by David Hair
Just as the one member of his group so far overlooked took his shot.
Lukadin had stolen in on the masked assassin’s blind side. In his hands was the two-foot long spear-shaft topped by the dull-bladed spearhead Felix had retrieved from the first of the glass cases. As he raised it, the spearhead blazed with light, a fallen sun in spear form—
—which plunged unimpeded through Felix’s shields and buried itself in the man’s chest. Energy – a brilliant blast of darkness like polished coal – blasted his torso apart in a bloody eruption, hurling Lukadin backwards even as Felix collapsed in a charred heap, limbs splayed. The silver scimitar fell from the body and rattled to the floor, still aglow with heat and light, but fading.
Waqar fell to Lukadin’s side as around him his friends groaned and staggered towards them. ‘Luka! Luka!’ he shouted.
Lukadin’s whole body looked desiccated, as if he’d walked days in the desert without water, but his hand reached for and found the cooling spearhead and he clutched it like a child, his eyes burning in exultation, his breath coming in joyous swallows as he cried, ‘I got the bastard, I got the bastard!’
He certainly had. Felix had been reduced to charred flesh and bones covered by scraps of cloth. The sight was utterly sickening, and Waqar recoiled from the thought of touching the corpse, but he had to know if his guess was correct. He pulled the mask from the dead man’s face as the others crowded around.
‘Dear Ahm . . .’ Fatima breathed. ‘It’s Saarif Ibram . . .’
Waqar’s brain whirled. Saarif Ibram: one of the richest men in Ahmedhassa, and the man Rashid had me reporting to in Lokistan . . .
If this is Felix, who are Ironhelm, Heartface and Beak?
But there were more pressing matters. He looked down the silver scimitar, remembering how it had broken his and Tarita’s blades like they were sticks. He glanced up at the Jhafi girl, and he could tell she was tempted, but wouldn’t take it ahead of a prince.
‘This belongs to the Ordo Costruo,’ he said, picking up the fallen blade. ‘We’re not looters.’ He glanced at Lukadin, thinking how dreadful he looked.
‘If this spear is the only thing that can kill these masked people, we’d be stupid to leave it behind,’ Lukadin muttered, clinging possessively to his prize.
Waqar sighed, then nodded in assent. But he reversed the scimitar and offered it to Tarita. ‘For all you’ve done.’
She met his eyes.
he answered,
She inclined her head and accepted his gift. ‘My Prince,’ she said, with a reverence she’d not shown before. Their gazes lingered on each other, and for a moment he wished they were alone, in a place that death hadn’t found.
Tamir’s robes were still smouldering, his skin blotchy with burns, but he clapped Waqar on the shoulder. ‘If the rest of this tower collapses, we’re dead. The stairwell is filling from below and I swear it’s going to tear apart any minute. Can we please go?’
‘Yes – yes.’ Waqar stood, then glanced into the one unbroken glass case. It held a book: Daemonicon di Naxius. He was wondering whether to try and unlock it when Tarita slammed the hilt of her new blade down on the glass and it shattered in a concussion of gnostic energy. She reached in, removed the book and stowed it in a satchel. ‘I know people who will be able to interpret it,’ she said briskly.
‘Come on,’ Tamir cried, ‘there are things breaking all around us – come on—’
Baneet helped Lukadin to walk and they hurried upwards as fast as they could. Tamir was right: the tower had been fatally damaged, and with each wave that slammed against it, they could hear stone cracking. Clambering through the semi-blocked section, they were almost engulfed by seawater pouring down the stairs. When they emerged they were soaked in salty water, although the seas were visibly calming and the skies were almost clear. Waqar was shocked to realise dawn was near. The dhou captain was frantically gesticulating that they really, really had to leave: the wind was blowing up from the south now, and there was darkness on that horizon deeper than the night.
Another storm? If it’s headwinds all the way back, we’ll never make it.
Tarita took Felix’s skiff, threw her gear aboard, then deftly unfastened the sails. As the rest of them clambered onto the dhou, Waqar leaped to her side, waited until she was at the tiller, then untied the mooring-rope. As the prow swung about, he leaned in, threw the coil of rope into the bottom of the hull, grasped the skiff with one hand, and went to kiss her cheek.
She turned to meet his movement and their lips touched and for a moment, mashed together. He blinked, drank in her thin, determined, vibrant face and managed a smile. ‘Thank you, Tarita. Thank you for everything.’
‘Please, my Prince, she said demurely, ‘I’m a dirt-caste orphan.’
‘You’re much more than that. I can never repay you.’
‘Don’t let that stop you from trying,’ she advised. ‘I need to go.’
He leaned in and asked, ‘What name did you learn in Hebusalim?’
She considered, then whispered back, ‘I guess you’ve earned that. But if Saarif Ibram was at court, so might this man be: Asiv Fariddan. Be careful who you tell – my advice would be “no one”.’
Then she released the sails. They billowed in the wind, and she sped away eastwards, towards the palest part of the sky – the east, the direction of Javon.
‘Hey, Prince of Love!’ Fatima snarked. ‘Now you’ve seduced the enemy spy, can we leave?’
He leaped aboard and gave the captain permission to release the moorings. Lukadin was too battered to fly, but Fatima took the tiller, released Air-gnosis from the keel and they rose, turning in the breeze to head back to the south. Steam was now venting from the central core of Midpoint and the waves had almost engulfed the broken stump of the tower.
Do I go to Uncle and confront him – and risk hearing things I never want to know?
Or do I got to the Ordo Costruo and tell them what I’ve discovered? What would they do to Jehana and me if I did? Did Felix lie about Jehana . . . surely it was a lie?
And who is Asiv Fariddan?
He contemplated his choices, his eyes on the distant south, as the sun rose and lit the skies – including the band of darkness on the southern horizon. He tore his mind free of his reverie and stared.
It wasn’t a stormcloud coming up from the southeast: it was a windfleet, following the line of the Leviathan Bridge. Skiffs, dhous, transporters, even warbirds – and all of them were triangular-sailed, all of them bearing the crescent moon and scimitar. There were hundreds – no, thousands – of windcraft, and he finally realised what he was looking at.
The Shihad was never meant to invade Javon or Khotri or Lakh. It was always exactly what it claimed to be: a Holy War against the Crusaders. The Leviathan Bridge was destroyed, or soon would be, unless this damage was repairable, and either way, the wind-paths were open and the Shihad was flying to Yuros.
Rashid always knew the timing of this attack – the masked ones told him. They’ve been playing him as a puppet, or acting for him all along . . . Or he’s one himself.
Tamir touched his arm. His face said he’d already worked all that out. ‘What will you do now, Waqar?’
‘What can I do? My fleet awaits, and I must resume command of it. I must do my sultan’s bidding.’ He dropped his voice and added, ‘If I find Rashid ordered my mother’s death, I’ll kill him myself.’
Epilogue:
An East Wind
The Value of Life
Nothing is more valuable than a human life – to the possessor of that life. For the rest of us, it’s more complicated. What can they do for me? Do we like t
hem? What are the consequences?
I like to assign a monetary value to the options and work with that.
GUY FULBRUCKE, ARGUNDIAN MERCHANT AND SPY, 898
Dawnport Gate, Pallas, Rondelmar
Junesse 935
Ril and Lyra watched the horsemen shuffling anxiously before the easternmost gate of Pallas-Nord. Their vantage in the gatehouse afforded them views over the Bruin and the ramshackle, indefensible village of Dawnport, just outside the city walls. It also enabled them to enjoy the sight of Duke Garod Sacrecour, floundering before the closed gates while his knights fidgeted. Finally Garod came to a decision and advanced under a flag of parley.
‘Do you think he’ll try anything?’ Lyra asked. While it might have been satisfying to see another enemy struck down, she was still too shaken by the betrayals of the night to crave more drama.
Ril indicated the battlements, left and right, lined with Imperial Guard and Corani legionaries and battle-magi. A dozen of the largest military windships – warbirds feared throughout two continents for their firepower – hung in the skies above. ‘I don’t think so.’
They’d learned of Garod’s approach only an hour before, but that had given Dirklan Setallius time enough to deploy soldiers and ensure the gates remained closed. The spymaster had returned from the Celestium a few hours before dawn, anxious and berating himself for not seeing this coming.
Should he have? Lyra wondered. Have our enemies been clever, or have we been blind? These were questions she needed answered, but they were issues for tomorrow. Today it’s about mourning . . . and this . . .
Lyra took Ril’s hand and they stepped to the rim of the gatehouse tower. ‘Duke Garod,’ she called, ‘what a surprise – I didn’t know you planned a visit?’
Garod must have realised that whatever he’d been expecting would no longer be happening, so there was no histrionics, or even surprise. He had informants in the city, no doubt, because when he spoke, his reply was smooth, his tale somewhat plausible.
‘Your Majesty, it is a joy to see you,’ he shouted, somehow contriving to sound sincere. ‘My spymaster insisted there was a danger to you and I immediately decided I must ride to your aid.’
Lyra felt a surge of temper at this bare-faced lie, but she contented herself with rolling her eyes, confident he’d not be able to see the details of her expression from this distance. ‘We’re grateful, your Grace – although a simple warning would have sufficed. We must learn to exchange information more freely.’
‘Majesty, we decided our unexpected arrival would enable us to better aid you.’
Ril snorted. ‘Kore’s Balls, the man has a nerve.’
‘While you’re here, would you like to see your nephew and niece?’ Lyra offered, her voice guileless. She turned and waved Cordan and Coramore, who’d been standing quivering behind them, to come forth. ‘Look, here they are.’
Garod’s face was a picture as he took in the two pallid, ginger-haired children squirming on the battlements, so close, yet out of reach. ‘It gives me joy to see you both,’ he called to them weakly.
So you see, Garod, we’re still alive, we still have our hostages, and the city gates are closed, Lyra thought with grim satisfaction. Turn around and go home.
What she actually said was, ‘Would you like to come up and visit them?’
She watched the thoughts crawl over Garod’s face: the knowledge that a violent assault Lyra knew he was involved in had failed. Would he place himself into her reach? She doubted it, and so it proved.
‘It would be a joy,’ Garod called back, ‘but unfortunately this precipitous ride was taken with little thought to the well-being of my own lands. I really must return, if the danger here has passed—’
‘What a shame,’ Lyra answered. She saw Cordan and Coramore glance in her direction, and there was no sign of their normal arrogance. They were both still terrified by the events of the previous night, not to mention what was to be done with them. In truth, Lyra hadn’t fully decided. Cordan was cowed into silent compliance, and mercifully, Coramore appeared to remember little of what she’d done.
Garod made his bows and fled, and in a few minutes his riders were a dust-cloud passing through Dawnport and heading back home. She hoped it rained all the way.
‘It’s not too late to hit them with the windships,’ Ril muttered hopefully.
‘But I like Garod,’ she said, ‘he’s predictable and fallible.’ She turned to Setallius. ‘Dirklan, we’ve much to learn about what happened tonight. We must discuss it as soon as possible. In the meantime, take Cordan and Coramore to Redburn Tower and make sure no one can reach them. They’ve seen evil at close hand, and we must tread carefully.’ She and Ril turned to the two children, unsure whether to expect fear or fury, but wordlessly, they went down on one knee, Coramore to her and Cordan to Ril, and that felt just. Then Setallius led them away.
‘What of the surviving attackers?’ she asked Ril.
‘When the Masks fled, they lost all will to fight. We’ve got several hundred penned up, but the guards are terrified of them – I’ve had to deploy magi to watch them. Those who can talk claim to have no memory of what happened. They say they don’t even know how they got here.’
Lyra shuddered. ‘Study them, and learn the truth. We must fix things, and go on.’ Then she felt something and grabbed his hand and laid it against the swell of her stomach. Her unborn was kicking her ungently, and she felt a sudden burst of relief, mirrored in Ril’s face when he felt it too. ‘We have much to live for.’
His expression still carried a shadow – Jenet Brunlye was among the dead, and Lyra knew she’d meant a lot to him. He seemed worryingly distant again and wouldn’t catch her eye.
They were halfway down the steps when Setallius hurried back to meet them, his robes fluttering. He didn’t bother with formalities, just waved away her retinue and bent his head in close between them, his expression stony. ‘Your Majesties, there is serious news out of Pontus.’
‘Pontus?’ Lyra echoed. ‘What news?’
‘There are reports of an attack on the Leviathan Bridge itself, and thousands of Keshi windships in the air over Pontus. It appears that the East is invading Yuros.’
Lyra looked from the spymaster’s face to Ril’s and back again, scarcely believing her ears.
Dear Kore, all this, and we’re at war after all.
The Pontic Sea
Smoke and steam were still pouring from the stump of Midpoint Tower as the windfleet sailed serenely above. To Latif, clinging to the rails, the sight was a tragedy, but he suspected he was the only one in the whole fleet who thought so. He wondered if any of the Ordo Costruo or Merozain monks he’d met had died here, and muttered a prayer for their souls.
When the fleet had appeared in the air above the vast camp of the army of Sagostabad, the men of his hazarabam had scarcely believed their eyes. They’d been told they were to go to war, but not the means, or the destination. No one suspected that Sultan Rashid had so many windships, and Latif felt again the sense of crushing betrayal: Rashid had clearly been preparing this fleet for years, diverting money intended to rebuild houses and schools and hospitals.
The more he thought about it, the more his belief that Rashid had ordered Salim’s death intensified – but all around him, tens of thousands of men were chanting praises: to them, Rashid was the new Prophet.
Even when the fleet had risen into the Sagostabad skies, the soldiers praying like frightened virgins, they all assumed it was to fly south to Lakh, and when the windfleet turned north, they guessed at Javon. Two days later, they’d landed in a staging-camp in the southern Zhassi Valley, but next morning, instead of going north and west towards Javon, they’d swung northeast and flown out over the roiling sea.
When they saw the destroyed tower at Midpoint, realisation dawned: they were waging Holy War on Yuros itself. And the skies filled, more and more fleets joining them, Latif understood: this wasn’t a raid, it was an invasion.
Rashid Mubar
ak, Latif thought, you are a worker of dark miracles.
*
Sultan Rashid Mubarak I sat on a throne on the forecastle of his flagship. He’d sent his retinue below, for none of them – none of them – understood what this moment meant to him. Attam and Xoredh only were permitted to stay, for both had contributed, but it was his moment.
When the Ordo Costruo had first refused to destroy their own creation and allowed the Crusaders to cross the Bridge, they truly believed that the Rondian Emperor would see the folly of war and repent.
So naïve, to think that an emperor would care about the sufferings of lesser beings. And now I too am an emperor, and I understand: my only concern must be ruling. To rule, one must stay enthroned. To stay enthroned, one must crush all enemies. One must grow stronger, or perish.
I’m doing this for you, Attam. For you, Xoredh. Even for you, foolish Waqar and naïve Jehana. I’m doing it for our futures.
‘Look on this, my sons,’ he murmured, ‘our war has begun.’
*
Feher Szarvasfeld, Mollachia
Kyrik Sarkany faced the massive pyre on Neplezko Flat as the Sydian drums rumbled in a climactic flurry of beats and then fell abruptly silent. For three days they’d played unceasingly, the sound rising and falling in remembrance of the fallen. Among the Sydians grief, like love, was done with intensity. The Vlpa riders were in a ferment of loss, anger and dread. One hundred and fifty-three of their dead were laid out on the long pile of brushwood and dead pine branches awaiting the torch in his hands, waiting for him to light the pyre.
Over these three days of mourning, the tales of that night had been shared among the clan, growing and changing. Horned riders, white stags, vengeful storms; the best part of a Rondian legion dead in the most inexplicable circumstances . . .