by D. P. Prior
‘There has to be another way,’ Shader said to Barek. ‘We have to make Hagalle see reason.’
He mounted his horse and led the White Order northwards through Sarum’s night-darkened streets. Reasoning with a madman was a task that didn’t inspire much hope. Maybe the Ipsissimus would have more luck, if he could get close enough to parley. Failing that, the best they could do was pray and hope for some kind of miracle.
BROTHER OF MINE
Rhiannon dropped down the last five feet of the ladder and twisted her ankle.
‘Shit,’ she cried. ‘Shog, shit and fuck.’
The room she’d entered was a bedchamber—presumably Cadman’s.
The gargoyle-thing was curled up on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. It appeared to be asleep. She glanced up at the trapdoor. There was no sign of pursuit, but it wouldn’t be long till they noticed she’d gone. No time to hang about.
She tested her ankle and winced at the pain. She could walk if she didn’t put too much weight on it. She took a step towards the gargoyle, intending to throttle it in its sleep, but then took hold of herself. Stupid to take risks now. She just had to get out of there.
The gargoyle snored and Rhiannon held her breath. Once its breathing resumed its steady rhythm, she hobbled through the open door and limped downstairs.
The lower levels were unguarded, but the front door was secured from the inside. She drew back the heavy bolts one at a time, holding her breath whenever they squeaked. Taking hold of the handle, she cast a look over her shoulder to make sure she still wasn’t being followed, and then pulled.
She slid through the merest of cracks and immediately saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Black shapes to either side of the door began to lumber towards her. Doing her best to ignore the pain in her ankle, she half ran, half hopped for the trees. More shapes emerged from the darkness to shamble in pursuit, but within a few strides, her ankle eased and she was able to plant her weight on it. She tore into the undergrowth, veering to the left as a horde of groaning figures rose from a cluster of mounds.
‘Ain,’ she whispered to herself, half in prayer, half in shock. ‘More shogging zombies.’
She sprinted away from the main mass of undead, arms pumping furiously, breath coming in ragged gasps. The darks shapes from the tower still followed, spreading out like a dragnet. Ducking beneath overhanging branches, Rhiannon found herself on a woodland trail and picked up her speed. Something grabbed at her robe—it may have been a branch, but she didn’t stop to find out—and then she slipped and tumbled down a bank. She hit the bottom with a thud that jarred her neck and sent a thumping pain through her skull. She crawled another pace before pulling herself up using a drooping branch.
Black figures lumbered through the darkness behind her, merging with the forest so that it seemed the trees themselves were moving, reaching out, coming for her. She pushed away from the branch and took a couple of steps, but then a hooded figure emerged from behind a eucalypt in front of her. A dozen or more black-cloaked figures slunk out to either side.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she found herself shouting in her panic.
The lead figure threw back its hood to reveal a sharp face dominated by a well-oiled moustache. The flesh was pale, the eyes, red. Strips of meat clung to its teeth.
The others revealed their faces, each with the pallor of the grave and starting to putrefy.
Rhiannon whirled, looking for an opening, but the horde from the tower was closing in around her. She grabbed a branch and snapped it free from its trunk. It lacked weight, but she’d take whatever she could find. Crouching, she held the branch in both hands and dared the cloaked zombies to advance.
They drew daggers and came at her—lightly, on the balls of their feet, not at all like the shambling things behind. As they drew closer, Rhiannon saw that they all had grisly wounds—raked faces, gouged chests, ripped out throats.
Cracking twigs and rustling leaves startled her. She spun, still looking for some opening to slip through, but the noose had closed and there was nowhere to run. A hundred pairs of hands reached towards her. She swooned and retched at the stench of decay, dropping the branch and falling to her knees. Cold fingers touched her—
Lightning flashed, its flicker making the movements of the dead appear stilted. A sizzling crack followed, and a thunderous blast rolled through the woods. Flesh charred, smoke plumed skywards, and bodies fell. Another explosion sent rotting carcasses hurtling into trees and a passage opened through the horde. The cloaked zombies still came on, but the air in front of them swirled green like a vast shield of light. As they struck it, the corpses disappeared, as if they’d walked into the mouth of a cave.
Two figures ran through the corridor between the undead, one cloaked in feathers, the other much smaller and half naked. Recognition hit Rhiannon, and she knew she must have been dreaming; knew she must have been dead.
***
‘Boy has heard it.’—A man’s voice, thick and awkward, as if the words were alien. ‘All of web shudders in warning. Sahul’s children cry out.’
‘The ants.’—A boy’s voice, shrill and excited. ‘They tell me everything.’
Rhiannon moaned and turned, trying to snuggle down away from the noise. The bed was too hard. Her arm felt numb beneath her. Something coarse ground into her face, and her lips were dry and dusty. She rolled onto her back and red heat seared through her eyelids. She covered her face with her hands, blinking rapidly.
‘How many?’—Another man’s voice, smoother, more refined, yet the accent wasn’t Sahulian.
‘As many as stars.’—The first man again. She knew that voice. Huntsman. And the child—Ain, it had to be Sammy.
‘Gently, my dear,’ the other man said. ‘Huntsman, a drink. I would do it myself, but in the spirit I lack the digits.’
Rhiannon let her hands drop and risked looking into the blaze. She blinked again and realized she was facing the sun. She turned away and was startled to full alertness when she saw a rough pillar of rock—limestone—jutting towards the azure sky like a fossilised finger. She shook her head and focused. Not just one rock—hundreds of them. Pocked and twisted monoliths surrounded her like a petrified forest, or a city sprouting from the earth.
Huntsman crouched into her field of vision, a tight grin exposing the black stubs of his teeth. Sunlight glinted from the crystals beaded through his hair. He put something pulpy to her lips and she sucked automatically, drawing sweet moisture into her mouth and gulping it down.
‘Cactus,’ Huntsman said. ‘Keep you alive.’
‘Sammy?’ Rhiannon pushed Huntsman’s hand away. ‘Is he with you?’
‘Here,’ the boy said.
He sounded so old.
Rhiannon rolled to her knees and Sammy came to stand before her. He looked taller somehow, but she knew that was impossible. Then she realized it was due to his bearing. He stood straight and proud, like Huntsman. His fair hair was besmirched and twisted into stubby dreadlocks that reminded her of the trunks of grass trees. His cheeks were browned from exposure and daubed with ochre. He was naked apart from a soiled binding around his loins that may have been animal skin or some kind of treated leaf. Like Huntsman, he was barefoot, and his eyes—Sammy’s sparkling playful eyes—were piercing pinpricks in the grime, distantly focused and utterly serious.
‘What have you done?’ she shrieked at Huntsman, surging to her feet and lunging for his face.
The old Dreamer swayed out of her reach. Before she could renew her assault, a white radiance stepped between them.
‘He has preserved your brother, by all accounts.’
The other man. His voice was strangely distant, dreamlike.
Rhiannon stepped back. ‘Oh my shogging—What are you?’
He was robed in white and wearing a biretta. His face seemed unnaturally young, although the eyes were those of an old man. Rhiannon could see right through him as if he were a ghost.
He frowned at her, ran his eyes up and
down her filthy white robe. ‘Hardly the sort of language one would expect from a Nousian. Particularly a postulant.’
Rhiannon’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh my—’ She bowed her head and wasn’t sure whether or not to genuflect. ‘Oh, oh, oh.’ What was she supposed to say? How should she address him? ‘You’re…you’re…’
‘I am the servant of the servants of Nous, my dear, and you have been through a terrible ordeal.’
‘Ipsissimus,’ Rhiannon gasped. ‘The Ipsissimus? Here?’
‘Not exactly here,’ the Ipsissimus indicated his see-through form, ‘but I am in Sahul. These are perilous times, my dear. I’m only sorry that you have been caught up in them.’
Warm fingers curled around her hand. Sammy pressed in close, his dirty body complementing the stains on her robe. He looked so alien, so utterly unlike the little boy she knew and loved. Yet, when he pressed his head into her side, Rhiannon clutched it to her, ruffling his matted hair with her free hand.
‘My friend,’ Huntsman said to the Ipsissimus. ‘This army of corpses, it marches now towards Homestead.’
‘Why would it do that?’ the Ipsissimus asked. ‘Thought there was nothing there besides desert and the mountain itself?’
Huntsman’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Gods of Dreaming.’
‘Even so—’ the Ipsissimus started, but Huntsman cut him off.
‘Cadman must think they know where rest of statue is.’
‘Do they?’
‘No.’
‘Then we should stay out of it,’ the Ipsissimus said. ‘We can’t risk the Monas.’
‘But we must go to them.’ Huntsman looked like he would have shaken the Ipsissimus if he had anything to grab onto. ‘He will kill them before he believes they do not know.’
Rhiannon let go of Sammy’s hand and stepped towards Huntsman. ‘It’s not Cadman. Not anymore.’
Huntsman looked at her as if she were crazy, but then realization crept across his face even before she explained herself.
‘On the tower, on Dead Man’s Torch,’ she said, ‘something came for him: a man seated on a throne. The skies opened like someone had torn a curtain. This man—’
‘Sektis Gandaw!’ Huntsman seemed to visibly wilt as he said the name. The Ipsissimus merely closed his eyes.
‘—he did something to Cadman,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Entered his body in some way. I think Cadman’s gone—dead even, if that’s possible.’
‘If Sektis Gandaw has the other four pieces—’ the Ipsissimus said.
‘He needs only one more,’ Huntsman finished. ‘To begin Unweaving: end of all things.’
The Ipsissimus’s spectral hand clutched the golden Monas around his neck. ‘Why hasn’t he already come for it. With the other pieces he could—¼
‘The Archon,’ Sammy said, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. ‘He wards it. The other pieces can no longer find it.’
‘Then Gandaw’s barking up the wrong tree,’ Rhiannon said.
‘No.’ Huntsman regained his poise and shook his head. ‘He wants revenge. My gods thwarted him once. He does not forget.’
The Ipsissimus touched his fingertips together beneath his nose. ‘And you say they don’t know about my Monas?’
‘No,’ Huntsman said. ‘They never let me tell them.’
‘Then why—?’ Rhiannon started.
‘Sektis Gandaw doesn’t know that. He will try to force knowledge from them and they will be unable to answer,’ the Ipsissimus said.
‘It is worse than that.’ Huntsman looked from Rhiannon to the Ipsissimus with panic in his eyes. ‘Sektis Gandaw hates my gods. He goes to slaughter them, just as he once slaughtered Barraiya People. My friend,’ he said to the Ipsissimus, ‘we must help them.’
THE COMMON FOE
Ipsissimus Theodore watched his troops file past as he was borne along in a gilded lectica by four men. He loathed this mode of transport, but as Exemptus Cane was forever reminding him, it was what the people expected. An Ipsissimus had to be seen as more than human. Apparently, being carried on a cushion-strewn litter rendered one divine.
As columns of armoured men marched past, seemingly oblivious to the heat, Theodore had an unquiet heart. He had never been comfortable with the use of force and yet his Templum had for thousands of years subscribed to a theory of just war. Theodore had always found this contrary to the example of Nous, who had embodied a strategy of non-violent resistance. In this case, though, when the future of Creation was at stake, he could see no alternative. And yet a quiet, nagging voice refused to grant him the peace that should accompany a decision made in good conscience; a voice that seemed to taunt him with the limitations of his own faith: Trust in Ain. Be not afraid.
Following the maps sent to Aeterna by the Jarmin in return for Aeterna-tech medicines and weapons, the column made its way south and east towards the Delling Ford. Theodore had been outmanoeuvred on the armaments front. Exemptus Silvanus, more and more, was having his way in Templum affairs. And to think people believed the Ipsissimus wielded absolute power. The reality was closer to Quilonian democracy. It was no secret that Silvanus favoured opening up the archives and releasing the knowledge of the Ancients. Some technology had already been made available—medical wisdom and such. It was a necessity. And then, during the Verusian campaign, strange armaments had started to appear, and transportation—most notably shipbuilding—had accelerated to rival the galleons of Sahul (which Hagalle had apparently modelled on a captured mawg reaver). Perhaps Silvanus was right. The Templum couldn’t pretend the technology wasn’t there, not when its rivals were rediscovering it by themselves. It was a perennial problem, but Theodore still believed with his whole heart that the sort of weapons they’d supplied to Jarmin didn’t marry well with the way of Nous. It all reeked of power and hypocrisy, yet, even as Ipsissimus, he felt impotent against the tide.
The heat and dust forced the knights to remove their armour and walk their horses. Shade was minimal, at times non-existent, as they trudged across ruddy earth that seemed to foreshadow bloodshed. Scrubs of hard weeds and tufted grasstrees jutted from the desert, providing no respite from the scorching sun.
The scouts returned with news of an intercepting army to the south blocking the passage to the ford. General Binizo rode alongside the lectica to inform the Ipsissimus. He was your typical Latian, Theodore thought, careful not to be uncharitable—dark-eyed and swarthy, an impressive nose dominating his face. Binizo carried himself with a deportment that could have been construed as pompous if it were not the norm for one of his breeding.
‘There are nearly four thousand men, Ipsissimus, and they are illintentioned. No sooner had our scouts sighted them than a score of riders gave chase. They are highly skilled and were able to fire arrows from the saddle. They pursued our scouts for perhaps a mile before returning to the main force.’
‘Is it Hagalle?’ the Ipsissimus asked.
‘No banners were sighted, but I would assume so, Divinity.’
Theodore nodded his agreement. ‘I had better get some rest. If the Emperor is so ill-disposed towards us I shall need to be prepared for a very long negotiation. If,’ he added, ‘we are granted the opportunity to talk. Oh, and General,’ Theodore said, stamping his foot so that the litter bearers would stop. ‘Find me a horse. I refuse to face the Emperor of Sahul like some pampered Ancient world queen!’
Binizo wheeled his mount and touched his forehead.
‘No,’ Theodore said. ‘On second thoughts, make it a mule.’ Hagalle already viewed him as an imperious conqueror. Maybe a touch of humility would help. ‘And inform Exemptus Cane that he may ride in the lectica.’ Either that or break it up for firewood.
***
‘They have the high ground,’ Ignatius Grymm said, looking down on Theodore from his destrier.
‘That is rather apparent,’ the Ipsissimus squinted up at the twin hills that rose in great natural steps either side of the valley. ‘Surely that can’t be a natural feature.’ Theodore
shifted his position on the mule to find a degree of comfort. The animal stank of musk and sweat, and he was sure it was infested with lice.
‘Some sort of earthworks, maybe,’ the Grand Master said. ‘Either that or canny fortifications. Sahul has seen its fair share of warfare. I was reading about the Zaneish rise to hegemony on the voyage from Aeterna.’
Theodore gazed back over his own army deployed at the edge of Dour Wood, if the maps were anything to go by. A thin line of Britannic skirmishers provided a screen for the main force; hard men from the north, lightly armoured in leather and equipped with slings and javelins for harrying the enemy, and long bladed knives for finishing the wounded. Behind them, to the left, just nudging out of the tree-line, were the Templum’s shock troops: over a hundred knights of the Elect, heavily armoured and perfectly disciplined. One coordinated charge from them was enough to decimate any army in Nousia. Theodore only hoped they’d enjoy the same success in Sahul, should it come to it.
The centre was held by the heavy infantry units, nearly two hundred men in plate armour and wielding fearsome glaive guisarmes, twice the length of a spear and with hooks at the back of the blade for unseating riders. They had a contingent of the Ipsissimal Guard to their right and another to the rear—seasoned veterans in red cloaks with an embroidered white Monas. These men fought with short stabbing swords and rectangular shields. Theodore had seen them manoeuvring in Latia and had been in awe of their ability to flawlessly change formation and to use their shields as a defensive wall. A long line of archers came next, each with Britannic long bows carved of yew. Bringing up the rear were the Elect Foot, Theodore’s personal bodyguard, fighters of incomparable skill and loyalty. He imagined they were feeling a little forlorn back there with no one to protect—besides Exemptus Cane, who seemed quite at home in the Ipsissimal lectica.
‘Are they a threat?’ Theodore asked his Grand Master. It was so difficult to tell with these things. He’d never actually witnessed a battle, but he had endured years and years of endless parades with Ignatius wittering on in his ear about the pros and cons of every single unit.