by David Hair
‘Gazda Dragan,’ Valdyr replied, still panting from the bout.
‘You’ve learned to fight, I see. Tibor praises your progress.’
‘I still can’t beat him,’ Valdyr replied ruefully.
Dragan chuckled. ‘No shame in that. But we’re out of time, Little Draken. The mines will re-open soon, so it’s time to move. Remember the cave at the Osiapa headwaters? From there we can raid into Banezust and Ujtabor. It’s important that our men see the son of Elgren Sarkany fighting alongside them – but do you feel ready, my Prince?’
Dragan’s words were deferential, but Valdyr could hear the impatience. I can now hold a sword . . . but the gnosis eludes me. It wasn’t enough, he knew, but pride wouldn’t let him beg for more time. ‘I’m ready.’
*
Am I ready? It was Darkmoon: the face of Luna had vanished from the sky and the night was at its darkest, except for stars spanning the sky in a gentle east-west curve. The air among the pines was rich with new growth and hundreds of tiny streams laced every slope, providing an ever-present trickle of water. Even the rivers were moving again after months of icy stasis.
The Vitezai Sarkanum men slipped through the starlit gloom, woods-crafty and near silent. The ground beneath the trees was dirt and damp pine-needles, cushioning sound. Vision was poor, but the stars were bright enough here to make out the shape of the land, and to see detail if one focused. The Rondian cooking-fires in the camp lit their quarry.
They had moved into the Osiapa caves. Rondian patrols were more frequent here, but the lowlanders’ woodcraft was poor and they were easily avoided. The air was markedly warmer and the whole forest was stirring: deer and hunting wolf packs were making their way to the uplands where the grass was beginning to sprout and birds were nesting, preparing for the first chicks of the new season. Mollachia was still forbidding, but the starkness was softening.
Tibor Siravhy was ten yards ahead of Valdyr, watching the Rondian camp like a hawk. Three dozen more lurked under cover, weapons blackened and metal covered, awaiting his signal. Then a gnarled brown hand touched Valdyr’s forearm and Iztven’s toothless smile filled his vision. ‘Soon, ysh?’
‘Ysh,’ Valdyr replied.
To everyone’s surprise, the Sfera had joined the raid, and despite their age they’d not slowed the group; using kinesis and Air-gnosis to leap obstacles, they easily kept up.
Ahead, Tibor gestured: a forward flicker, then a downward pat: come in, keep low . . . They slithered into place. All had bows and boar-spears, except some of the bigger men who carried two-handed Schlessen zweihandles in back-scabbards; Valdyr himself had been given a zweihandle by Dragan, who told him, ‘This was your father’s spare blade. His favourite hangs in Hegikaro Castle. One day a Sarkany will wield it again too.’
They all knew what they faced: Rondian legionaries were professional soldiers, trained to fight in formation, but they weren’t bowmen by nature; archery required an investment in time that was prohibitive in a military that constantly rotated men. Dragan’s plan was to strike hard and get out fast. Valdyr crawled to Tibor’s side and peered over a fallen tree still half-buried in snow. The slope beyond fell away, black smears of earth and pine needles against unmelted ice. The stars glittered above in a cold, clear sky.
Dear Kore, let there be no magi below . . .
Tibor whispered, ‘Two sentries this side, left and right,’ pointing out the guardsmen shuffling miserably back and forth. Valdyr reached back and loosened his zweihandle in its oiled scabbard as the longbowmen moved forward.
Tibor displayed two fingers and gestured forward, two longbows sang and the shafts whipped through the air and buried themselves into the torsos of the men below, who stiffened, staggered and slumped. One emitted a low moan, then a second shaft slammed in beside the first and he rolled over and went still. The other was already a silent mound.
Tibor climbed to his feet and led half their group down the slope. Another twenty Vitezai on the far side would move in when the attack began and the defenders were all facing away from them. The tents and the glowering embers of the dying campfires came into view through the thinning trees just as someone ahead shouted, ‘Ware!’
The Vitezai broke into a run, pelting across the snowy ground, as a cluster of red-cloaks stumbled into view. Arrows flew, then the Vitezai Sarkanum roared aloud, ‘Huy-huy! Razta!’ and stormed forward.
Someone in a red cloak lumbered into Valdyr’s path; he raised his sword and blocked and their blades locked. He met the man’s frightened blue eyes as he shoved, then someone stabbed a spear into the man’s side, blood spouted from his mouth and he fell to the ground. The next Vitezai plunged his spear into the man’s chest for good measure and Valdyr, quelling the urge to vomit, staggered onwards amidst his comrades-in-arms. A hurled torch caught a tent alight, then a legionary was in front of him, swinging a shortsword. Valdyr parried, swung, missed and over-balanced, but a woodsman slammed an axe into his foe’s breastplate as he ran past. The Rondian staggered backwards and flames flared as he fell into a cooking-fire.
Valdyr was berating himself – he’d rukked up that last swing and it could have been him lying in the snow bleeding out – but he shook it off and ran on. A man emerged from a burning tent and he rammed his zweihandle at his belly, punching through leather and chain and ripping him open. Intestine squelched out in a spray of blood as the man screamed and fell backwards.
Valdyr wavered, paralysed by the ghastly sight, then anger surged. Murdering Rondian kulfoldi! He wrenched the bloody zweihandle out and hacked at the man’s neck, once, twice, then the head flew and he fell onto the torso, roaring, ‘Razta! Death!’
The blow that struck his flank and hurled him to the ground was neither arrow or spear but a blast of mage-fire that seared through furs, chain-mesh and steel; it foundered on the leather inner layer as it ran out of impetus: thank Kore Dragan had insisted on that added layer of protection. Valdyr groaned, and sagged dizzily.
Boots crunched from the direction of the blast and a male voice shouted in Rondian, a rallying call. The young man was wearing green silken robes, as if this were a summer’s night in Bricia, but his face was a pale, taut mask of cold fury as he blasted away again, while arrows snapped and fell impotently away from his shields.
Sweet Kore, a battle-mage! Valdyr thought, but before he could react, a flurry of mage-bolts was smashing into the mage’s shields and he spun away to face the new threat. Iztven and Ghili emerged from the forest: alien beings filled with menace, yellowy eyes glowing faintly, hunched and snarling like beasts. The Rondian sent gnosis-fire at them as the Vitezai and the remaining legionaries backed away, the mage-duel becoming an island in the swirl of the mêlée.
Valdyr realised the mage thought him dead. Scarcely believing his own stupidity, he began to creep forward. The trick to sneaking up on a mage, Kyrik had told him once, was to move silently and unseen: when a mage shielded, what he was doing was sensing movement and instinctively countering it with kinesis. While an arrow actually had more speed and force than a sword or dagger, it could be deflected or stopped with minimal exertion. Stopping a blow from a seven-pound blade required attention and equivalent counter-force. He just had to get close enough to swing.
The Rondian was fixed upon his new enemies, hurling a torrent of mage-bolts at the two Sfera – and any Vitezai who stumbled into his field of vision. As the pressure on him mounted, the shielding at his back visibly weakened as he focused his concentration on those in front of him.
Twelve yards . . . nine . . . seven . . .
Ghili faltered first: a fire-blast slammed into her shields and blew them away and she staggered towards Iztven, yowling as her furs ignited. The two Sfera tried to bundle their shields together, to cover each other, but the Rondian, sensing he was on top now, shouted triumphantly and hammered blast after blast into his foes.
Then Valdyr gripped his zweihandle like a lance and launched himself at the man’s back. The blade went in with a wet crunch, plunge
d through ribs and organs and out again, erupting from his left breast. The Rondian gasped, his mouth fell open and he sagged, held upright on the steel.
Kore’s Blood, I’ve killed him . . .
Then light flashed around the wound in the mage’s back and he twisted, impaled though he was, and hurled blue fire at Valdyr’s face. Valdyr jerked aside and the flames scorched past his eyes. In utter terror, Valdyr threw his weight forward and drove the man face-first into the snow-covered dirt, his blade sliding into the soil and pinning the Rondian to the ground. Then he drew his dagger and stabbed, over and over and over, until the man’s back was just bloody ribbons of torn silk and ruined flesh.
When he looked up, there was a circle of Vitezai around him and all the Rondians he could see were dead, staring up at the starlit sky with empty eyes. He swayed, then planted his feet and pulled himself up using his buried sword. He wrenched it free and gasped for air. His hair was smouldering on one side and he still felt dazed, but he was also exhilarated.
‘HUY-HUY!’ the Vitezai cheered, and Nilasz was beside him a few seconds later, banging him on the back, then Dragan strode into the midst of the carnage, pumping his sword into the air and crying, ‘SARKANY! SARKANY!’ The Gazda pulled Valdyr into a bear-hug.
Their cheers echoed through the clearing.
When Valdyr finally prised himself from their arms, he sought out the two Sydians. He was only alive because of them. They were sitting huddled together, smoking pipes and brushing wounds from their flesh with a pale white light – healing-gnosis, he guessed.
‘Thank you,’ he said fervently.
Ghili grinned toothlessly, and said, ‘Son of Zillitiya.’
Valdyr swallowed. Son of Zillitiya? It sounded like more expectations, more demands he couldn’t meet.
But there was no time for questions: there were supplies to plunder, and anything they didn’t want, including a windskiff, they put to the torch. Their losses had been few – numbers and surprise had been in their favour – but there would be reprisals. They pulled out within the hour, leaving a massive bonfire raging behind them, and returned to their caves to escape the scrying eyes of their oppressors.
Before they left, Dragan pulled Valdyr aside and clasped his hand. ‘Your father would be immensely proud of you today, Valdyr. I don’t wish to test Fate, for your brother is a good man – but if the worst should come to be, Mollachia is in good hands with you.’
17
Ludus Imperium
Pregnancy Manifestation
I have always regarded ‘pregnancy manifestation’ as a tainting of the miracle of Corineus. Why should a mere human woman, solely by dint of bearing a mage’s child, gain the gift of the gnosis? Would that only men could gain and wield our mighty power!
GRAND PRELATE HEFENIUS, PALLAS, 618
Pallas, Rondelmar
Maicin 935
Lyra was growing accustomed to crowds, but never to being crushed among them. The Royal Box at least gave her a little space to breathe, elevated above the masses pressed together in a noisy, sweaty, unwashed crowd below her. Even her ladies were jammed cheek by jowl on their benches.
But the box also meant she had to be seen; she could feel all those eyes on her, and so many remarks surely not meant to have reached her ears: everyone felt entitled to pass comment on her dress, her hair, her face, her belly, her demeanour . . . Some of it was flattering, but much was cruel. But at least her back felt better now, no longer the agony she’d been enduring. Thinking of Ostevan’s ministrations still flustered her a little, but surely that proved what a dear friend and ally he was, and she was fortunate to have him.
Presiding over the tourney also meant Lyra had to endure the company of her guest of honour, the Duke of Dupenium. Garod Sacrecour, seated to her right – and a little lower – slouched in his chair, his posture alternating between avid interest and utter boredom. They’d exhausted small-talk hours ago and Garod apparently had little interest in speaking to his own wife, a timid young waif called Marielle; instead, he spent most of the afternoon glaring into space, fidgeting until the next joust began. They were watching the third of the afternoon bouts; Ril’s next encounter followed. She wasn’t sure her already shredded nerves could take another round.
At every pass, Lyra’s heartbeat crescendoed; she hated those where nothing was resolved, the blows missed or ineffectual, because it meant she’d have to endure the build-up all over again. She whispered to Basia, hovering behind her, ‘Why are there no female battle-magi up there?’
‘Because it’s a stupid boys’ game,’ Basia sneered.
‘Do you mean: it’s stupid and a boys’ game; or a game for stupid boys?’
‘Yes.’
They shared an amused look, though she had to admit to being proud whenever the crowd started chanting for Ril: ‘Prince of the Spear’, they were calling him. Then another sickening collision in the air above drew her attention back to the event: a powerfully built Knight-Incognito had defeated an Aquillean champion, which saw many coins change hands, and not just in the Royal Box. This was the last Incognito remaining and she’d given up expecting him to remove his helm during the ceremonial presentations after his victories. As he left the arena, Hilta Pollanou plucked at Lyra’s sleeve and in a low voice, said, ‘Your Majesty, that Incognito – the one they’re calling “The Wronged Man”? – people are saying it’s Sir Solon Takwyth.’
Lyra caught her breath. ‘Why would he attend? He’s in exile!’
‘Voluntary exile, Milady. Legally, he’s free to return whenever he wishes.’
Shaken, Lyra stared after the man, but he was already lost in the crowds. ‘What else are people saying?’
‘That some Corani knights have visited his pavilion.’
The dangers were clear, and Lyra thanked Hilta. I must speak to Setallius—
Garod Sacrecour interrupted her thoughts. ‘Your husband Prince Ril has done well to come so far through the tourney – you must be hoping he isn’t eliminated before the choosing of the Regna d’Amore, Majesty.’
‘Sorry – the what?’
‘I forget, you’re not familiar with tournament etiquette,’ Garod said condescendingly. ‘After this elimination round, the four remaining contestants each choose a woman as their “Paramour”: their candidate to be Regna d’Amore, Queen of Love. The Regna d’Amore is chosen by acclamation at the Tourney Ball; she’ll partner the victor at the banquet.’
Lyra threw an irritated glance at Hilta, who mouthed, ‘I’ve told you this!’ She probably had.
‘Why should this matter to me?’ she asked Garod. ‘Surely it’s not fitting for me to be involved? I’d be accused of misusing my rank, considering it’s so far above everyone else here.’
Garod winced, but his reply shocked her. ‘It never stopped your mother.’
Lyra sat up. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Princess Natia was an enthusiast for the joust, Majesty – didn’t you know? She was quite the one for lances and riding. Natia was named Regna d’Amore at every joust she attended, even though her husband was too young to compete. I danced with her myself after my victory at the Fauvion lists in 908.’
I danced with her myself . . . A sour taste filled Lyra’s mouth. The following year, Garod had led the attacks on the Corani and captured her mother. Natia had been a Sacrecour prisoner for more than a year. Dear Kore, did he rape her? Is this repulsive man my father? But if he is, wouldn’t he have said so—?
Then the fanfare blasted away all other thoughts as Ril and his pegasus Pearl pranced into the arena alongside a heavyset man riding a squat hippogryph, the favoured jousting steed of the Fauvion knights; the beast, part-eagle, part-horse, was entirely fierce-looking.
‘My cousin’s nephew, Sir Meryk Perqueton, of House Fasterius,’ Garod commented. ‘Would her Majesty care for a wager?’
The Fasterius knight was bigger and heavier than Ril, and his steed was much bulkier than Pearl. ‘The Book of Kore doesn’t encourage wagers, Duke Garod
,’ she replied, still seething at his two-edged comments about her mother – quite the one for lances and riding, indeed. ‘But I have full confidence in my husband.’
‘As you must,’ Garod said, approval in his voice – which then turned sly. ‘But tell me, if he triumphs and you won’t permit yourself to be his Paramour – well, who will he choose? It’s bound to cause gossip, after all, given his history.’
Lyra felt her cheeks go red. Damn him . . . and I’m ugly when I blush too, or so this mob surrounding me keep whispering. ‘People change, your Grace. They mature; it’s never too late,’ she told him, sorely tempted to add, for you.
He appeared to get her unspoken message anyway, for his eyes narrowed and he looked away. She took that petty victory and returned her gaze to the arena, admiring her husband’s mature beauty and trying not to think that these might be his last few minutes alive. But Ril looked excited, bursting with impatience and energy as he and Sir Meryk spurred away, Pearl moving sleekly, the hippogryph more ponderously. When it took to the air, it flew like an overfed duck, but its beak and fore-claws were formidable.
‘Why is Ril doing this?’ Lyra muttered in Hilta Pollanou’s ear. ‘He’s the prince-consort – he didn’t have to compete.’
‘Because he’s a man, with something to prove,’ Hilta replied.
‘Not to me.’
‘Maybe to himself.’
Lyra clutched her belly protectively, thinking, He could die up there in a split-second and leave me a widow. Watching him these past few days had been torture, knowing every awful crunching sound could be a lance punching through her husband’s heart. Even if he were only unseated, she was certain he’d miss the nets and be broken on the pitiless ground. There had been three deaths so far, and four other men crippled for life.
I fear for him so much – so surely I do still love him. She caught her breath at that thought and focused on the dot in the sky to her far left, now turning and diving towards the ring of fire before her as a red flare lit the brooding skies. She tensed as it drew closer and closer, Ril and Pearl growing in her sight, and now Meryk Perqueton entered her peripheral vision from the right, his hippogryph pealing a challenge as it bobbed in ungainly style towards the impact ring. Then all she saw were blurs, Ril flashing through the ring first because of his greater speed. The crash of impact echoed over the tourney field, the crowd roared and Hilta clutched her arm. Her eyelids flew open, her heart hammering at her ribs.