual, she’d be out of sight around the curve of the wall.
Damn. I just want to sit down . . .
She had good days and bad days and today had been a bad one: even with healing-gnosis, her stumps ached and walking hurt. And it had been hateful watching Lyra squirming through the meeting with the oily Argundian ambassador, selling herself to another man she didn’t want.
‘Milady?’ she called again into the darkened garden, her voice echoing along the walls. There was still no answer. Duty demanded she find Lyra, so putting aside her weariness, she headed for the Rose Bower – and hearing the unmistakable thud of wings, tilted her head to see Pearl rising into the air. Silhouetted against the rising moon was someone with long streaming hair clinging to Pearl’s back.
Basia gave a strangled gasp, then cried, ‘Lyra? Lyra—?’
Rukka mio, what’s she doing?
16
A Vision of Now
Omniscience
There is an adage that ‘Knowledge is the greatest power’. Who would not wish to be omniscient, to see as a god sees! But would that knowledge not just heighten awareness of all that we cannot change? Unless we also have omnipotence, would not omniscience drive us insane? Ancient Lantric philosophers used to say: ‘All the gods are mad, and hence the world they made . . .’
KOULOUS, RIMONI SCHOLAR, BECCHIO 424
Osiapa Valley, Mollachia
Febreux 936
The tiny eyot shrank to the whole of Ogre’s world as the bipedal lions leaped easily from the low cliff to the eastern riverbank. The powerful male was almost his height and the female was only slightly smaller, a weird blend of muscular naked woman and furred cat.
As they stalked forward, Ogre’s mind was racing. They’re possessed magi, they have to be – which means one bite and I’m done for . . .
There was no time for him to resume his normal form, but he did what he could, shedding the pack before turning his fore-feet to clawed hands, straightening his spine and grasping the shaft of his great axe.
The pair of man-beasts wading towards him were kindling gnostic shields and drawing long thin blades from sheaths strapped to their own backs.
Ogre drew in a massive breath and bellowed a ferocious warning that reverberated through the narrows, bouncing off the cliffs and sending birds scattering. The lions didn’t flinch but came bounding through the water, the lithe female gliding sideways, seeking an opening, while the male came straight at Ogre, his flickering sword demanding all his attention. He was swift, slashing high then low, but Ogre parried the first and caught the low blow on the shaft of his axe, almost losing fingers as the sharp blade slid down the handle, then he short-armed the axe-head at his foe’s face, forcing him to give ground.
The flaring of power warned Ogre just in time to throw kinesis at the female, enough to jolt her backwards and send her mage-bolt awry so it just sprayed weakly over his shields – but that was enough to tell him her blood-strength was at least his own. It was Kyrik who had realised that magi infected with the ichor didn’t become stronger – only the Masks were of Ascendant strength – but their range of skills became complete for they were able to access all sixteen studies of the Gnosis. But for all their snarling bloodlust, this pair were fighting tentatively . . .
They want to take me alive, Ogre realised. I have to end this . . .
He went on the attack, circling left to stay out of the female’s reach before smashing an overhead blow at the male that went awry, exposing Ogre’s flank. The lion-man saw the opening as he darted aside, and lunged—
—but Ogre had left the gap deliberately and now he slammed it shut, cutting short his swing and instead using the butt of his axe to deflect the blow, then lashing out with his taloned hind foot, ripping into the male’s chest and bowling him into the shallows. Instead of following up, he spun and leaped with all his power straight at the startled female, crunching straight through her shields and bearing her down.
He landed on top of her with the axe-haft wedged into her windpipe. Jaws that could break a man’s skull crunched beside Ogre’s face and her talons raked Ogre’s flanks, snagging fur and
ripping, but her eyes were bulging and her breathing gurgled weakly. He glanced at the male, who rose in the swift stream, his fur plastered to his body, raised his hands and conjured energy. With counterattack imminent, Ogre redoubled his efforts, pushing the axe-shaft down as hard as he could, crushing the lion-woman’s neck as she fought for air, her hind legs still seeking leverage to flip Ogre off him – then the male’s mage-bolt blazed . . .
. . . and Ogre twisted, finally letting the female’s attempt to throw him off succeed. He flipped sideways and she rose – and her mate’s savage bolt took her from behind, blasting open the back of her skull.
She flopped to the ground.
Ogre was already hurling her body to one side and hefting the axe in readiness, but the male had pulled up short, his eyes blazing. Whether any kind of emotional bond still existed between them, Ogre couldn’t say, but when the beast-man spoke, his voice was cold and callous.
‘Can you feel the ichor bite, Ogre?’ he snarled, pointing to Ogre’s torn side. ‘Soon you’ll be like us.’
Is he right? Ogre turned his senses inwards, dreading to feel an alien presence.
‘Can you hear Abraxas in your skull, Ogre?’
Almost as if they’d been waiting for those words the voices began, at the very edge of hearing, and Ogre, realising the daemon-mage was right, leaped at him with a one-handed sideways blow. His foe arched away from it, letting the axe pass by his nose, and his narrow blade lanced towards Ogre’s chest, but it was an obvious blow and after battering it aside, Ogre whipped out his massive paw and caught the male’s wrist. His enemy’s face swelled in fright – a moment before the axe arced back around and cleaved the leonine skull, the silver sizzled and the ichor in the daemon’s veins turned to ash.
The lion-man collapsed, kicking and thrashing into stillness.
Ogre pulled his hand from the ichor-stained blade as the inner wave of daemonic voices hit him. ‘Ogre,’ they hissed, ‘Ogre . . .’
‘Silver,’ he croaked aloud, yanking off the coin hanging around his neck and with a sharp cry, pushed it into the worst of his wounds. The pain was enough to knock him to his knees, but he wasn’t done yet. He crawled to his pack and found Sabina’s pouch of silver dust. When he dusted the lesser wounds on his flanks, the daemon voices fell silent.
Gathering a little morphic-gnosis, he used it to numb the pain, but he knew his fate depended on the silver. Maybe I’ve been lucky?
He rose shakily, thinking how strange it was, the way once the fray was over and danger past, wound-shock could strike. But he managed to stay upright through the dizziness and quickly regaining command of his faculties, surveyed the carnage for a moment. He shook himself back into action and beheaded both of his foes, just to be sure.
They’re all mentally linked, so Asiv knows I’m here now. The Master too . . .
He reverted to his natural shape, the better to think, and once dressed, shouldered his pack and with axe in hand he set off again, not wanting to make camp anywhere near. Using animagery to erase his scent, Earth-gnosis to smooth his tracks and night-sight to find his way, he covered another four or five miles before exhaustion claimed him. He clambered into the roots of a giant oak and slept, awaking at sunrise barely rested, but determined.
After breaking his fast he pressed on, unsure where the path led, but the Osiapa River was still audible away to the west. Ogre glimpsed flocks of crows flying into the river valley from the west and his hackles rose.
Possessed birds? Such creatures would burn out in a few hours – but they need not necessarily be possessed, just compelled. A competent animage could make them hunt him, though not for long, nor over a great range – which meant the animage must be near.
That meant he had to move on, fast, working southeast to escape the air-borne spies, staying under the deep forest canopy, which hampered his speed. Finally the birds dissipated, but now he heard baying hounds, although they were well to the west. He prayed the river had erased his scent.
The sun was going down when he topped a hill to see smoke rising from the direction of Hegikaro, a thick black pall coming from the south side of Lake Drozst.
The attack’s begun . . .
Despite his weariness, he set his jaw and began to run.
Hegikaro
Asiv Fariddan scowled down at the lakeside town from his vantage point on a hill half a mile from the outskirts of Hegikaro. The castle was wreathed in smoke from the burning cottages surrounding the outer walls. Concealed pits filled with silver-tipped stakes had cost him a dozen men, not that he cared, but two of those had been possessed magi, which was enough for him to pull back and torch the outer buildings, in case of other surprises.
With those damned bull-constructs they’ve got more magi than I have . . .
But what really troubled him was that in the deep south, Ervyn Naxius was doing something far more important than this. Why haven’t I been recalled to the Master’s side? The possible answers to that question frightened him far more than anything Kyrik Sarkany or even his dwymancer brother could do.
Why am I stuck in this frozen backwater? ‘Find Valdyr Sarkany and Ogre,’ I was told. ‘Bring them, and you may return.’ But where are they? Surely Ogre was just a slave? Then he paused and thought about that.
‘A slave in the Master’s laboratories,’ he said aloud. So what does the beast know?
He was mortified that he’d actually had Ogre in his hands – and used him as a make-weight in a hostage exchange – and now he’d not only escaped again, but killed two of the magi he’d sent to find him.
As for Valdyr, his former catamite had vanished at the volcano, not fallen in, but disappeared into the air, which made absolutely no sense. He’d gone back twice and found nothing at all.
So it was with no great enthusiasm that Asiv felt his Master’s gnostic call and saw the translucent image of his face – the unnaturally youthful redhead guise he currently favoured – forming before him. As always of late, unease filled him.
Nevertheless, the Gatti mage genuflected, touched his forehead to the soil and didn’t rise.
‘Master, I have burned out the hovels outside the walls, in preparation for the assault. We will move in as the smoke clears.’ Breathing fumes made no difference to possessed men, but reduced visibility opened up the possibility of more tricks and traps.
Naxius replied in a flinty voice.
Despite Naxius’ hauteur, Asiv sensed that the Master feared something, that he needed to hear good news. Somehow, they’re a real threat to him – to us, Asiv finally realised.
‘Kyrik is inside the keep. His plight will draw out the brother, Master. And Ogre has been spotted in the Osiapa River Valley.’
Then the image dissolved and the Master was gone, with no salutations, no promises. Asiv remained kneeling, seething with indignation and worry. The Master has some huge purpose, but I’m here cleaning up loose ends.
With a grimace he rose, and strode to the nearest daemon-mage. ‘Attack at sunset,’ he growled. ‘Take their leaders alive and bring them to me.’
The daemon turned on its heel, walking away as the aether crackled with orders. Asiv turned back to the keep, wondering what hand he should take himself. There was no one inside who could defeat his gnosis, but war was more than just gnostic skill or raw power. Unseen missiles and subtle blows could down the mightiest mage. War was chancy and he’d always hated risk.
Let others die to clear my path to victory . . .
*
‘They’re coming,’ someone said tersely, drawing Kyrik’s attention from the silhouette framed by the window in Haklyn Tower, where Hajya watched anxiously.
&nb
sp; Stay there, be safe, he prayed as he shifted his gaze to the burning buildings below. Dark shapes were emerging, careless of the toxic air. Along the battlements, men and Mantauri huddled behind the crenulations, their faces wrapped in scarves against the thick smoke.
‘Be ready for anything,’ he shouted, lifting his eyes to the night sky, seeking airborne magi or even possessed birds, but the sky looked empty.
The gnosis favours defence, but only if you know the attack is coming . . .
‘Prepare,’ he called, and his archers – Mollach hunters and their equally adept wives and elder children – lined up their targets. The dark shapes resolved into Rondian legionaries, but with no sign of their usual spotless precision; instead, ragged groups of black-eyed, bloodstained men snarled in the torchlight. They formed up at the edge of the shadows beneath the walls, at the foot of a sharp slope. Amid them were a dozen blue-wreathed battle-magi.
‘Hold fire,’ he called, listening through the aether to Kip and the Mantauri around the castle; every flank was reporting movement: this was the beginning of an all-out assault. Those burghers who couldn’t find space on the battlements were huddled in the courtyard below, ready to reinforce as needed. How many would find the courage to do what was needed, he couldn’t say.
He had a moment to wonder, Where’s the Vlpa clan? Is Freihaafen safe? Can we hold?
Then like the onset of a thunderstorm, bolts of energy blasted from the magi below as the black-eyed attackers charged up the slopes.
‘Fire!’ Kyrik shouted, and a volley of arrows scythed into the advancing men, silver-tipped and potent – several staggered and fell – but most came on. His own shields flashed red as bolts struck and the two men on either side of him, both young farmers, screeched as they pitched backwards into space, their faces scorched into unrecognizability. Shouts filled the air along the walls, but the enemy scrambling up the walls like limpets were silent.
