Mother of Daemons
Page 35
The construct made a hungry, snarling sound, pinned his ears back and with smoke streaming from his mouth, flashed into a spiralling turn before swinging over the venator’s flightpath: a barrel-roll that caught the grandmaster by surprise. Basia was clinging on for grim life as they swung up and round, right under the venator’s tail. They closed in as the venator twisted in the air, trying to keep them in sight, the grandmaster squirming around in his saddle, seeking a clear shot, but in doing so, reining in his venator and losing them height and airspeed. The beast stalled – and Vasingex scorched in under the venator’s body, whipping his tail upwards.
Giving Vasingex not only fiery breath but also the mythical venomous sting of a wyvern’s tail-tip was a triumph of animagery. Basia watched the tail spike lash upwards, plunging into the beast’s belly and gushing poison into the wound, wishing those far-sighted animages could see their ingenious work in action.
But there was no time to stay and gloat. Basia smacked her hand down and Vasingex obeyed, dropping instantly away, so the jaws of the venator crunched together a foot above her head as she flashed by. They barely avoided ploughing into the ground, but a moment later were banking hard and climbing, just in time to see the venator vent a tortured shriek before it thudded into the snowy field. The great construct bounced and lay still, about three hundred yards from the abbey.
But the grandmaster had survived and was already tearing free of his saddle-straps in a burst of kinesis, his enraged cry echoing through the aether. He landed on both feet, blade in hand and bawling at them as they flashed by.
‘You, come here,’ he roared, aloud and in the aether. ‘Come and fight me!’
I don’t think so, honey, Basia thought as she took Vasingex back towards the abbey, leaving the grandmaster fuming and swearing. The courtyard was empty but for two figures lying motionless on the snowy paving stones – and the door to the main building was shattered.
They’re all inside . . .
Vasingex slowed enough for her to float down on Air-gnosis. The moment she hit the ground, her knee stumps protesting as the wooden lower legs struck, she was running for the door.
Then the aether reverberated and the grandmaster smashed through the main gates of the compound like a giant’s fist, splintering the timbers without slowing down and roaring towards her. Even fully armoured, he’d covered three hundred yards in around fifteen seconds. She gulped, snapped off a mage-bolt that barely turned his shields pink, then planted her wooden legs before the stairs as the man steamed towards her.
‘Seventeen years I had that construct,’ the Kirkegarde grandmaster snarled. ‘Seventeen years, egg and beast—’
‘So old and slow, like you,’ she couldn’t stop herself replying. But beneath the bravado, she felt drained from the exertions of the night and this sudden deadly fight.
The next moment his big broadsword was battering against her slimmer blade. When he punched at her with kinesis, plucking her from the ground and slamming her back into the stone walls, only her shielding kept the back of her head from turning to paste. He thrust again and this time his sword lanced through her guard and into her side, emerging as blood spurted. Her sword arm went numb, the blade falling from her fingers, and for an instant all she saw were stars as she slid down the wall.
A sword-point kissed her throat. ‘Not so old and slow, then,’ the grandmaster rasped.
Then a Southern-accented voice said, in very earnest tones, ‘In my country, it is considered the height of dishonour for a man to assail a woman.’
Exilium.
Basia’s vision cleared through the haze of agony, enough for her to see the gnostically imbued blade-tip touching her leather breastplate. The grandmaster, a grey-bearded man with a battered, homely visage, looked like a tower of steel and fur, and though he was panting from exertion, his sword arm was steady as a rock.
Beyond him was Exilium Excelsior, standing in the middle of the courtyard. His venator was on the roof of the gatehouse behind him and more Volsai were swooping in around him. The Estellan was composure itself, not a hair out of place, but Basia could hear the tension in his voice and his eyes were watchful.
Kore’s Balls, you’ve got wonderful timing . . .
‘She killed my steed,’ the church knight rasped. ‘Do not lecture me on honour.’
‘I saw. It was a fair fight, with both sides risking loss. I counsel you to consider your standing with Kore.’
The grandmaster clearly did consider, including the fact that he was presently going to be alone against many. ‘A duel, for her life,’ the grandmaster offered in a grave voice.
‘I accept,’ Exilium said instantly.
I am not a rukking prize for men to scrap over, Basia absolutely did not say. Her eyes met Exilium’s and she sent him all her luck; he responded by saluting with just the faintest touch of irony, then turned to face the grandmaster.
With a grimace, the knight pulled his sword away from Basia’s chest.
She shoved the pain aside, flicked her wrist and a sheath-knife slid into her palm: she lunged and drove it into the back of his left knee as he turned away. It would not normally be a fatal blow, but the blade was coated in the same venom Vasingex secreted.
The grandmaster gave a choked cry; his arm lashed round, but she ducked the flashing blade. Then he gave an agonised cough, his eyes bulged and he collapsed on the stones, dying a moment later, his eyes looking at her in betrayal.
‘Basia,’ Exilium exclaimed in mortification, ‘did you not understand? We had agreed a gentlemen’s duel.’
‘Supercilious wanker,’ she gritted, as her vision blurred.
‘That’s unfair: he was a true knight—’
‘Wasn’t meaning him,’ she snarled, then she indicated the broken door. ‘Lyra . . .’
She tried to move, her stomach screamed and the world turned into a red blur. Exilium laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Stay here,’ he told her. ‘I will go.’
A moment later, the Volsai who’d landed behind Exilium came bounding in – bluff, burly Brigeda, who caught her in muscular arms. ‘Here, Bas, just you lie down a moment,’ she said, her usually brusque voice gentle.
‘But I’m fine,’ Basia slurred, then the adrenalin that had been sustaining her until now ran out and everything faded . . .
*
‘You are the queen and you are my prisoner,’ the Kirkegarde knight said crisply as he pushed through the shattered door of the strong-room. Abbess Lyfrasia was lying in a scorched heap while the nuns were on their knees, cowering against the wall amid piles of boxes, barrels and chests and stacked altar plate.
Lyra knelt with them, staring up at the blonde nun in the middle of the room dressed as her. A moment before the door was broken down, the young woman had torn Lyra’s purple cloak from her back and was now wrapped in it. Coramore, huddling behind Lyra, was enveloped in a habit someone had quickly thrown over her head.
The ruse couldn’t last – and it would surely cost someone else their life, so Lyra couldn’t let it go on. She took a deep breath, ready to confess her identity before anyone else was hurt – then she sensed a trembling in the aether and realised that any delay could be vital. She exhaled, waiting her moment.
The nun in Lyra’s cloak somehow had the courage to lift her head and face the knight with the bloody sword. ‘What is your name?’ she asked, perhaps to buy a moment of precious life.
‘I am Jaron Parelle, knight of the Kirkegarde, and—’ He broke off, tilting his head and frowning, then going pale as something in the aether reached him. ‘Grandmaster—?’
He sagged and for a moment looked lost, then he straightened, his features grey. ‘Lady, I regret to inform you that you must die. Do you have any last words?’
Lyra only heard you must die. She stared as her brain roared silently, thinkin
g, No, this isn’t right . . .
As Parelle lifted his sword they all heard boots pounding through the building. Gnostic light flared along the steel and he flexed his arm—
‘No,’ Lyra shrieked, ‘I am the queen—’
And the room suddenly erupted: someone else was shouting, ‘No, I’m the queen—’ and then another, woman after woman, and Parelle’s gaze moved from one to the next in bewilderment – until his eyes narrowed and he focused on the kneeling Lyra.
‘It’s you,’ he whispered, raising his sword. He strode forward—
—and a crossbow bolt slammed into his back.
The nuns gasped in shock and buried their faces as the Kirkegarde knight dropped bonelessly to the flagstones, the energy in the bolt burning his over-zealous heart to ash.
Lyra looked up at the barred window high on the chapel wall and saw a well-known face: the straggle-haired, whiskery ruffian Patcheart, one of her father’s Volsai. To her, right then, he looked like Corineus the Saviour. He gave her a thumbs-up and vanished.
Exilium burst in through the shattered doorway. ‘Majesty, are you well?’ he asked. Then he saw Coramore and his eyes widened. ‘Princess?’
Lyra clambered painfully to her feet, her shoulder screaming in pain, but she reached for Coramore and hugged her, then knelt before the sister who’d briefly – crucially – impersonated her.
‘Sister, I owe you my life.’
‘I just . . . I . . . um . . .’ the young nun stammered.
‘You don’t even know me and yet you offered up your own life – I will reward you in any way I can.’
‘No man can come in here to kill a woman and say he’s doing Kore’s work, ma’am,’ the nun said, blushing bright red. ‘T’ain’t right.’
Then everyone turned as Abbess Lyfrasia proved herself not entirely dead by groaning and rolling on to her side. In moments she was swamped by her sisters and Lyra was touched by the love and concern on their faces.
The Church has not always been good to me and my faith is now clouded in doubt, but there are those within whose belief in virtue is true.
Exilium joined her and dropping to one knee, said, ‘Majesty, it is a joy to see you. But where you go, so must I.’
The reprimand was clear and justified, but Lyra, clinging to Coramore, knew she’d just saved someone who shared the dwyma and that was worth a great deal, perhaps even all these lost lives, though guilt pricked at her.
‘Circumstances did not allow, Exilium, but your arrival was indeed timely,’ she told him, more primly than she’d intended, but his formality was infectious. ‘Where’s Basia?’
Patcheart appeared at the door. ‘She’s outside, Milady, a little roughed up, but she’ll live.’
The Volsai helped see to Abbess Lyfrasia’s comfort before leaving. Lyra took Coramore’s hand, receiving a shy smile in return, and they let Exilium lead the way through the abbey. The familiar scents of incense, candle wax and damp stone filled her nostrils and all those hours on her knees, the earnest prayers, the wondering why Kore tested her so, all came flooding back, and so too did the comfort of knowing whatever cruelties the outside world contained, her existence inside had been a simple one.
I was never truly alive in my little convent, but I wasn’t dead either, and I had my books. And I believed, then.
Outside in the courtyard, she found Brigeda tending to Basia. The two dead nuns were being wrapped in cloaks and taken into the chapel. The nuns following them outside wailed when they saw their fallen sisters and again Lyra felt a stab of guilt.
She swallowed, then raised her voice. ‘Sisters, please know that we came here by accident, not design – and I knew not what would befall us when we came. We did not intend to bring harm upon this holy place. I know it is no consolation, but although the men who did this were only following orders, they chose to kill, and that was evilly done. I will make what reparation is due.’
The nuns looked at her in wet-eyed silence and a few touched hand to heart in the imperial salute. Then a mocking handclap rang out and Lyra whirled. When she looked up, she saw a dozen armoured men lining the rooftop surrounding the courtyard. All of them wore Kirkegarde tabards and had drawn swords. They were silent, save for the man above the gates in heavy black velvet robes and a tall mitre.
Ostevan.
Lyra pulled Coramore closer as his black gaze transfixed her. Around her, the small group of Volsai, their eyes bright and faces pale, strengthened their shields. They were outnumbered, and overmatched.
‘What a pretty little speech, Lyra,’ Ostevan said. ‘Almost an epitaph of your reign: “I knew not what would befall us when I came”. Blood is what came, Lyra: a trail of death.’ He gestured toward her and said, ‘Kill these traitors, but the princess and the queen are mine.’
The eyes of his knights narrowed. Lyra realised that they weren’t daemon-possessed, but she saw no pity on their faces, either. She started to speak, trying to find words that might make them pause, but Ostevan gestured and her throat was gripped by unseen fingers, choking her.
The knights shouted a Kore war-cry and leaped from the roofs, blazing fire . . .
18
Forever Broken
Mystic Healing
One of the least understood aspects of the gnosis is Mysticism, which deals with the inner workings of the mind. It can be used benevolently to heal distress and trauma and correct abhorrent habits. But it can also be used malevolently, and such damage is far easier to inflict than to rectify.
SOREN BASCO, HOLLENIAN MAGUS, DAMSTADT 790
Hegikaro, Mollachia
Febreux 936
Hajya had been drifting in and out of awareness, but those moments were growing longer, her hold on the now strengthening. When she did finally pull herself from the mire of unconsciousness, it felt like she’d been plunged into Kore’s Hel.
She was hanging upside down over a round bricked shaft with the reflection of water below. Her limbs were bound and her mouth gagged, but she could see the town square before the inner keep, with the church ablaze and corpses scattered across blood-slick cobbles.
Hegikaro – on fire?
Memory vomited up a slew of hideous images: bodies ripped apart in her own bedchamber, and Asiv, black-eyed and cruel, gloating as he loomed over her.
Not again . . . please . . .
Then she heard the Gatti shouting in Rondian, his voice echoing around the stone walls; it took her a moment to make out his words.
‘—owardly brother will not come forth to save your queen, I shall make do with you, weakling,’ he was bellowing.
She couldn’t see Kyrik, but she heard his clear voice when he replied, ‘My brother is not here, but he is no coward and you will not defame him.’
Is this some kind of stupid duel? she wondered suddenly. Could Kyrik – a quarter-blood mage at best – really be going up against Asiv – which meant going up against Abraxas – for her? She felt loved and horrified in equal measure – but such a fight would be bloody and brief. Opening her eyes again, she saw Asiv, brandishing his scimitar arrogantly.
‘Can truth be defamatory?’ Asiv sniffed, lowering his Beak mask over his face. ‘Your brother is a craven catamite who parts his buttocks at the drop of a coin – all should know this truth.’
Hajya struggled against her bonds, but they were too strong and her gnosis was bound in a Chain-rune.
And her heart almost stopped when Kyrik appeared at the castle gates, sword in hand, ready to fight his foolish duel. Ready to die.
*
‘This is foolish,’ Maegogh rumbled in Kyrik’s ear. ‘You’re throwing your life away.’
Kyrik ignored him and gestured at the guards to pull open the gates, watched by pale-faced Mollachs who didn’t see why their king would sacrifice himself for a Sydian woman, much less defend a cowardly frocio, brother or not. A dishonoured man wasn’t worth defending.
They don’t question Asiv’s accusations. To them, Valdyr is still a stranger . . .
&
nbsp; He steeled himself for his own end. He would uphold whatever honour the Sarkany name still retained and he would die before his wife was murdered.
‘Throwing one’s life away needlessly is a time-honoured tradition in Mollachia,’ he told the Mantauri chief, then, showing them his argenstael dagger, ‘It’s our best chance of lopping off the serpent’s head.’
The giant Mantaur understood, but he still didn’t approve. ‘Good fortune to you: but if you fall, your people’s resistance will collapse. Who will lead them with you gone?’
No one, Kyrik admitted to himself, but he could not let Asiv’s words go unanswered, for that would be to tacitly accept them, which would be just as damaging.
To stay silent is to corrode us all. And in any case, I hate this bastard and I want to hurt him. And I’m right – this is the only chance I’ll get at him . . .
‘A king must shoulder these burdens,’ he replied, looking round. ‘Where’s Kip?’
‘Busy,’ the Mantauri chieftain told him.
Kyrik’s eyes narrowed. ‘I forbid him to intervene.’
Maegogh’s inflexible face gave away nothing. ‘Shield for all you’re worth and move fast, human. Make the fight last.’ He clapped Kyrik on the shoulder, almost knocking him over, then the doors swung open and Kyrik’s vision became a tunnel that ended with Asiv Fariddan on the far side of the square. The Keshi, wearing his Beak mask, was drawing a dark mist about him as he walked past the well where Hajya hung.
Kyrik took a deep, deep breath, then walked through the gates, his boots echoing on the cobbles. He drew on the gnosis, calling shields and kindling energy on his straight sword. It felt like a tiny spark amid a canopy of night, or a snowflake in Hel.
He felt the same heightened sense of reality he’d experienced in previous fights, intensified because he had no illusion about what he faced. Tarita might have had a chance against this man, or Waqar: Ascendants and pure-bloods. Not me . . .