DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

  Imoshen heard her own words falling from the silversmith’s lips: “... taken no man but General Tulkhan to your bed and into your arms?”

  “I have never taken any man but General Tulkhan into my bed and into my arms,” Imoshen repeated, her mouth so dry she could hardly speak. Her fingers splayed over the Orb, expecting to feel a cold slick surface or heat, but instead she felt resistance. It flared, illuminating her hand so brightly she could see the bones inside her six fingers.

  The townspeople exclaimed her innocence as the afterimage of the light danced on Imoshen’s vision, blinding her.

  “The Dhamfeer manipulated the Orb. She escaped from a bolted room without disturbing the guards!” Jarholfe roared.

  The townspeople of T’Diemn surged to the balustrades, protesting.

  “The Orb is false!” the Cadre screamed. “Murgon. Tell me the Dhamfeer manipulated the Orb.”

  The Tractarian opened his mouth. Imoshen tensed. Would he lie for the Ghebites?

  “The Orb cannot lie,” the Beatific insisted. “To manipulate the Orb brings on madness. Others have tried and failed.” Her words were echoed by the townsfolk.

  “Jarholfe, have your men get them out of here before they riot,” the Cadre ordered. Then he spun and snatched the Orb from the silversmith, knocking her aside.

  Imoshen broke Maigeth’s fall, asking under cover of the noise and confusion, “Is Drake with you?”

  “He was all for attack, but I wanted to seek justice.”

  “Tell him to move against the Cadre and Jarholfe. Their supporters must be found and—”

  The Cadre dragged Maigeth away from Imoshen. “Get out, woman. Or do you want to suffer the same fate as a full-blood Dhamfeer?”

  Maigeth fled.

  Imoshen held Murgon’s eyes. “Look deep into your heart. To hate us you must hate yourself, Malaunje.” She deliberately used the High T’En word for half-breed, dating from a time when the T’En were honored and the Malaunje only slightly less so.

  Murgon lifted his left hand to his mouth and mimed biting off the sixth finger he did not have, spitting it aside.

  Imoshen was stunned by his hatred.

  Cries of outrage rent the air as Jarholfe’s men drew swords on unarmed townsfolk, who had come expecting to see a fair trial conducted by the laws of the old empire. Instead, they faced naked steel and overzealous soldiers. Even as Imoshen watched, some were slain and the rest fled. She had failed her people.

  “Imoshen, free me,” Reothe hissed.

  She retrieved her knife and ran to his side, sawing at the bonds that held his left arm.

  “No you don’t.” The Cadre snatched a handful of her hair, dragging her away.

  Tears of pain stung Imoshen’s eyes. She clamped one hand over his, pressing his fingers to her skull. Then she dropped and twisted inside his hold, wrenching his wrist. Bringing the knife up, she aimed for his heart. The Orb, which was pressed to his chest, flared eagerly.

  Jarholfe’s boot took her in the ribs. The force of it sent her flying into the near wall. The knife spun from her fingers and the breath was driven from her body as she sank to the floor.

  “I warned you not to go near her, Cadre!” Jarholfe growled.

  Imoshen fought for air. Specks of light flecked her vision. Each breath seared. She saw the last of the townspeople escape, pursued by Jarholfe’s supporters. Only Murgon and the Beatific remained along with Jarholfe, the Cadre, and his acolytes.

  Jarholfe cursed and advanced on Imoshen with his naked sword.

  Fingers splayed, she reached for the knife hilt. Jarholfe’s heel came down on her hand, crushing the fine bones. Her cry was drowned by the Beatific. “Cadre, you must return the Orb. Murgon, tell him!”

  Hugging her injured hand to her chest, Imoshen looked up to see the Cadre backing away with the Orb held above his head.

  “It played us false, Murgon. You told me it would convict the Dhamfeer. Accursed relic!” The Cadre cast it down.

  The Beatific’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the Orb shattered at her feet.

  Imoshen was reminded of the smashing glass of the Dreamwasps’ cage, and an ominous foreboding swamped her. “Run!”

  Before the Beatific could take a step, something intangible was released from the Orb. It had no shape or color, yet Imoshen could see its essence distorting the terrified features of the Cadre’s acolytes beyond. Murgon made the sign to ward off evil.

  “Engarad!” Reothe used the Beatific’s private name.

  Her form wavered. As Imoshen watched the unknown presence invade her, the Beatific crumpled.

  The Cadre and his men backed away.

  “Imoshen, help her!” Reothe urged, trying to lift his injured arm to undo the bonds that held him.

  She had no idea how to help. Even so, her healing instincts drove her to the Beatific’s side.

  Imoshen rolled the woman over with her good hand. Already the Beatific’s skin was waxen, her features lifeless.

  Imoshen leaned down to listen for her heartbeat. That was when she sensed the vengeful presence of a force long caged.

  Calling on her gift, Imoshen placed her good hand over the Beatific’s still heart and pressed, willing that heart to beat. The woman’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. Imoshen leaned close and expelled her breath into the Beatific’s open mouth, propelling her gift.

  The dead woman jerked with the impact of the life force. The Beatific exhaled, and Imoshen inadvertently inhaled the vengeful presence. Frightful cold filled her chest.

  As if she were looking through imperfect glass, Imoshen saw Murgon drag the Beatific away, his features contorted with piteous fear. From a great distance she heard Reothe calling her name. Jarholfe’s harsh voice demanded to know what was going on, and she felt his hand on her arm as he pulled her upright. The Orb’s presence was going to kill her; already she could feel it overcoming her resistance. She must pass it on or die.

  In her mind’s eye Imoshen saw Jarholfe gutting Lord Fairban, saw him laughing as his men abused Reothe. With the last of her strength, she swung her free arm around Jarholfe’s neck and planted her lips on his. Exhaling, she drove the vengeful presence from her body into his. It went eagerly, sensing his defenseless life force.

  As she pulled away from Jarholfe, his eyes met hers, revealing dreadful comprehension. Imoshen imagined the cold embrace closing around his desperate heart, leaching the life from him. His mouth opened. Before he could speak, Jarholfe dropped to the floor, dead at her feet.

  Imoshen stared at his still body.

  The Cadre’s acolytes tried to flee but were hindered by the return of Jarholfe’s men.

  Imoshen noticed the Beatific and Murgon exchanging glances. By using her gift to take the life of a True-man with them as her witnesses, she had signed her own death warrant.

  “Fiend!” the Cadre shrieked. “The Dhamfeer must be killed.” He gestured to the frightened acolytes. “Take Murgon and the woman back to the basilica and hold them.”

  Imoshen marveled. Even in his extremity, the Cadre insulted the Beatific.

  Eagerly, the acolytes drove Murgon and the Beatific ahead of them, stepping aside for Jarholfe’s returning soldiers, who reeked of sweat, blood, and death. They were dismayed to discover their commander dead. Several would have lifted Jarholfe’s body, but Imoshen stopped them. “Don’t touch him if you value your lives. The Orb’s presence is still dissipating.”

  They glared at her. Imoshen knew her life hung in the balance. How many could she take with her—one, maybe two? She felt drained of her gift, but who knew what she could do in an emergency? She might escape, but she would not leave Reothe.

  Four of Jarholfe’s men advanced on Imoshen, their swords raised. A boot caught the remains of the Orb’s crystal, sending it skittering across the polished wooden floor to the wall. The sound scraped Imoshen’s raw senses.

  “Hold your weapons,” the Cadre ordered, his voice rich with malignant triumph. “The Dhamfeer has played into our han
ds. Tomorrow, if I am not mistaken, we will have a double stoning, with the full approval of the Church’s lawgivers.”

  Imoshen straightened, aware that she had a reprieve for now. “What did you promise Murgon to betray Fair Isle, Cadre?”

  He laughed, then shuddered. “Fair Isle? Rather Fell Isle, filled with feral creatures.”

  Imoshen realized he was lumping her with the thing that had been imprisoned within the Orb. “You were the one who smashed the Orb. You are responsible for Jarholfe’s death, not I!”

  “Silence!” the Cadre roared. “I will not listen to your poisoned words. You are convicted by your own actions, Dhamfeer bitch. Tomorrow you die. But first you must be safely secured for the night.”

  He glanced around, as if considering where she and Reothe would be imprisoned. Then he retrieved her knife and went to Reothe. Imoshen expected him to slit the bonds that held Reothe’s wrist. Instead, he pressed Reothe’s fingers against the pole and hacked them off.

  A cry left her lips; its twin came from Reothe.

  With satisfaction, the Cadre tossed the severed fingers aside and slit the bonds that held Reothe. Reothe fell to his knees, clasping his hand as blood pumped from the finger stumps. Imoshen tore the hem of her underdress to stem the bleeding. She urged the wound to seal.

  The Cadre watched in satisfaction. “I’ve heard you two can climb like mountain goats. Let’s see you try it now. Take them to the top of the tallest tower and shut them outside.”

  Soldiers pulled Imoshen away from Reothe. She twisted free of their grasp. “He’ll die from blood loss if I don’t pack the wounds.”

  “Then you’d better heal him, bitch,” the Cadre urged. “According to Jarholfe, each time you heal it reduces your powers. So heal him and yourself if you can. And we’ll see how much T’En trouble you give Murgon’s Tractarians after you have spent a night exposed on the tower.”

  Tulkhan frowned. In the gathering gloom he could just make out the ebb and flow of battle. The ditch still burned, topped up with oil. All about him, men fought amid the roar of commands, the clash of metal, and the stench of burned flesh. The camp’s north entrance had held despite repeated attempts to breach it. Each time Gharavan’s mercenaries threatened, Tulkhan sent reinforcements. There had been no secondary attack, and now he detected a slowing in the pace of the onslaught.

  “Look, over by the port gates.” A man pointed.

  Squinting past the glow of the ditch fires, Tulkhan strained to make out what was happening. “They’ve closed the gate on their own men!”

  “But why?”

  “The Low-landers wanted nothing of this war. It would not surprise me if.. .”Tulkhan headed down the embankment, letting his momentum carry him far into the camp. It was the perfect opportunity to catch Gharavan’s mercenaries in the open. “Form a column!”

  Tulkhan grinned as his men fell into formation. Now that the Low-landers had cut off the mercenaries’ retreat, it wouldn’t surprise him if the port officials handed his half-brother over, trussed like a pig for the slaughter. His good mood infected the men, and soon he had the mounted attack force ready to form a pincer.

  “The gates have been shut and the mercenaries fall back in dismay,” a runner reported.

  “This is the night we take Port Sumair,” Tulkhan roared.

  His men took up the cry. Tulkhan rode out with a small contingent of mounted men to spearhead the attack. Their horses’ hooves sounded over the hastily lowered bridge.

  With the burning ditch behind him, he faced the darker plain, littered with scattered fires caused by the burning hides. He heard the furious shouts of the betrayed mercenaries, and signaled the attack while his men cheered from the ramparts.

  Gharavan’s mercenaries formed a hasty square to meet their onslaught, but the force of the heavy farm horses broke their ranks. Tulkhan found himself in the midst of struggling bodies, fighting in the dim twilight, where it was hard to tell friend from foe. He stood in the stirrups as the battle raged around him and raised the victory horn to his lips, believing the sounding of the horn would be enough to prompt the cornered men to lay down their weapons.

  At the horn’s call, the tone of the fighting slowed and Tulkhan wheeled his horse, pulling back to assess their position. A strange sight greeted him. Several burning wagons dotted the plain between him and the Sea-wall. One by one these winked out, as if a black veil of darkness rolled toward him. The sound of fighting was overcome by a dull, hungry roar. Suddenly, the men between him and the blackness rose up, screaming. As they were carried toward him, Tulkhan realized the darkness was a wall of raging water engulfing friend and foe alike.

  Too late, men cast down their weapons to flee.

  Tulkhan’s horse screamed and reared up against the boiling wave. Now that it was close he could see the froth and limbs of men trapped in it. Suddenly it was upon him. He was swept off his horse, carried away, turned over and over so that he didn’t know which way was up or down.

  His helmet was torn from his head, his sword from his fingers. Dragged under by the force of the water, held down by the weight of his armor, he struggled against ignominious, impartial death. His head broke the surface and he barely had time to snatch a breath before he went under again. Spinning in cold blackness, he tried to undo his chest-plate clasps. He felt ground under his feet and broke free of his armor, surfacing for a breath, only to lose his balance as something collided with him.

  The breath rushed from his body. Frantic for air, he drove his legs down but the ground slid out from under him. Then hands clasped his arms and hauled him up. He discovered he had been pinned halfway up the steep embankment of the defensive earthworks. His rescuer helped him to his feet.

  Dragging in a deep breath, he looked about. By the light of scattered patches of burning oil and the few stars that pierced the cloud cover, he watched the water pour through the camp’s northern entrance, tearing down sections of the ramparts. A great frothing flood engulfed the camp. The screams of his men left him seething with impotence.

  “The Sea-wall must be down,” his companion muttered.

  Tulkhan realized that, to rid themselves of both the invaders and Gharavan’s mercenaries, the townspeople of Port Sumair had locked the port’s gates, then breached the Sea-wall, deliberately flooding their land.

  Most of Tulkhan’s men could not swim, but they would survive if they could make it to the embankments that bounded the camp on two sides.

  “What’s that?” The man pointed. “A boat?”

  Tulkhan spun to see a dark shape sail past. The outline was too irregular to be a boat. Then he heard the hunting bark of the narcts, and fear curdled in his belly. The sea swirled around the embankment, rising steadily. He spotted another of the floating islands swept in from the channel. It was carried past them with its deadly cargo.

  “Are you armed?” Tulkhan demanded.

  “Just my knife; I lost my bow.”

  “Draw your blade and put your back to mine. The water is full of narcts.”

  The man muttered an invocation to Akha Khan. Tulkhan had nothing but his ceremonial dagger. He wished for a sword or a spear. To his left the water frothed and roiled. A man’s screams were silenced as the narcts tore him apart.

  Cries of despair rose from the men along the ramparts.

  “We must band together!” Tulkhan roared.

  “Something swims toward me!” his companion warned.

  Tulkhan swung to face the threat.

  “Akha Khan, help me,” a man cried, thrashing through the water in his desperation to reach safety.

  When Tulkhan stepped forward to take the man’s arm, his leg went straight down. Only his companion’s quick actions stopped him from going under. Bracing himself against the man’s weight, the General grabbed the soldier’s outstretched hand.

  Tulkhan found his feet. “Beware, Vaygharian. The top of the earthworks is wide enough for only two men.”

  He had not been fooled by the man’s choice of god. Th
e mercenary tensed and would have thrust off their helping hands.

  “Truce, man. We have a common enemy,” Tulkhan said, and as if to confirm this, they heard another chorus of barking.

  “We were betrayed.”

  “Doubly so,” Tulkhan agreed. “The gates were locked, then the Sea-wall opened to the ocean. I think you can consider your contract with Gharavan canceled.”

  The mercenary cursed.

  “Take heart, men,” Tulkhan yelled. “It could be worse. It could be snowing!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “It’s snowing,” Imoshen whispered. Wearing only her underdress, she could not repress a shiver as the first flake caressed her cheek. “Now, don’t argue, Reothe; put this on.”

  He pushed her helping hands away, but she could tell it was an effort for him to dress himself in her brocade tabard.

  They had been driven at sword-point up the ladder to the top of Sard’s Tower. Before the trapdoor was bolted, the Cadre had crowed, “If you can force that bolt with your gifts, these men will be waiting. I give them leave to hack off any limb that comes through this trapdoor. You’ll bleed to death as quick as any True-man!”

  Recalling the fearful, glittering eyes of the guards, Imoshen knew they would be only too eager to follow the Cadre’s command.

  Imoshen went to the tower’s crenelated edge to peer down. It was a sheer drop to the steeply sloping roof below. Even if she were to risk the jump, the icy roof slates would give her no traction. She imagined sliding off to plunge four floors to the ground below and shuddered.

  “How far down is it?” Reothe asked.

  “Too far to climb.”

  But he had to study the drop for himself. “It could be done if the roof were not covered in a thin layer of ice.”

  “I doubt if I would attempt it even then. Now I must heal your wound and bind it properly.” Imoshen’s reserves were pitifully low, for she had had little to eat and, worse, her body still burned with the milk fever.