by Glenda Larke
‘Why, Keris—you saved yourself with one of your own maps!’ The thought appealed to his sense of humour: his tongue lolled out in appreciation.
Keris, remembering the lopers, was less amused, if just as appreciative of the result. ‘Only just, it seems. Let’s get some fresh mounts,’ she said, her weariness coming through in her voice. ‘We still have to get our news to Meldor.’
Briefly she closed her eyes, but the painful knot in her chest refused to dissipate. Oh Davron, love, where are you now?
~~~~~~~
Chapter Thirty-One
And it shall be said of them that they had courage beyond the usual.
—the later writings of Meldor the Blind
Early that afternoon the Margrave stood in the hall that was now a maproom, felt the weight of his responsibilities pressing in on him, and curbed a useless urge to curse his blindness. ‘Go on,’ he said calmly.
‘On all fronts,’ Nablon the Ant said, trying to subdue his clacking as he and Zeferil studied the maps in front of them. ‘On all fronts. The numbers along the Channel are frightening. The barrage of our arrows is continuing to keep them at bay and has inflicted heavy losses, but—’ He clacked desperately.
Impatient, Zeferil took over and gave a more concise picture as he saw it in the maps. He included the latest casualty figures and an updated estimate of the numbers involved in the various sectors.
‘Would you say that there is a maximum amount of the attackers within sight of our borders?’ Meldor asked.
Zeferil was puzzled. ‘Pardon?’
Meldor was patient. ‘Later today—will there be more Minions?’
‘No, I don’t think so. They’ve been arriving all morning, as I told you earlier, but I think this is about it. As far as we can tell from the maps, anyway.’
Meldor nodded, and made up his mind. ‘Nablon, would you be so good as to give me that file of maps I asked for—the duplicates of the Havenstar borders?’ As the Ant went off to find the folder, Meldor added to Zeferil, ‘Carasma must have dragged every old Minion out of his ley mire to get those sort of numbers,’ he said, ‘All the old half-crazy men and women.’
‘Old?’
‘Yes, old. Don’t doubt it. Minions may approximate to immortal where illness and ageing are concerned, but just as they can be slain, so can they grow old and tired in mind. Many of them will just be stuffed targets for our archers, rather than fighters.’
‘They outnumber us at least ten to one. And every single one of them has a pet. We can’t hold them off indefinitely. The dark is the Minion’s world. There is no way we will last the night.’
‘We will, with the Maker’s grace. What about the other approaching forces?’
‘Hard to say how many there are, because we only see those that happen to cross one of the trompleri-mapped areas. I’ve seen the standards of the Sixth, Seventh and Eighth Stabilities, though, and an impressive number of domain symbols. It looks as if Chantry has sent the entire Defender forces from all three stabs.’
Meldor gave the faintest of ironical smiles. ‘We should be complimented, Zeferil. The Sanhedrin holds our strength in considerable esteem if they feel so many are needed to bring us down. When will they reach us?’
‘My estimation is they’ll camp two hours out tonight. Margraf, what will they do when they see us under siege?’
‘You mean: which is greater—Chantry’s hatred of Rule-breakers, or their hatred of Minions?’ Rugriss’s hatred of me or his hatred of Carasma? ‘I don’t know. I have gambled on the latter. Maker help us all if I am wrong. No word of Davron yet?’
The commander shook his head.
Meldor raised an eyebrow. ‘There are many things I can do, Zeferil, but tell the difference between a nod and a shake of the head is not one of them.’
‘Oh. Sorry, Margraf. No, Davron’s not back yet and we’ve been unable to see him on any of the maps. The mapmaker Kaylen and Scow have been spotted though. They crossed the border some time ago. They should be here about nightfall.’
Meldor took a deep breath. Good news, and bad. He’d gambled everything, and soon he’d know whether he’d also lost everything. ‘I’m going to meditate for a while. I wish to be alone.’ Through his ley, he felt the man’s surprise. And no wonder. Havenstar was under attack, and he was talking of meditation? He hid a smile.
Nablon returned with the folder of maps he’d asked for. ‘You have checked them personally?’ he asked.
‘Yes. All the border maps are there.’
‘And none show the ley lines or the Havenstar side of the ley lines?’
‘No, Margraf.’
He nodded his thanks, and with a surety of long familiarity, he made his way—not to his room—but up to the flat roof of the Hall. For a moment he stood, enjoying the cool freshness of the air, the scent of water drifting in from the lake. Then he walked to the centre of the roof where a large open brazier was filled with wood and coals ready for burning. Carefully he rolled up the first of the maps and pushed it deep into the piled wood, taking care not to crumple it. Then, sheet by sheet, he did the same with every other map in the folder. When he’d finished, he stepped back away from the brazier. He hesitated the barest of moments, breathed deeply to catch the scent of old wood-smoke and fresh cut-wood, then sent out a line of ley unerringly towards it.
Maker grant that this works, he thought, because if it doesn’t, we’ll all be Minions or Unbound or dead before the day is out…
~~~~~~~
Cylrie Mannertee, Hedrine-Chantor, looked at Anhedrin Rugriss Ruddleby in horror. ‘You’re jesting,’ she said. She sat up on her camp-bed where she’d been resting after her mid-afternoon repast, her face crinkling in her consternation before she remembered frowning spoiled her looks. ‘How do you know?’
‘The scouts just rode back with the news. There’s not the slightest doubt about it. Havenstar is only a couple of hours away. At least, we assume the place is Havenstar, and it is being besieged by an army of Minions and pets.’
‘Who’s winning?’ she asked and began to fluff up her hair.
‘Neither, it seems, yet. Meldor’s people are holding them off with arrows and other missiles. Once they run out of arrows it will doubtless be a different story.’
‘Well then, maybe we can pack up and go home. Let the Minions deal with the rebels.’
‘Cylrie, that is hardly an observation worthy of a Hedrina. It is the duty of all Defenders to defend humankind against the Unmaker’s forces. It is the duty of Chantry to order all Minions to be killed wherever possible. The death of any Minion is a blow struck for the Maker and for Order.’
‘Sweet Maker, you mean to attack? To attack Minions? Rugriss, tell me you are joking.’
‘Think! Just about every Minion in the Unstable is right here, pounding on Edion’s gate. Now why, do you think? The stakes must be very high for Carasma to risk inflaming Minions to the point that they will attack humans. He risks breaking the law that governs his presence in our world! Think about it. Do we really want Carasma to win? To gain whatever it is he wants so very, very badly?’
She thought about that and her stomach roiled with fear. ‘But we came here to fight Edion and his followers, not Carasma and his.’ Damn, she’d sounded petulant. And more than a little frightened. She sat up a little straighter, and smoothed her skirt.
‘I know. But I’m still sending the Defenders onwards. Tomorrow morning they will attack. You and I and the other chantors will wait here and perform a kinesis for victory.’
She sighed and fingered the embroidery on her stole. The bells tinkled. ‘And after the victory? What then for Edion?’
He gave an unpleasant smile. ‘I don’t think there’ll be too much left of Edion’s forces after tonight. He will be in the mood to compromise, if he still lives.’
She said flatly, ‘He planned this. For us to be here, I mean. That silly rule-chantor, Portron something-or-other. Edion used him to hook us.’
‘I’m afraid you’re
right.’ Rugriss’s bitterness at his own gullibility smothered his admiration. ‘He wanted the Chantry forces and we’ve obliged him. He has played us for fools. Never mind, we fools will prevail in the end, with the Maker’s grace. Come, it’s time for kinesis.’ He held out his hand to help her up.
‘Oh! What was that?’ she asked, looking beyond him, out towards where he’d said Havenstar was.
He turned, too late to see the sheet of light that had lit the sky to the east. ‘What was what? I don’t see anything.’
She looked for a moment longer, then shrugged. ‘Just a lightning storm, I suppose.’ She took his hand and smothered another sigh as she stood. She may have been a Hedrina, but she did so hate the bother of kinesis devotions.
~~~~~~~~
Heldiss the Heron made a snappy kinesis. He’d learned that much since he had joined the Havenguards. If you saw an officer who had more colours on his collar than you had, you made a kinesis of subordination, two hands crossed with the back of the right one pressed to your forehead. It all seemed rather ridiculous to him, but officers liked it and said it helped corps morale, whatever that was.
The officer was too harassed to make a kinesis in return. ‘Report!’ he snapped.
‘Low on arrows, milor’! And there’s another wave of ’em coming down the slope now.’
The officer opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he was going to say, Heldiss never found out. There was a flash of bright light. Much too bright. And Heldiss found himself flat on his back trying to suck air into his lungs, wondering if he was dead or not.
~~~~~~~
Baraine of Valmair smiled fondly at his pet, Carve. The creature was so midden-blamed beautiful. Sleek, like a wet otter. Silky-haired, with hair finer than any woman’s. Its animal characteristics—the furred back, the tail, the ridge on the spine, the spurred calves and taloned feet—these things only made Carve so much more desirable in Baraine’s eyes. Maybe his need of it was, well, twisted, but who cared? It wasn’t his fault. Ley had done that to him. Ley and Carasma, and he was glad.
Carve was everything another man could be, and more. He could talk and think and reason, after a fashion; he was loyal and adoring—and he had a penis that made Baraine shiver just to think about. Gone were the days when even to speak of such things was to risk the shame of society, to ensure Chantry’s punishment. Now he was free, and he didn’t care what the price had been.
His caressing gaze glanced away from Carve towards the Channel. Havener peasants! They’d withdrawn behind their ramparts and then shot off enough arrows to make kindling for every one of Drumlin’s fireplaces, all for little effect. Brainless churls. How long did they think they could keep that up? When the Unmaker’s army attacked this time, they’d have scarcely an arrow left between them.
Baraine flexed the muscles of his arms, enjoying the feel of his strength. The strength that could be his forever. The thought was still intoxicating, even though he’d had some months to grow used to the idea of endless health and vitality. Not quite immortality though, unfortunately. Minions healed fast, even when the wounds seemed grave, but a well-placed arrow could end a Minion’s life.
Even so, Baraine was enjoying this fight. He found he had a taste for battle, for pitting his skills against another’s, for the kill at the end of it all. Because he always won, of course. He even enjoyed watching his pet rip a man to pieces with its talons and spurs…
A Minion, one of Lord Carasma’s specials, was organising another attack on the Haveners and Baraine found himself grinning. How could these puny ploughmen and unwashed off-scourings of farmyards withstand such a force as this for long? They’d fought well so far, it was true. But it was desperation that had given them determination, and it couldn’t last. They were just too outnumbered.
Uncomprehending, he saw the light begin along the edge of the channel and travel like flame inwards towards him. He had time only to turn his head, to realise the light was coming at him from all directions, and then the blaze swathed him and Carve, so bright that it was the light of it that burned, not the heat. There was no heat. He closed his eyes against it, flung up an arm to protect his face, and felt himself lift through the air, flung like a dried autumn leaf in a winter tempest. He landed heavily, but it was not the pain of landing he felt; it was the pain of the tear that was made inside him. Something was ripped from his being, torn from him like leaves whipped away from their tree by a storm. He was left gasping in appalling anguish. Left crying against the emptiness left behind. Left weeping with the desolation of knowing—
Knowing—
Knowing what he had lost.
His perpetual youth and health, the possibility of immortality, all gone.
A moment later stability hit him. Terrible rigid stability, the law of the Universe, all that was ordered and true through all eternity, all the regularity of even the most idiosyncratic of Nature’s wonders. It ran counter to what he had become. He no longer belonged to that world; he was part of Chaos. He was one of the Unmaker’s get, an irregularity of the Universe, something that did not fit into the symmetry of That Which was Created. And now he, the aberration, was being slotted into the stability where he no longer fitted.
Baraine raised his face from the earth and quietly went mad.
Next to him another Minion lurched upwards on one elbow and watched in disbelief as his own skin disintegrated, desiccated…. Watched until his heart stopped beating and he collapsed, nothing more than a dried out skeleton of bones over two hundred years old.
~~~~~~~
Lord Carasma the Unmaker was in the Writhe, not where it bordered Havenstar but further out, towards the Graven. Davron and his escort arrived there at nightfall. The ride had been long and arduous. They’d stopped only once, to water their mounts, and Davron was beginning to feel increasingly aware he’d not eaten all day. The Minion’s pet was apparently feeling equally ill-used; its litany of woes had expanded to include, ‘Sogol tired, master. Want sleep.’ Galbar continued to ignore it, which worried Davron a little. The hungry gleam in the animal’s eye was alarming.
The Writhe did not look its usual fey self when they finally drew rein beside it. The presence of the Unmaker within haunted it as storm clouds haunt mountain peaks. Its colour had deepened to damson and the particles within boiled like angry cumulus. Davron grimaced but he dismounted at its edge when asked.
‘He’s in there,’ Galbar said. This time there was some slight emotion in the flatness of his eyes, the beginnings of a sneer perhaps. It was chilling.
Davron took a deep breath and shrugged off his fear. ‘Hey, Galbar,’ he drawled, ‘do all Minions get hen-pecked by their pets? Or is it just you?’ He was rewarded by a flash of hate and rage and felt a moment’s pointless satisfaction.
He faced the ley line and prepared himself. What’s done is done. This is the penalty I have to pay. But I will never give up.
Keris, Maker keep you safe.
~~~~~~~
Carasma had chosen to seat himself on his fur-strewn throne. He seemed at ease, sprawled and comfortable in his human guise.
‘Storre. At last.’ His smile was pure poison. ‘The moment of payment has arrived.’
Davron inclined his head as if in polite acknowledgement.
His lack of overt emotion seemed to offend the Unmaker. Carasma frowned deeply. ‘Have you nothing to say?’
He shrugged. ‘What do you want. That I grovel? I can fake it, I suppose, if I must.’
Carasma’s face hardened with noticeable rage. Grovelling was exactly what he wanted; wanted and anticipated he would have.
‘My task?’ he asked evenly.
Carasma controlled himself. ‘Do you think to thwart me, Storre?’ he asked. ‘It’s not possible.’
He didn’t deign to reply.
Carasma leant forward on his throne. ‘Let me show you what I am, so that you fully comprehend the magnitude of my power.’ His voice was almost a snarl. Davron blinked; he had not thought his outward calm would
rile the Unmaker quite that much.
And then the world about him changed. One moment he was standing in the purple shadows of ley, the next he was standing in space, in the sky itself. There was nothing beneath his feet, nothing tangible anywhere within reach. He could feel the emptiness, the nothingness around him. Carasma was nowhere to be seen. In spite of his control, he began to sweat with fear. Illusion, he tried to tell himself. Only illusion.
Trails of ley swirled past in the distance, chaotic in their movement, like sand whipped up in a gale to stream across the dry surface of a dune. Behind these ley-streamers was the black emptiness of an infinity that terrified simply by its existence. Somewhere off to his left an exploding star was caught in mid-cataclysm; its matter was being tossed into a void, each particle spinning away from the next in nihilistic dispersal. Below his feet a burning comet had been thrown across the firmament, dragging destruction in its wake, searing the worlds that impinged on its path, destroying, obliterating. Beyond it, still further away, a black hole seemed to have eaten the stars out of the sky…
‘I am Chaos,’ Carasma’s disembodied voice said. Its resonance rolled around Davron like thunder, not of the world, but of the universe. ‘What you see, guide, is my work. Look on it, you puny human, and despair. What are you, to stand against me without quaking? I am all you see before you: destruction … death … extinction … annihilation … nullity.
‘I am the end of the universe.’
And Davron, terrified, managed to think, And yet if you need to prove your greatness to me, you have a weakness, Carasma…