by David Hair
Then he saw the final wind-dhou, with Sakita Mubarak’s deathly form shrieking aloud from the prow, her voice becoming the voice of the storm. This was beyond any form of the gnosis – she was an elemental force and the skies were her plaything.
Rene Cardien grabbed his shoulder. ‘Dwyma – she’s calling upon the dwyma!’
The words meant nothing to Yash.
Then Sakita’s voice eclipsed the storm entirely. For a second the dhou and all aboard were just dark smudges against her vivid form. All of time froze: the raindrops all crystallising where they floated. Then with a tremendous rush that sucked all of the energy from the wind, every drop of water in the air rushed inwards and enveloped Sakita’s ship as it began to plummet towards Midpoint Tower.
Sakita’s vessel was now encased in a massive ball of ice and was falling like a meteor. His brain fed information, half-forgotten lessons as a young monk: a cubic yard of ice weighed over half a ton . . . a windship weighed hundreds of tons on its own . . . and this one was encased in ice many times its size, and it was falling at almost terminal velocity towards a tower that had burned out and was right now just a pile of bricks and shaped stone . . .
Then his brain ceased to calculate and he, Rene Cardien and Draim shouted as one:
Midpoint Tower, half-immersed in the turbulent seas, gleamed and pulsed through the suddenly clearing air. The solarus crystal flared and the light went from pale blue to sullen red, turning the night scarlet and illuminating the giant ball of ice. For a moment, Yash could see the shape of the wind-dhou, frozen within the ice ball and lit from within, a vivid, swirling rainbow that hinted at immense energies. He rose to his feet, willing the blast of light to strike . . .
*
The air had crystallised and for a moment no one aboard Al-Talib could breathe. The young magi and the crew staggered, gasping for breath, then wind swirled in to fill the sudden void in the air. But they were still miles from the tower and the momentary effect caused the ship to suddenly list and drop. A few panicky seconds later, the pilot had righted his craft and all the men who’d lashed themselves to the sides were thanking Ahm for his protection and their forethought.
Waqar swallowed cold air and almost wept. His comrades joined him at the rails as they all tried to understand what they were seeing. It was as if a giant unseen mouth had sucked the clouds away, for the night was suddenly crystal-clear, the stars a blanket. Midpoint Tower, some two miles ahead, pulsed scarlet, turning the churning seas around it the colour of blood.
Waqar stared at a ball of light, falling towards the red beacon at blinding speed, coming right out of the empty sky. ‘What’s—?’
*
Yash saw the falling ice-boulder encased around the draug-ship strike the tower, around a hundred feet from the top. The sight burned across his retinas: an explosion beyond experience. The concussion rippled through the air, and for a moment, thin white beams of light flashed, linking the solarus cluster atop Midpoint to the other four towers, and he thought, It’ll hold, it’ll hold – it’s held—
Then as their own craft shook and began to come apart, he saw the mid-section of the tower collapse, the beacon shaking, then crashing down into the waves, exploding into a suddenly boiling sea. Then sight was gone, burned away, and he screamed in agony, clutching his face as he fell from the spinning deck. He heard wailing cries, Rene Cardien and Draim Wrenswater both cut short amidst the sickening sounds of their windship disintegrating . . . He reached for something – anything – as scalding steam washed around him and a heaving wall flew towards him: the surface of the ocean. Bodies and timber hammered into the boiling sea and lives winked out.
Then the wall of water struck, and erased him.
41
Twoface
Pallas
The tale of Pallas, a tiny village on the Bruin River that became the greatest city of the world, is also the story of Rondelmar and our Rondian Empire. We have brought light to the darkness, vengeance against the oppressor and wealth to the needy. We are the centre of this world, the nexus, the place to which all roads lead. To be a citizen of Pallas is to be a Prince of Urte. To rule Pallas is to rule the world.
FAINE SYNDICUS, KORE SCHOLAR, PALLAS, 889
The Queen’s Suite, The Bastion, Pallas
Junesse 935
Solon Takwyth and Oryn Levis, pure-blood magi trained for battle, struck hard and fast. Levis smashed the bedroom balcony, breaking it from its pillars and sending it and two dozen riverreek draugs crashing down the side of the inner bailey walls, while Solon slammed Air-gnosis lightning into the press of stinking figures on the main balcony, then scattered those still standing with kinesis as he landed.
‘LYRA! I’M COMING!’
Then it was all hack and slash, double-handed blows coming down on necks and skulls – a sailor, still rising from being blasted off his feet; a pretty fishwife disfigured by disease; a youth no more than sixteen—
Lumpy landed behind him and they started chopping their way inside, battering away everything that reached for them, lopping off limbs and heads in a blood-splattered frenzy. The sheer horror of it, of seeing ordinary men and women turned into these depraved things, could have frozen his brain if he let it, but he refused to engage with any emotion except the desperate will to survive and reach his queen.
Then Hilta Pollanou was in front of him and thrusting a spear at his breast. He twisted and staggered as the spearhead grazed his breastplate, then hacked at her and her face spun away as her torso fell towards him in a gush of blood, soaking his tabard as he stormed on towards the queen’s bedroom and finally saw the one he sought—
—and realised he was too late.
*
Takwyth’s voice still echoed in Lyra’s ears, and for all their past, it resounded in her heart and mind and gave her something to cling to as she backed away from Coramore. But hope wasn’t power, and the gnostic energy radiating from Coramore was debilitating. Her child was writhing inside, as if it too could feel the presence of such malice.
She reached behind her, seeking her silver water-jug, filled at sunset from the pond below as usual – she had no plan, just the need to go down fighting. But Coramore gestured and kinesis slammed Lyra backwards, hurling her against the bed, her lungs jolted empty by the force of impact, and she convulsed, blind instinct folding her into herself to protect her unborn.
Coramore’s hand cracked across her face and her head rocked sideways. Her brain went as numb as her cheek as the girl straddled her and bent down. She twisted Lyra’s head aside and her gore-tangled hair parted like a curtain, revealing a mouth stretched around fangs dripping black ichor.
Lyra flailed, but Coramore was as immoveable as granite – then her left hand caught the handle of the water-jug and even as Coramore reared up like a snake, ready to plunge those fangs into her throat, she tipped the water from the Winter Garden onto Coramore’s head and back—
—and Coramore instantly went into some kind of seizure, wrenching her head away and screaming as if she were dissolving in acid. She fell off Lyra, howling in a frenzy, her whole body in spasm, her head battering the floor and legs kicking, as the most inhuman wail filled the room. Blood sprayed with each impact of her head on the floorboards. Around them, the other attackers staggered as if they too were afflicted.
Lyra crawled away, her breath laboured and her unborn child kicking frantically, painfully. She reached for the jug: there was still a mouthful left, caught in the curvature of the handle, and without conscious thought, she tipped it into Coramore’s mouth. The princess choked and thrashed, then rolled onto her side and vomited out a thick blackened mucus before sagging motionless on the floor.
Lyra looked up to see an armoured man burst through the door, then big, strong arms enclosed her, folding her against a bloodied breastplate. ‘Ril,’ she gasped, as tears blurred her sight, ‘take me to the fountain . . .’
*
Solon held his queen a
gainst him, still not sure what he’d seen. The attackers had been like draugs, the dead, reanimated by necromancy, but he’d not sensed necromantic-gnosis, and surely no necromancer could create and master so many – he’d seen hundreds tonight, and that was impossible, especially as they’d clearly been animated by one directing mind, whose goal had been the young woman he held to his chest.
My queen. The woman I should have been allowed to marry. That she carried another’s child, and had called that man’s name in her delirium, only mocked his loyalty further. Where were you, Endarion? Where were you when she needed you?
She was trying to speak, something about a fountain, and he stroked her hair, wishing he could kiss her. Seeing her so vulnerable tore at him. She’d been his obsession for his entire exile. He had to see her safe.
His faithful Lumpy was standing in the midst of the carnage in the living room, sword still dripping, head bowed as he sucked in air, listening to a guard captain while his men prodded at the bodies. Oryn became aware of his gaze and came to the bedroom door. ‘We’re holding outside. The attacks are no longer reaching the inner wall, and we’re counter-attacking along the outer. The Reekers are in confusion – like sheep without a shepherd, the captain says.’
Takwyth exhaled in relief, then gently eased Lyra to her feet and sat her in a chair where she could cradle her stomach. He knew precisely what she feared – that this would trigger something terrible inside her womb. He sent one of the men to find her midwife, and had another take Coramore away, with strict instructions to ensure not just her safety, but that she didn’t endanger others. She was part of this, somehow.
After ensuring Lyra was calm, he walked to the edge of the bedroom. The glassdoors had shattered when Oryn had collapsed the outside balcony. He could see the stair to the garden below, but to reach it one would have to leap five feet across the drop and he wasn’t certain the steps were stable. The air was still again, just a faint breeze filled with ripe smoke and oily blood. He turned back. Queen Lyra was looking at him with round eyes, and he felt a powerful stirring inside. She’s realised that I mean her no ill. That gave him hope for the future.
He shared a grim look with Oryn as he joined him in the living room. The guards who’d burst in were milling about, obviously still frightened by a foe who would not die, and the queen’s young bodyguard, Ascella, was visibly shaken. He knew the remedy for that: a simple task. He directed her to reset the door-wards once the men had dragged the bodies away. Most were burghers of the city, but he felt a pang as he saw Sedina Waycross among them; and Hilta Pollanou, whom he’d slain himself. Even the queen’s maid was among them.
How did this infection reach members of the queen’s own household?
He turned to Oryn, but the main door opened and Ascella staggered back into the room and fell—
—in half, her body parted at the waist, and his brain, which had witnessed plenty of carnage in the south over the last five years, momentarily froze.
An armoured man entered the suite behind her: big, wearing black- and gold-chased armour, a gore-coated battle-axe in his left hand. He was wearing a bronze Lantric mask: that of Twoface.
Memory of the mask and note left on the desk in his room flashed before his eyes.
Tear . . . Tear thought I was this man . . .
Then survival instincts obliterated the processes of logic and he shouted, ‘Oryn! Watch out—’ even as the newcomer’s fingers splayed and five mage-bolts blasted out, each one so vivid it sucked the light from the room, and crackled through the squad of guardsmen before they’d even registered his presence. Each was thrown into a contorted dance, then hung suspended in the air, linked to Twoface as if he were the hub in a spoked wheel made of light. Then they collapsed bonelessly, clattering to the floor, dead already. Only Oryn Levis still stood amidst the scattered bodies.
‘Lumpy!’ he bellowed again, his own shields crackling into place.
Twoface’s axe whipped around as Oryn threw up a desperate block; sparks flew as weapons clanged, half a dozen blows flew backwards and forwards, then Twoface’s axe caught Oryn’s sword and twisted it aside, and the masked man chopped.
Takwyth was charging into the fray, already – again? – too late.
The axe crunched into Oryn Levis’ midriff, broke his shielding and chainmail and plunged into his belly. Lumpy bent over the blow, his sword dropping from his hands, then Twoface grunted and threw the knight into Takwyth’s path. He caught him, staggered, reversed his footing, grabbed his friend about the chest with his left arm, extended his sword arm towards his foe and backed towards the bedroom.
‘Lyra,’ he shouted, praying she was alert enough to hear and act, ‘run – get out!’
Twoface chuckled darkly. ‘Hail, Solon Takwyth, Knight of Coraine.’ He spun his axe theatrically. ‘The Puppeteer wishes to renew his offer to you. Join us, he bids me say – and I endorse it . . . You have no idea what you’ve refused, Solon.’
He thrust Oryn behind him, just in time to meet Twoface’s savage assault. He angled his blade to block the axe-head, then thrust and scoured against shielding that sparked a brilliant blue: stronger wards than he’d ever seen. He gave ground as Twoface bobbed his head in some semblance of respect.
‘You’re good, Takwyth – I was always in your shadow, but now I’m invincible!’
Something in his voice, his stance, was familiar, but it was elusive.
You talk too much. He counter-attacked, blow after blow, but to his astonishment the other man wielded the massive axe as if it were weightless, and his shields and parries never faltered. He found himself driven back until he struck the doorframe and ran out of room.
‘Step aside, Solon. I want the queen alive. Let me pass, and you’ll both live.’
It was move or die: so he moved, thrusting – just a feint, but Twoface went to block, giving him the room to dart sideways through the bedroom door and slam it shut. An axe-blow hammered into the timber even as he added locking-spells to the door-wards.
Oryn Levis was slumped against the side of a chest of drawers, blood pooling from his stomach. A healer-mage might be able to give him a lifeline, but he had no such skill. Lyra was bending over him, but she too looked helpless. He had no idea what affinities she had, but clearly healing wasn’t one of them.
‘What’s happening, Sir Solon?’ she asked. ‘Who’s attacking us?’
She was scared, but he heard self-possession as well. She was still thinking, still rational: still his queen.
‘It’s just one man,’ he told her. ‘Help will come, Majesty! We just have to hold on.’ He began to look for exits all the same, but the only way out was the broken staircase on the outside. Then Twoface’s axe crunched into the door again and the timbers began to splinter, despite Takwyth’s wards, and that show of strength chilled him. Those are pure-blood wards! How can he be so strong?
CRASH! The axe struck again, and the door shook. Oryn groaned, his eyes glassy, a look he had seen on many a battlefield. ‘Oryn,’ he said, grabbing his friend’s arm, ‘stay with me – help’s coming!’
‘Solon,’ Oryn gasped, blood running from his mouth, ‘he knows you – what’s the offer he is renewing?’
‘Save your strength, Lumpy,’ he begged him.
‘You’re right . . .’ Oryn slurred, ‘En . . . darion . . . must . . . go.’ Then his eyes emptied.
CRASH!
He threw all of his power into renewing his failing wards. ‘Lyra,’ he shouted, ‘you have to run – please!’ He pointed to the stairs. ‘Go – get out of here—’
She was staring at him. ‘What was he saying? What was that about Ril?’
CRASH!
Solon fed the wards again, then realised that Lyra was refusing to leave without hearing an explanation. ‘While I was in exile, I was approached by a man who claimed he could help me “regain my place”. I met with him—’
CRASH!
‘What man?’
‘I don’t know! He wore a bronze Lantric ma
sk: the Puppeteer. It was in Becchio, midway through last year. I turned him down, Lyra! I would never act against you – I love you, as I love Coraine!’
Her face contorted at his words, but not with any gladness. ‘You never warned us?’
‘By telling who? Setallius? For all I knew it was him!’ He was blinking back tears, because he’d come so close to regaining her trust and now everything was broken again. ‘Lyra, I will protect you with my last breath.’
‘Then inhale it now, Takwyth!’ a metallic voice boomed, and the door came apart in a hail of splinters. The masked knight came through snorting like a bull, caught his first blow effortlessly and battered him backwards. He gave ground, overmatched in strength, seeking only to confine his foe in the narrow entrance, but Twoface’s sheer power drove him even further back.
It occurred to Solon Takwyth that this man really was his better – but his self-belief never wavered. He’d pull something out – he always did. But Lyra was only a stray mage-bolt from death.
‘Get out,’ he begged her, ‘run!’ Lyra finally seemed to understand, and heaving herself up, one hand clasped around her distended belly, made for the shattered balcony. Then Twoface came at him again and all he could do was parry and parry and parry, keeping the masked knight from the fleeing queen.
*
The Throne Hall, The Bastion, Pallas
As the Reekers poured into the room below and the courtiers herded together, Ril kindled gnosis-fire on the head of his crossbow bolt and squeezed the release. The bow jerked in his grip and the glowing bolt flew.
He’d not fired one in years, not since 930, during Lyra’s rescue – he wasn’t an especially good shot and anything could have happened.
What did happen was that his bolt flashed a hair’s breadth past Cordan’s head and slammed into Tear’s right shoulder. The impact of a heavy flanged bolt fired at forty yards on a hundred-pound pull, enhanced by gnostic-fire to shear through shielding, did the rest. She was shielding, which coalesced with eye-blink reactions, but the fires he’d placed on the tip allowed it to rip through and strike home. The bolt spun her around, ripping flesh and splintering bone, and as she reeled and fell, Cordan howled, then ran. Then a second bolt – from Mort’s position – hammered through Tear’s pain-frayed shields and slammed into the meat of her left thigh. She jerked back and forth, then rolled to the back of the dais and fell from view.