by David Hair
The clansmen walked around Valdyr now as if he might at any moment turn and shatter the ground beneath their feet. Gifts were left at his tent anonymously, by men too frightened to come near him.
For his part, Valdyr had said nothing about how he’d come to appear in the midst of a storm, let alone one of such magnitude. Something about a mountain peak? That was the most Kyrik had been able to chisel out of his brother.
Dragan Zhagy had arrived the following day, staggering across the ice; he’d not been able to offer any explanations either, just, Valdyr went up the mountain after the White Stag. What that meant, Kyrik still didn’t know.
The dead Vitezai had already been lain in the ground, as was their way, and cairns built. The dead Rondians were mostly entombed below a massive sheet of ice, out of reach. Burying or burning them would have been the labour of weeks, and there wasn’t the time. Nor did they much care.
The Vlpa will ride on to the Domhalott, to the pastures. Then we’ll plan our campaign to drive the rest of the Rondians out of the valley. But first we must burn our dead.
He turned to the woman at his side. Hajya, cloaked in her wedding fox-furs, was far from well yet. Her face was gaunt, there was more grey in her hair, her left arm, broken in two places, was splinted and in a sling, the other, burned and grazed almost to the bones in places, bandaged shoulder to finger. Somehow she’d conjured just enough kinesis-energy to cushion her landing when that bastard Robear had hurled her from the cliff. Only Robear’s carelessness in not seeing it through – and her own tenacity and healing skills – had kept body and soul together. His relief was beyond expression.
‘Help me,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll do this together.’
She had to cling to his arm – and he knew how much his wife hated that – as they went forward to the pyre. He was hobbling himself, and deeply thankful he could still move at all; he’d badly needed the Sfera’s healing-gnosis. Together, they brandished the torch, holding it high for a moment, before touching the flame to the brushwood. He watched it catch slowly, then roar to life, fuelled by Fire-gnosis, surging hungrily over timber and dead flesh.
Out loud, he murmured, ‘Farewell, Brazko, son of Thraan.’ Names and faces came to his mind: Yrhen, the Vlpa clan’s chief scout, and others he’d exchanged a few words with, who’d followed his dream and paid with their lives.
As the flames took hold, it felt symbolic: We’re going to set fire to the land and burn the Rondians out.
*
At last the pyre had burned down, and he and Hajya could finally rest. He held her hand as she slept. Valdyr sat beside him, dazed and subdued. Kyrik had been surprised and pleased to see how concerned his brother was for his wife.
‘Do we know who leads the Rondian retreat?’ Kyrik asked him. The scouts had reported a few hundred Rondian infantry, stragglers late to the battle, were retreating to Hegikaro as fast as they could move.
Valdyr shook his head. ‘Dragan says they’ve found Robear Delestre’s body, but not Sacrista’s. She’s likely buried under six foot of ice, he thinks.’
‘We can hope,’ Kyrik said, thinking, Val’s changed – but how? It’s not just the battle . . . If this fragile alliance between Mollach and Sydian was to survive, he and his brother needed to be united. ‘What happened that night, Val?’
‘I don’t know,’ his brother replied. ‘It was like a dream, and I’m forgetting more and more of it, the longer time passes.’ He didn’t sound like he wanted to remember.
‘The gnosis doesn’t work like that, Brother. Even Ascendant magi can’t call up ghostly storms that freeze one army while sparing the other! I don’t understand any of this, and that frightens me.’
‘You think it doesn’t scare me too?’ Valdyr replied, sounding a little like his old, truculent self. ‘It’s done now – I think that part of me has been emptied out. I hope so.’ They fell silent again, staring at the embers, and for once Valdyr didn’t flinch when Kyrik put an arm around his shoulders.
‘Brother,’ Valdyr began awkwardly, ‘these Sydians . . . I believe you’re right: they’re our people too.’
Kyrik stared. ‘What changed your mind?’
‘Something I heard in the wind on Watcher’s Peak.’
After all they’d been through, this felt like a breakthrough. He embraced his brother warmly, trying to pretend he wasn’t close to tears.
Valdyr went to seek his own tent, and not long afterwards, Hajya woke. As Kyrik fed her soup, she whispered, ‘I heard your sending, in the Narrows – you make me proud too.’
*
Day One was spent huddled in the lee of a pile of snow-covered boulders, kept alive by the body-heat of a dying horse. Sacrista was amazed to still be breathing. The Mollachs and their allies came close, several times, but even as the sun blazed across the skies, lighting up the ice-field below her, she remained silent and unseen. She caught a snow hare and gorged on the hot raw flesh, melted snow to drink and slept, scared she’d never wake – but the storm had passed.
The impossibility of what she’d seen still bewildered her. She’d blasted spectral wolves that were hunting her, driven off a giant white bear and played hide and seek in the storm with a wild-eyed archer riding a white stag – they were all gone now, but the deadly cold remained.
Perhaps this is a dream I’m having as I die alone in the snow?
But dawn on Day Two felt all too real as her battered body protested even the slightest movement. Before the Sydians returned she managed to crawl away, not realising how close she came to a pair of hunters and a scout who was assiduously checking for fresh trails.
Normal autumn weather began to return, and the slight lift in the air temperature got her through Day Three. The Sydians burned their dead that night: she could see the roaring bonfire from afar.
Day Four, she killed a scavenging wolf with a mage-bolt and filled her belly with raw flesh, not able to expend any more energy to cook it, nor willing to risk a fire. She spent Day Five sleeping and letting her wounds stabilise. According to the Book of Kore, Urte was forged in five days, after which Kore had rested, making the sixth of the week holy – she had no idea what day it was; the nearest church was too far away to hear the bells, but on Day Six she truly felt renewed. Her thigh still pained her – she was using a broken branch as a staff – and she felt like a wild beast herself, but she was alive. During the day she crossed the ice that encased her men, praying for the salvation of Robear’s soul, and for revenge.
*
‘Who goes?’ a sentry called as she stumbled from the tree-line.
It had taken another three days to reach the wooden palisade of the legion camp on Lake Drozst and Sacrista was famished and bone-weary. Her thigh was agony, the skin damaged so badly she doubted the scars could be healed away. When she tried to call out, her voice cracked.
‘Who goes?’ the sentry shouted again.
She swallowed water from her flask, then rasped, ‘Who do you think?’ Idiot.
Then she noticed the banners: not Delestre, but Imperial. She was still taking that in when a squad of men trotted from a postern and surrounded her. ‘Is she one of those damn Mollachs?’ one asked.
Another replied, ‘She looks like that Delestre bi— Uh, Robear’s sister.’
Then an officer strode through the rankers and ordered, ‘Sheath your weapons. Lady Sacrista, it’s good to see you. Governor Inoxion sent us up the valley when the news came of your defeat. You were feared dead.’
It’s a miracle I’m not, she thought numbly. ‘Where are my men? I had two maniples camped here.’
‘They’ve gone to Hegikaro to secure the castle, Milady,’ the officer replied. ‘I presume you’ll want to bathe and change before seeing the governor?’
Her throat tightened. ‘See him?’
‘Aye, Milady. He’s right here. He’s come to give what aid he can.’
She looked past him, to a cluster of men in Imperial robes on the walls, watching. She could almost picture the smirk on Ino
xion’s face. ‘What price a kingdom?’ he’d once asked her.
My soul . . . It’s going to cost my soul.
In the Aether . . .
Junesse 935
Ostevan Comfateri was the first of the masked faces to slowly wink into existence. Moments later, Tear and Angelstar appeared at his side – but not Twoface; no surprise – he’d sensed the man die.
Only three appeared among their Eastern brethren: Ironhelm, Heartface and Beak. No Felix? Interesting that he’d not sensed anything there. It suggested that distance did matter in the link.
What was noticeable was the way the six of them were arrayed: there was a distinct divide between East and West. No one spoke for a long time, until Ironhelm said, ‘We have won a great victory against the Ordo Costruo. The Leviathan Bridge has been fatally damaged and Holy War has been launched. The Convocation has resolved that for every city sacked in the Crusades, a Yurosi city shall be razed.’
Ostevan was grateful that the incredulity on his face was hidden by a mask. They’ve attacked the Bridge? They’re invading? Is this part of Naxius’ plan?
He recalled that the Ordo Costruo had expelled Ervyn Naxius; it was doubtful that he had ever forgotten that, let alone forgiven. But the invaders were too far from Pallas to threaten his world. In fact, an invasion from the Ahmedhassa presented the perfect opportunity to further unsettle the empress and the grand prelate . . .
‘How did your own plans fare, Yurosi?’ Heartface, hovering close to Ironhelm, asked. ‘Did you succeed?’
The three western magi exchanged a glance, and Ostevan answered, ‘We met with unexpected resistance: the empress and the grand prelate remain on their thrones.’
‘For now,’ Angelstar muttered.
‘What “unexpected resistance”?’ Beak enquired.
‘Pandaemancy,’ Tear replied, though Ostevan felt she ought to have remained silent. ‘Dwyma.’
‘Ah.’ Ironhelm’s voice was smug. ‘It was the dwyma which gave us our victory.’
That brought Ostevan another internal lurch. They have pandaemancers? Suddenly the distance from Pallas to Pontus felt a lot shorter, and their so-called ‘holy war’ a much more real threat to his own interests. How far, realistically, could an Eastern invader get across Yuros? he wondered.
And how essential to my own eventual survival is gaining sole control of Lyra?
He was still digesting this when the Puppeteer appeared, positioned between the two groups. ‘Greetings, brethren,’ he said blithely, as if unaware of the tension in the air. ‘You’ve exchanged news? Excellent. I am of course fully aware of all that transpired. Yes, in Pallas we were checked – but we now know the full nature of what we face, and can act accordingly. And in the East, war is unleashed. It will spread across the known world, and in that chaos we will strike down all rival powers.’
‘Just who are our real rivals?’ Ostevan said, eyeing the three masked Easterners, who gazed back, shimmering with unsubtle menace.
‘Any who stand against us,’ the Puppeteer said mildly. ‘I see you fear that you will find yourselves in opposition. Put that thought aside. The left hand of Abraxas does not plot against the right. We are one body, my Brethren. Together, we are Abraxas.’
That notion was more troubling than reassuring, but Ostevan bowed with the others. ‘What of the fallen? We have lost two of our number: if we are one body, we have been crippled.’
‘Not for long.’ The Puppeteer’s hand appeared, dangling a handful of blank masks. ‘That is the magic of masks,’ he replied. ‘Anyone can wear them. Anyone at all.’
END OF BOOK ONE
THE SUNSURGE QUARTET
continues with Book 2:
PRINCE OF THE SPEAR
Acknowledgements
Thanks firstly to Jo Fletcher for the faith to let me play some more in this world we’ve created. Your judgement, experience and encouragement get me through when the epic journey feels a little too epic for my weary feet. Thanks also to Sam Bradbury, Olivia Mead and the rest of the JFB/Quercus team, Emily Faccini for the fresh maps, Patrick Carpenter and Rory Kee for the cover, and everyone else involved.
Thanks also to my test readers: Kerry Greig, Paul Linton, Heather Adams and Catherine Mayo. When my instincts fail, they’re the ones who pull the story back on track, and each brings their own strengths to the game. Kerry, Paul and Heather test-read The Moontide Quartet, but Catherine is new to the team: she’s another New Zealand writer, specialising in stories set in the Ancient Greek period, so if that’s your thing, I encourage you to seek out her work.
Heather (with her husband Mike Bryan) is my agent, and it’s through her efforts in putting my work under Jo’s nose that I have this opportunity to write this series: I could not be grateful enough.
Biggest hugs to Kerry, who manages to be cheery about having a husband who writes, and therefore struggles to disconnect from his imaginary friends, wakes up in the middle of the night to jot ideas down, and otherwise lives the madness. I couldn’t do any of this without her support and tolerance.
Lots of love to my children, Brendan and Melissa, my parents Cliff and Biddy, and all my friends, especially Mark, Felix and Stefania, Raj, Andrew and Brenda, and Keith and Kathryn. And a big shout-out to the staff of Immigration New Zealand in Bangkok, Thailand, for welcoming us to our new transitory home.
Hello to Jason Isaacs.
David Hair
New Zealand and Bangkok, 2016
Table of Contents
Empress of the Fall
Also By
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Yuros and Antiopia
Central Yuros
Mollachia
Pallas
The Gnostic Affinity Table
The Moontide Cruades: A Recounting of the Past
PART ONE
1 The Day the Emperor Died
2 Saint Balphus Monastery
3 Ryneholt and the Stardancer
4 Suitors
5 The Clever People
6 Heart of Empire
PART TWO
Prologue: The Masquerade (Heartface)
7 The Emir’s Nephew
8 The Mollach Slave
9 The Queen’s News
10 Homecoming
11 In the Presence of Royalty
12 Dangerous Days
13 Finostarre
14 Masked Assassins
15 The Vitezai Sarkanum
16 Son of Zillitiya
17 Ludus Imperium
18 The Sardazam
19 The Wronged Man
Interlude: The Masquerade (Jest)
20 A Proposal of Alliance
21 Death to Rondelmar
22 The Archer’s Test
23 The Abduction
24 Sacred Union
25 The Knowledge Trade
26 A Vanishing Trail
27 Riverreek
28 Spirit-Caller
29 The Vrulpa
30 What Price a Kingdom?
31 A Forest of Masts
32 Common Ground
33 The Time Has Come
34 Draug-Witch
34 Watcher’s Peak
35 Loekryn’s Bridge
36 Magas Gorge
37 Storming Castles
38 The Heart of the Storm
39 A Broken Bastion
40 The Storm Queen
41 Twoface
42 The Winter Garden
43 The Broken Tower
Epilogue: An East Wind
Acknowledgements
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