by David Hair
But his hackles rose as he saw the smug face of his foe. He focused on Asiv’s blade and feet, the way he moved. Not a swordsman, he decided, but it’s barely going to matter . . .
He put aside Maegogh’s cautions and advanced; his good steel sword in his right hand, and a brittle but deadly argenstael dagger in his left.
As they closed, Asiv’s left arm came up and Kyrik hurled himself to the left as a wall of force punched towards him; it clipped his shoulder, spinning him sideways, instead of flattening him. He smacked into the ground, rolled and kicked off to his left as a mage-bolt flashed past; a second bolt scorched over him as he threw himself flat with a gasp, then rose and crabbed to the right.
The Gatti mage hadn’t moved but was flexing his left hand again—
—and this time a kinesis punch smashed into Kyrik’s shields, shoving him twenty feet across the square until his backwards rush was halted by a corpse. Winded and gasping, he threw himself behind, an instant before flames bloomed and engulfed him and the dead man. The body in front charred coal-black with a ghastly stench of cooking meat. Kyrik’s hair crisped and his vision turned to dazzled scarlet, but he darted the other way, towards the well.
Asiv still hadn’t shifted but his masked face was following Kyrik’s jagged advance. His blade hung unused at his side, but his left hand still crackled with energy.
‘Come on, Majesty,’ he taunted. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a duel?’
Move, move, Kyrik told himself, sucking in air, then he stutter-stepped, leaping to the side to avoid the bolt of lightning that cut across his path. He tore at Asiv, swinging his sword in the desperate hope that his foe had used all he had on that bolt, but judging by the kinesis punch that crunched into him an instant later, sending him head over heels and emptying his lungs, Asiv had plenty of juice left in him. The back of his helm crashed against stone and he saw stars.
A mage-bolt sliced through his shields and for a few seconds he jerked and convulsed in agony, dimly aware of Asiv advancing, his clawed hand extended and laughter on his lips.
He dimly heard shouts of dismay and arrows rattled down from the keep battlements as his people forgot the rules of the duel in their despair, but they just shattered impotently on the masked mage’s shields; he barely noticed them.
‘Too easy,’ Asiv remarked, ‘barely long enough to be enjoyed. But this will be fun – for me, at least.’
The colour of the energies in his left hand changed to pale yellow, then lanced into Kyrik’s eyes and suddenly Asiv’s voice was inside his head, cackling. He screamed airlessly, his mind imploding as his body went limp . . .
*
‘Nooo,’ Valdyr howled, grabbing Luhti and hurling her aside. Reaching over his shoulder, he hauled out his zweihandle as the air parted with a tearing of sparks, a gash that billowed into a rent large enough for him to leap through.
He hurtled into the fire-lit square and landed over his brother’s broken body, swinging his zweihandle at Asiv’s head. The mage’s shields went through blue to scarlet and burst apart, but they held enough that the blade only crunched into the copper mask, crumpling it and shattering the Ahmedhassan’s right cheekbone and jaw, rather than beheading the man.
The daemon-possessed mage rallied instantly, peeling the smashed mask from his face and conjuring healing energies. His pulverised face began reknitting, but Asiv was laughing.
‘Valdyr, little Valdyr, is that all you’ve got?’ he slurred, spreading his hands mockingly, inviting another blow. ‘I’ve had slaps from girls that hurt me more. But then, you always were my little bitch.’
His dark eyes flashed and suddenly he was inside Valdyr’s head, pulling out those paralysing memories of humiliation, the abuse and rape of a boy who had never known such foul acts even existed. Valdyr felt as if his skin were being peeled aside, his soul displayed for the mockery of the world, and fell to his knees. His blade clattered on the stones as he fell to his knees, helpless and unmanned again, just like every time.
You failed the test. Luhti’s voice echoed in his head again. You’re not ready.
That made him angry – at himself, because he’d come so far and yet gone precisely nowhere. What was the point of the dwyma, of channelling energy and light and life, if you fell apart before your real enemy?
You haven’t forgiven yourself, Luhti had told him, and she was right, of course, he hadn’t forgiven himself, even though he’d been a boy in manacles up against a fully grown man, a half-blood mage who could do whatever he wanted unchecked.
It was not my fault.
That thought, conceived in anger and pain, led to the sudden realisation that weakness of the body does not mean weakness of the soul.
But he was already too late, for Asiv had him locked in a kinesis grip and was standing over him, raising his scimitar for the killing blow . . .
*
Despite his massive frame and hard-earned musculature, Fridryk Kippenegger was the weakest of all magi: a sixteenth-blood who wouldn’t even pass the gnosis on to his children. But sometimes, if applied at the right time and place, a little power could go a long way. His old friend Ramon Sensini had taught him that.
Earth- and Water-gnosis were his affinities, and exactly what he needed. From the instant he’d seen Kyrik react to Asiv’s challenge, he knew what would happen, and what he needed to do. That half-hour wait gave him just enough time.
Now it was all about how swiftly he and Bromed, a Mantauri who shared the same affinities, could widen the holes that needed widening, how swiftly they could slither through the drains –
– and come up the well-shaft beneath Hajya.
Light was already flashing in the circle of light above and he could sense Asiv’s cackling in the aether. Speed was needed, but he kept his draw on the gnosis gentle as he clambered hand over hand, bubbles pouring from his mouth as he rose through the water.
They went swarming up, propelled by kinesis and raw strength, up to the rim of the well beside a wide-eyed Hajya – and right behind one of the possessed men, who was avidly watching the duel, black saliva running from his torn mouth.
Kip drew his heavy dagger and plunged it overhand through the top of the man’s skull and into the brain. The man dropped with a clatter as Kip erupted from the well and hurled a kinesis punch at Asiv’s back just as the Ahmedhassan’s blade swung at Valdyr’s neck.
If Asiv had been ready, he’d not even have staggered – but all his thoughts were bent on the culmination of his conquest of this one victim.
The weak kinesis blow slammed him sideways, the scimitar flashed past Valdyr’s crown and buried itself in the stonework with a flash of dark light – and Kip thundered towards them, howling, ‘Minaus – blood for Minaus!’
*
Valdyr saw Asiv fly sideways and the blade that should have left him headless instead plunged into the ground and wedged between two cobbles.
He lunged for his zweihandle as Asiv staggered and turned to face a huge shape that had burst from the well: Fridryk Kippenegger, roaring to his Bullhead God. For a moment he dared hope that Asiv would be too slow—
—and he called upon the dwyma, still wrapped about him, and felt it bloom as swiftly as the gnosis responded to a mage. Light pulsed along his blade as he rose to one knee and launched himself at his nemesis, even as Asiv hurled Kip backwards with a burst of kinesis . . .
*
Asiv hurled the Schlessen barbarian backwards, roaring in thwarted rage – when a movement caught his eye and he realised that Valdyr was attacking – but he was no longer the little boy he’d pleasured himself upon, but a furious brute of a man with a zweihandle in his hands . . .
But I am an Immortal of Abraxas . . . He recovered his balance, the gnosis cradling him as he evaded Valdyr’s blade – then he felt the burning chill of dwyma on the blade flashing by him. He leaped aside with kin
esis, the fastest response he had, his hand flashed out and he wrenched his scimitar from the cobbles. He gave himself a moment to send a bolt at the fallen Schlessen to keep him down; the blast hammered into the barbarian’s torso, searing his armour, and the accompanying burst of mesmeric-gnosis silenced the savage’s brain.
‘It’s just you and me now,’ he told Valdyr, taking his guard.
Valdyr roared, swinging at him, and Asiv found himself parrying a blow of real power, but he riposted, slashing the young man’s arm and forcing Valdyr backwards.
‘Oh, this just gets better and better, you weakling.’ He prepared a deadly mage-bolt to cripple his foe and take him down so he could end this travesty once and for all.
Around them both, his possessed slaves were erupting from cover to meet the bull-constructs and Mollach fighters pouring from the gates. A storm of arrows sleeted from the battlements, shafts snapping and pinging around him or breaking on his shields: what had been a duel was now open battle—
—and with a savage shriek and thunder of hooves, the warriors of Clan Vlpa poured through the open castle gates, plunging lances through the backs of the possessed legionaries or slashing down at them.
Chaos was erupting on all sides, but Asiv kept his eyes on Valdyr, whose glowing blade was really the only thing here that could hurt him. The young Mollach was moving painfully, his left arm bloodied, but the zweihandle still pulsed with dwyma-energy.
He hurled his most powerful bolt at the young Mollach—
—and stared as the blast dissipated, absorbed by the power that Valdyr had wrapped himself in.
That should not be – can dwyma counter the gnosis? he wondered. Surely not?
He tried again, blasting a mage-bolt at Valdyr’s head, but again the energy fell apart somewhere after leaving his fingers, and for the first time, Asiv was worried. He howled for his men to protect him, then focused on the thing that mattered: killing Valdyr, as the Master had commanded, and regaining favour . . . and power.
*
The arrival of Clan Vlpa made Valdyr’s heart soar. Hajya’s people, he thought wildly, our people.
Suddenly, this battle no longer felt impossible.
He went at his foe, sustained by the dwyma and by rage, and discovered the two were not inimical. He hacked away at his foe’s guard, great bludgeoning two-handed blows that Asiv’s scimitar could barely repel. Asiv was no swordsman and stolen knowledge didn’t transfer battle reflexes.
I have the dwyma and his daemon powers can’t reach me if I don’t let them. Our powers have cancelled each other out . . . so this is about blade-work now.
Once in the Dhassan chain-gang, he’d been manacled to another man and made to fight to the death by bored guards. The other man had been driven mad by the sun and brutality, and Valdyr had been petrified – until the first blows. Then he’d fought with as much savagery as his assailant, finally managing to get his hands around the other’s throat and holding on through gouging fingers and knees and kicks and punches, until he broke his neck. It was only in Asiv’s presence that his courage failed.
But with his brother dying only yards away he refused to fail again.
He battered blow after blow into his foe’s guard until he broke through, bypassing a parry that was too slow and plunging his six-foot blade into Asiv’s torso, below the ribs. The Ahmedhassan spat blackened blood as the steel lodged in his guts – then and dwyma, life-energy, bloomed in the wound like liquid sunlight, making Asiv’s face contort in agony. His black-limned blade fell, the dark energy winking out.
Valdyr lashed out with his boot, caught Asiv in the groin and the Ahmedhassan’s face bulged as he folded forward, falling off the blade in his gut and sprawling.
You don’t gloat over vipers or rats, his father had once told him. You just kill them.
Valdyr gripped his hilt and swung, cleaving through the neck and crunching into the stones, while the severed head rolled away, black blood spraying.
At once every possessed man screamed and faltered, wavering on their feet as the mind controlling theirs was snuffed out. The Mantauri, the Mollach burghers and the Sydian riders rallied and started cutting down their opponents as they reeled helplessly.
Valdyr staggered from the fray and fell to his knees beside his stricken brother. ‘Kyrik?’
Kyrik’s eyes fell open and he gave him a dazed, disbelieving look. ‘Val—’
Then his head fell sideways, but he was breathing.
Thank Kore. Valdyr rose, gripped the zweihandle anew and strode towards the knot of Rondian legionaries still trying to defend themselves. His long blade became a slab of sunlight and without Asiv to counter it, the power ran free as never before.
*
An hour later, sometime around midnight, Valdyr finally had a respite. Unbelievably, and perhaps barring a few possessed men lurking in hiding, Hegikaro was free.
He looked down from the steps of the keep where he sat, watching Schlessens, Sydians and Mollachs embracing, pounding each other’s backs, sharing food and drink, laughing in the exhilarating relief of unexpected victory and survival. Even the towering bull-headed Mantauri were mingling freely in the glow of aftermath. It was a bawdy, boisterous and beautiful thing, enough to make his eyes sting.
Upstairs, Kyrik and Hajya were unconscious in the royal suite, under constant attention from those with healing skills. Patrols were going door to door, hunting down enemy stragglers, while townsfolk were reuniting families, sharing the relief and the grieving. It was a flowering of every seed his brother had planted here. Music was playing and he spied Rothgar Baredge and Korznici, the Sydian Sfera-witch, dancing slowly, eyes on each other. His smile deepened.
A pair of heavy hands fell on his shoulder, then Kip dropped down on his left and Maegogh on his right, giving the six-foot tall Valdyr the unusual sensation of being dwarfed.
‘To the victor,’ Kip toasted, raising a tankard of ale and clapping another into Valdyr’s hands. ‘Minaus is with you, Valdyr Sarkany.’
They all looked up at Asiv’s head, spiked above the gates. His body was already ablaze on a bonfire in the market place. Valdyr would as soon have burned the head as well, but trophies mattered here. Though even now, he couldn’t quite lose the fear that the head would start speaking.
‘You proved him a liar,’ Kip added, clanking mugs and taking another giant mouthful.
Did I? I killed him, certainly, but his accusations were mostly true. Then he chastised himself. No, they weren’t: I’m no coward and nothing he did to me was consensual or welcomed. He’s gone and now I’m free. My life starts now.
19
Step Into The Light
Strategy and Tactics
No strategy survives first contact with the enemy intact: there are too many variables on the field of battle. This or that attack or defence will fail, units must be shifted, goals altered. This is the mark of the true commander: not how well he plans, but how well he improvises when his plan disintegrates.
GENERAL KALTUS KORION, BRES 914
Bruin River, Rondelmar
Febreux 936
The first few moments were deadly.
As Ostevan’s Kirkegarde knights leaped from the rooftops into the courtyard, most of the Volsai did as Volsai generally do in a fight and lunged for cover. Apart from Exilium, they were lightly armoured and trained for stealth, not hand-to-hand combat, nor were they pure-blooded magi. Lyra reeled in horror as those who could neither shield nor evade, the nuns and the weakest of the Volsai, went down in moments.
But Exilium’s pale blue shields enveloped Lyra and Coramore; they instantly went crimson, allowing heat to blaze right through, until Brigeda stepped over Basia and linked her shields to Exilium’s. Between them, somehow, they held.
Basia grabbed Lyra’s skirt, hauled herself to her knees and was dazedly fumbling for her blade – then she shrieked, ‘Run—’ and shoved Lyra towards the door behind them.
Lyra clasped Coramore’s hand and they obeyed, just in time,
for a dark shape had stormed through the smoke and flame, a battle-axe cleaving the air where they’d been standing moments before. Exilium ducked, spun and lashed out; his sword flashed through steel, flesh and spinal cord and the enemy knight fell backwards. His head rolled in the other direction, but the Estellan was already flowing into another move, this time slicing off the sword arm of another knight before kicking him out of the way to protect the queen’s retreat.
Lyra saw Patcheart and, flinching as a mage-bolt flashed past her face, thrust Coramore towards him. Ostevan was in the courtyard behind her, plunging his crosier’s sharpened tip through the body of a burned-past-recognition Volsai. Brigeda was hurled through a window, vanishing in a crash of wood and glass. Then Basia lurched upright beside Exilium, pale as a ghost, and parried a Kirkegarde; their blades crashed together – until a blow from behind slammed into her helm and she collapsed, and suddenly Exilium, beset by two more knights, found himself being driven back. Basia lay unmoving in the bloody courtyard as the fighting surged past her.
‘Basia!’ Lyra shouted, but Patcheart had Coramore in hand and was hauling them inside.
‘Is there a strong-room?’ the Volsai captain asked.
‘I don’t know.’ They picked a corridor and ran, followed by Exilium, guarding their rear from a knot of Kirkegarde. His shields throbbing scarlet, he twisted athletically, somehow avoiding a massive zweihandle thrust at his chest, which instead plunged into the wall and stuck, giving him time to dispatch his opponent in a gush of blood.
‘Exilium, this way!’ Lyra shouted, terrified that Basia was dead already, and that in a few moments they would be too. But the imperative to survive drove them on.
Patcheart lit a gnosis-light and they ran along the corridor, seeking anywhere that might offer a chance of refuge. Coramore was screaming alternately for her brother and for Aradea – and that thought prompted Lyra, who started calling, Aradea! with her mind as they pounded into the refectory, scattering chairs and tables, with what felt like a never-ending stream of Kirkegarde at their heels – and hit a dead end. Lyra flailed left and right, seeking an exit, as Patcheart and Exilium slammed the doors and warded them—
