Legacies of Betrayal

by Various

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We should learn from the others,’ I said. ‘I could learn from you. This war is changing, and we need to respond. I did not defend well, back in the gorges. A day will come when we will need to master these things, not just the hunt.’

  I am not sure why I said all that. Perhaps the lingering memory of the Khan’s unexpected anxiety had dented my confidence.

  Torghun laughed. He was not laughing at me that time; I think we had both come to understand one another too well for that.

  ‘No, I don’t think you should change, Shiban Khan,’ he said. ‘I think you should remain as you are. I think you should stay reckless and disorganised.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I think that you should laugh when you are killing.’

  I followed his recommendation: when I killed, I laughed. I let the ice-wind pull my hair free, and I felt hot blood against my skin. I ran far and strongly, daring my brothers to keep pace. I was like the berkut, the hunting eagle, free of the jesses, out on the rising air, high up on the horizon.

  That was what we were back then; that was what we all were. Minghan kasurga – the Brotherhood of the Storm.

  That was our ranking name, the one we used to differentiate ourselves.

  In private, we were the laughing killers.

  To the rest of the galaxy, we were still unknown.

  That would change. Soon after Chondax we would be dragged headlong into the affairs of the Imperium, hauled into a war whose origins we had missed and of whose causes we knew nothing. Powers that had barely registered our existence would suddenly remember us, and our allegiance would become a matter of import for both gods and mortals.

  The story of that war has yet to be written. As I stand now, gazing at the stars and preparing for the fires we shall unleash upon them, I do not know where the fates will lead us. Perhaps this will be the mightiest of our many endeavours, the final examination of our species before its ascendance into mastery.

  If I am truthful to myself, I find it hard to believe that. I find it more tempting to think that something terrible has gone awry, that the policies and strategems of ancient minds have faltered, and that our dreams hang over the abyss by a thread of silk.

  If that is so, then we will fight to the last, putting our mettle to the test, doing what we were bred to do. I take no joy in that. I will not laugh as I kill those whom I have always loved as brothers. This war will be different. It will change us, perhaps in ways we do not even begin to guess.

  In the face of that, I take some comfort in the past. I remember the way we used to fight: without care, with vigour, with abandon. Of all the worlds where we laboured, I will remember Chondax with the most fondness. I could never hate that world, no matter the cost in blood to us of its taking. It was the last time that I hunted in the way I was born to – untrammelled, as free as a falcon on the steep dive.

  Above all, nothing will rival the memory of that final duel. If I live to see the ruin of everything, if I live to see the walls of the Imperial Palace broken and the plains of Chogoris consumed by flame, I will still remember the way he fought then. That perfection is fixed in time, and no force of malignity can ever extinguish what was done, there, before my eyes, atop the last spire of the white world.

  If Yesugei were here with me, he would find the right words. I am no longer confident that I have the gift for it. But were I forced, I would say this.

  There was a time, a brief time, when men dared to challenge the heavens and take on the mantle of gods. Perhaps we went too far, too fast, and our hubris may yet doom us all. But we dared it. We saw the prize, and we reached out to grasp it. In fleeting moments, just fractures of time amidst the vastness of eternity, we caught glimpses of what we could become. I saw one such moment.

  So we were right to try. We were right to attempt it. He showed us that, less by what he said than by what he did, what he was.

  It is for that reason that I will never regret our choices. When the time comes, I will stand against the darkening heavens, keeping his example fixed before my eyes, drawing strength from it, using it to make me as lethal and imperious as he. And when death finally comes for me, as it will, I will meet it in the proper way: with my blade held loose, my eyes narrow, and warriors’ words on my lips.

  For the Emperor, I shall say, beckoning fate. For the Khan.

  ‘And a serpent came even to that paradise.’

  – from The Fall of Heaven, compiled from various ancient sources

  Work proscribed 413.M30

  The magus stared at Thoros. Her arms were red to the elbows, and the white silk of her robe hung heavy with dried blood and fresh sweat. The man at her feet was still alive, twitching in the remains of his skin. Blood ran down the edge of the silver dagger in the magus’s hand – a thick drop formed at its tip, glittering red-black in the burning coal light. Around them the magus’s throng of followers waited, wide eyed and unsure of what exactly they were seeing or how exactly they should react.

  They had done this many times and thought themselves hidden, but Thoros and his priests had simply walked into the centre of the ritual as though they were expected.

  Looking into the magus’s eyes, Thoros wondered what she saw when she looked back at him. A messenger of the gods? A monster? A revelation? He had shed the dark cloaks that had hidden his form during his journey here, and he stood now as he had upon Davin: a spindle limbed figure in rough-spun robes. Gold torques circled his neck and wrists, each worked in the image of a snake with red jewelled eyes. Five of his priests stood behind him, swathed in pale robes, staffs clutched in scaled fingers. Their red, slitted eyes looked out on the world, unblinking.

  The cavern around them was iron, a hollow space beneath the great furnaces above. Heat shimmered from the glowing mouths of kiln vents in the high roof. The cultists had been using it for years, and the spilt blood and muttered prayers itched at the edge of Thoros’s senses.

  He did not like this place. He did not like its iron smell, or the dull stink of the minds that infested its forges. He had come here only because it was the will of the gods that this world become theirs, and that it should fall before the war came. It was to be reborn – a high blessing for an unworthy planet. The throng of the magus’s followers that filled the cavern were the beginning. But they had yet to see the true face of those they served.

  Thoros tilted his head, letting the magus tremble under his gaze. She was afraid; he could taste it, an edge of fear spicing the human stink in the cavern’s air. And why should she not be? She was used to power, to having others obey her commands. Now an emissary of her gods had come to her, and she no longer liked the face of the powers she had knelt to. He knew this was true; he could see it in the mirror of her eyes.

  +It is coming, exalted one.+

  The ghost voice of his priests whispered in Thoros’s mind. He smiled.

  +Yes, my kin,+ he responded. +The moment is close. The gods will show us the way.+

  On the floor, the skinned man shuddered, vomited blood and then went still. The magus did not look at him, his sacrifice already forgotten. The rest of the kneeling cultists still did not move. The fear coming from them was a raw perfume to Thoros’s senses.

  Cattle. Cattle led by their spite and jealousy. Cattle that nursed their small hatreds, and dreamed of taking power from those that ruled them. It was to be expected; such desires bound mortals to the gods, but they were still little more than beasts waiting for the herdsman’s lash. They called themselves the Eightfold Door. They were weak, and they were desperate – in their hearts they had never truly believed that their prayers would be answered.

  ‘By the blood,’ the magus intoned, her voice shaking as she raised the dagger to point at Thoros. ‘By the seven silver ways and five chalices of night, I bind and command you...’

  Thoros shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes from hers.

  ‘Small things,’ he hissed, taking a step forwards. ‘Petty things.’
>
  Around him whispers and shadows gathered, brushing his skin, filling the cavern. The gods had blessed him – nay, made him for this. From the moment his mother had brought him to the Serpent Lodge, a twisted child with the red eyes of the chosen, to the time he had seen beyond the doors of sleep and glimpsed the gods beyond – all of it had been preparation. Out beyond the walls of this cavern was a world, and in the sky of that world hung stars, around which other worlds circled in an eternal dance. All sleeping, all waiting for a new age that they could not know was coming. That was why the gods had seen him safely across the sea of souls to stand here at this moment: to ready the sleeping Imperium to awaken.

  The magus was truly shaking now. Thoros heard the seed of speech in her mind and spoke before she could, his voice a rattling whisper.

  ‘Quietnessss.’

  The magus did not move or reply, though at his back Thoros sensed his attendant priests shifting. Slowly he reached across his waist and pulled a blade from the fold of his robes. The handle settled into his fingers.

  ‘You are called by the high servants of the gods.’ He took another step forward. The gazes of a thousand eyes brushed his skin. ‘This world will belong to them.’ He paused, lips cracking over pointed teeth. ‘But you – you are mine, now.’

  The stillness snapped. The magus leapt at Thoros, a dagger in her hand.

  The gathered cultists rose to their feet in a roar. Thoros felt their cries echo through his soul in that endless instant, their rage as hot as a furnace. Across the cavern other knives were slipping free of sheaths. He could feel it all: each ritually sharpened edge, each uncoiling muscle, each heart surging with fear and hatred. The murder lust bathed him, filled him and remade him.

  He slid past the magus’s thrust, and his knife came up and opened her stomach. She fell, blood sheeting down the white silk, mouth gasping for air, mind pleading for mercy as her soul rushed to meet her gods. He felt the shadows whisper in glee as she screamed.

  Thoros’s ghost voice rose into the gathering darkness. +The gods speak!+

  +They speak,+ his priests echoed as one.

  A pillar of jagged light stabbed up from amongst them, splitting the gloom with green fire. The five priests rose into the air, lightning winding around them in endless coils. Frost spread across the cavern ceiling, strangling the heat from the kiln vents. Where the fire touched the circle of cultists, it burned them to ash.

  Thoros turned from the collapsing magus, his hand rising to become a black serpent of smoke. The serpent uncoiled down his arm, winding around his body, his skin burning and freezing at the nether-creature’s touch. The remaining cultists surged at him, knives raised, eyes wide with fear. He felt the serpent encircle his throat; he opened his mouth to swallow it.

  A cultist broke from the throng. He was huge, bare chested and slicked with sweat. Silver rings clattered from folds of skin as he charged. Thoros felt the man’s dagger punch between his ribs, felt its point burst his heart, blood pouring into the cavity of his chest.

  Fire and ice pulsed through him. He looked down at the fat cultist; the man pulled back to stab at him again, black droplets scattering from the knife as it ripped free.

  Thoros opened his mouth, feeling his jaws dislocate wider and wider. Shadows spilled from his throat, boiling through the air, coiling around the cultist before his second blow could fall. The black cloud flowed on, twisting through the charging throng. They fell, their eyes blinded by nightmares, sweat turning to frost across their bare skin.

  Every mind within the cavern screamed.

  They see it now, thought Thoros as shrieks ripped from a thousand mouths. They see the primordial truth.

  Are the nets done? Boy! Are the floats stowed, no more are broken? That glass costs more than you’re worth… Yes? Good, good. Sit down then, we have some time before the tide is right.

  Oh, don’t look so fearful boy, you’ll survive. Off Old Ven I learned the sea, as you’re going to learn it from me. Be thankful. Ven was the best, and his knowledge I give to you.

  Still frightened? You shouldn’t be. I’ll tell you a thing, of Old Ven and how he died. There are worse things in this life than felphins or nautilons – much, much worse. Let me tell of them. I know, because I was there the day the hydra came to Pelago.

  I was on my seventeenth voyage, a boy not much older than you. So long ago now, but I remember it right enough. If only I could forget…

  Wind teased curls of white from black water. Our boat rocked, gentle as your mother’s arms. It was a peaceful night, a night for calm after a hard day.

  The ocean is a bitter foe, but we had triumphed, we three – me, Old Ven, and Sareo. Our baskets were full. Not like the poor catches you see now, no! Our limbs ached with work well done, our hearts satisfied. All lived. A good day, boy. A good day.

  Ven sat cross-legged in the cup of the hull, Sareo by him – not far from where you’re sat now, if you can imagine it. Their faces were craggy in the orange light of the boat’s firebowl. They enjoyed the warmth, enjoyed the motion of the steelcord bundles as they rolled with the water.

  I was like you. I did not enjoy the night or the sea then. I gazed into the deep, terrified yet entranced. It has that effect. You’ll know soon enough. You’ll see.

  Old Ven watched me. ‘Your cousin still fears the water, Sareo?’ he said, as though I wasn’t there. ‘Even now?’

  ‘There is much to fear,’ Sareo replied. ‘The ocean is not safe. If you taught me nothing else, you taught me that.’

  ‘Still, if he feels that way, why become a fisher?’

  Sareo laughed. ‘What else is there to do, Ven? He must fish, or he will starve.’

  Ven called out to me, then. ‘Hey! Hey, young one! Come away from the side. We sail home tomorrow. Come and sit with us. Keep an old man company. I have heard all Sareo’s stories before.’

  Sareo tutted and came to fetch me.

  ‘Do you not hear our captain, Tidon? Come away now.’

  But I was distracted. Such wonders had I seen that night! ‘Down there, in the water… So much light. Are they spirits?’

  ‘They are only sea-lights,’ he replied. ‘The actions of small creatures. That is all. They are harmless.’

  I pouted. ‘Something else you have learned in the collegium?’

  ‘Aye, something else I have learned. Now come. You dwell too much on fear. Let us rest, and pass the time in pleasant company, for tomorrow we work hard. This catch won’t salt itself.’

  I came reluctantly to the fire. Ven frightened me, if truth be told. So old and stern, never a smile, but I was young and foolish and did not see his wisdom until it had left this world.

  ‘You need not fear so much, young one,’ he said. ‘I have sailed these seas for fifty years, and no harm has come to me.

  ‘You are luckier than many,’ I murmured.

  Sareo looked up sharply. ‘Show some respect, cousin!’

  ‘Hush now,’ said Ven. ‘It is fine, Sareo. I was terrified for many voyages. But I trust to my vessel. Nothing can hurt a man through steelcord.’ He patted the woven hull of the boat. ‘Not if he sails well, and pays attention to what the ocean tells him. Look up. Go on! Look into the sky. You watch the lights in the water with fear. Consider the men who sail the night in their ships of steel and fire – do they fear the starlight, up there? Theirs is the deadlier sea. And yet they come, they go. They ply their ocean as we ply ours.’

  I frowned. ‘They are safe in their vessels. But they are just men. They would be as afraid as I on this sea.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the old captain said, his eyes almost sparkling. ‘The star giants are their allies. I saw them once, clad all in metal and taller than the tallest man. They came to Pelago when I was a boy. I have never seen the like before or since, but although I am old now, it is not a memory easily forgotten. How can you say that the off-worlders are just men, when such giants serve them?’

  ‘This is true?’ I asked, filled with excitement. ‘You saw the gi
ants?’

  Sareo smiled. ‘He saw them all right. In the collegium, there is a pict – a… a true picture – of the giants. In this pict there is a boy, he comes no higher than the knees of the visitors. It is our own Ven. Ven, standing with giants!’

  I could scarcely imagine it. ‘I have not been told this!’

  ‘You do not ask, and so remain in ignorance,’ Ven chuckled. ‘When you attend the collegium, you will learn much – why the lights shine in the sea, why the sun rises, why the giants came to us.’ He looked to Sareo, who nodded.

  ‘It is so. Cousin, the engine of our boat, the clothes that you wear, that flashlight you so love. All things of wonder from the stars, they work not for magic but for clever artifice. You will learn all this, and more.’

  Ven sighed. ‘Aye, the old ways are dead. No gods in the sky or the sea now. Only giants.’

  I looked past the rising sparks of the fire, into the night where the stars blazed thickly, and thought of the giants in their sky-ships.

  I saw something there, a fast moving light upon the horizon.

  ‘Cousin, captain – look!’

  Sareo followed my gaze. ‘What?’

  ‘A star. A falling star!’

  ‘Steady, boy,’ said Ven squinting into the darkness. ‘My eyes are old, I cannot see.’

  I scrambled to the side, rocking the boat with my movements. ‘There! Upon the morningward horizon.’

  ‘I see it. It is growing closer,’ Sareo gasped, placing a hand upon my shoulder. ‘Do not leap about so, Tidon!’

  I paid no attention. I hurried back to the gunwale, my fear forgotten, and hung off the rigging.

  Ven muttered grimly to himself. ‘I see it now.’

  We watched as the light grew to a ball of fire, big as a torch flame. The air itself trembled. Nightgulls took from their watery roosts, and felphins fled the growing glare.

  The light roared overhead, smaller fires chasing it. Night turned to day. The ocean went from black to a sheet of rippled bronze.

  Then it was gone. A sheet of lightning lit up the sky. A single peal of thunder rolled.