by Stephen Hunt
‘Sadly, ruling Vandia is not a gentle profession,’ said Kerge. It almost sounded like an apology for his cruel once-captor.
‘I do not doubt it, Kerge. But none among us wish to meet our end with a stolen carver’s chisel driven into our heart. Still, we shall first attempt to snare her.’ He lifted up the set of bolas he carried, three polished stone spheres joined by twine. It would be enough to twist around Cassandra Skar’s legs and trip her. The rangers needed no other weapons aside from the pelt of poisoned spines that covered their bodies. Unfortunately for both Sheplar and the fleeing Vandian girl, such spines were only ever fatal. Gasks couldn’t vary the dose of their natural defence mechanism, any more than Sheplar could adjust the charge of his pistol’s shells to wound an adversary. Shooting to kill was the only option for anyone in this pursuit.
They ran through the dark for what seemed like hours, moonlight making shadows of them all, the grass as hard as spears and covered with pine cones that cracked like eggs when stepped on. Sheplar was beginning to suspect that maybe Kerge’s lack of faith in his abilities might be warranted, but then the rangers suddenly changed direction, announcing they had picked up Cassandra Skar’s trail. He could barely keep up with their easy lope through the forest, let along discern whatever comprised the escaped hostage’s trail. Even though Sheplar was beginning to tire, muscles in his legs growing heavier and heavier, he allowed himself a brief flash of hope that they could recapture her. Young Lady Cassandra Skar was his responsibility. As long as they held her, the empire and its perfidious local allies couldn’t take their revenge on the escaped slaves. Cassandra had to stay hidden away here until the true king of Weyland was restored to his throne. Then the empire would slope away, looking for easier lands to corrupt to feed its slave trade. And Sheplar would gladly release the spoiled little hellcat, ending both her imprisonment and, in a smaller way, his. He broke through the undergrowth and onto a paved path through the trees, one of the smaller tracks that led to the well-ridden route up to the mountains. Had the Vandian girl passed this way? Harder to track her in the open. Wouldn’t Lady Cassandra try to keep away from the roads until she was sure she had shrugged off her pursuit? Up ahead, moonlight in a clearing and a damp wind, Rlonpa-Tsang, flowing off a stream. Was this the bridge that Kerge had spoken of, fording the river meadow?
A sound carried on the air, cries and shouts, danger and peril … a skirmish beyond the bend. Sheplar drew his pistol and he and the gasks darted forward. They came across a scene of carnage at the foot of the wooden bridge, a brawl between Lady Cassandra and a group of men circling her, trying to grab the girl and pull her down to the road. There were seven attackers, not including two on the ground already, face down in pools of their own blood. These travellers had no horses with them and wore tattered clothes with heavy backpacks – outlaws camping in the deep-wood beyond the reach of the law? They had tried to grab the Vandian girl, but found she was better practised in knife work than someone of her age had any right to be. And whether these devils had intended to rob her or rape her, they had bitten off more than they could chew. So far they hadn’t reached for the pistols hanging off their belts, but it was only a matter of … They caught sight of the local rangers bearing down on them around the corner and fulfilled Sheplar’s fears. Gunshots split the night, fierce explosions of flame as the intruders drew and blasted away at the natives. Sheplar’s pistol bucked in his hand, the weapon crafted by the skyguard’s own workshop, blessed by monks and etched with ornate prayer symbols. His aim was good – one of the invaders nearest Cassandra Skar tumbled back, falling into the stream, his body swirled away with the fast-moving slushy ice flow. Sheplar heard the whistle of the bandits’ return fire, an angry hornet buzzing as bullets slid past his ears in the twilight. He took a second shot, the jointed arm of his pistol lock springing up as another cartridge ejected, his aim thrown off as Kerge pulled Sheplar to the side of the road, knowing what was about to follow. ‘Stay out of the way, manling!’
For the gasks around Sheplar needed no handguns, and the lethal provocations initiated by these intruders were all they required to respond in kind. A cracking noise accompanied the sudden sleet of spines launched in the bandits’ direction, driven by chemical muscle contraction, flying near invisible in the dark without muzzle flash or powder detonation, only its effects could be seen. Marauders fell back, silhouettes spasming as bodies tightened in paralysis, pistols tumbling out of hands, voices croaking as their throats constricted into the last sound they would ever make. The rattle of gunfire died away as the last man standing fell to the ground, the rush of combat replaced by the fire of neurotoxins coursing through muscles turned into burning flesh too heavy to move.
‘They should not have fought,’ said Slell, simply, regret heavy in his words. ‘Have they never heard of gask-kind? Do they not know whose forest this is?’
Perhaps not. Sheplar had never heard of a gask attacking in anger first. And he had never heard of a man surviving a provoked gask’s natural defences. He holstered his pistol and covered the grip with the leather holster flap, clipping it into place; intended to keep it by his side during the twists and turns of aerial combat. Spirits, but I miss my flying wing. The rangers didn’t slow, running along the corpse-covered path and grabbing Cassandra Skar before she could flee the scene of her attack. They seized both her arms and removed the bloody blade from her fingers. It was a knife she had stolen, rather than a chisel. The others fanned out through the corpses, checking to make sure none of the bandits were faking being hit.
‘Bumo,’ said Sheplar. ‘If you wish to take in the night air for a walk, you would do better asking for an escort from our friends. There are scoundrels abroad who will not treat you as well as we do.’
‘I didn’t require your help. I would have killed them all,’ she snarled. ‘Gutter-scum, attempting to manhandle my person. No better than the lower-caste mobs that riot in my district.’
Sheplar remembered his glimpses of Vandia’s capital – mountains made of concrete and glass and steel, every bit as high as his peaks. Lady Cassandra had lived in a fortress built to protect her family from the restless mobs that crowded that unnatural place. People swarming like ants; fed and bred beyond humanity’s natural limits by the imperium’s ceaseless wealth … much of it paid for by the slaves’ toil in the sky mines.
‘Look at this,’ said Slell; standing over a bandit corpse he had just finished searching. He held up a small strip of paper the same size as one of the fortune blessings that pilgrims to a wind temple were given when making a small offering, but as Sheplar looked closer, he saw this was no augury of auspicious business dealings. It was a photograph of Cassandra Skar, resplendent in imperial robes that made her resemble a doll. Such pictures were rare in Rodal and the rest of the league, the chemicals to process and capture images hard to come by; as were the skills of photography. Occasionally, a travellers’ caravan might rattle through a pass, one of its wagons containing a large box on a tripod along with an artisan who possessed the talents to take a family portrait – usually for an exorbitant price. This photograph must have been taken in the imperium when the bumo was younger, and it could only have ended up here through one route … passed on to the usurper’s hands by imperial agents.
Sheplar looked at the dead men scattered across the clearing. Only dressed as bandits, then; or perhaps they were mercenaries. Such men seemed to fill Weyland now. Thrown off the fields and cast out of their acres by labour-saving machines produced by the king’s new mills. ‘They were here hunting for the bumo,’ said Sheplar. ‘They must suspect she is being held in Quehanna.’
‘Ironic, then,’ said Kerge to Lady Cassandra. ‘If you were as quick to listen to these men’s words as you were in offering violence, you might be beginning your long journey home by now. If you had merely stayed inside Quehanna, they would have raided the city to rescue you. Your escape attempt tonight has undoubtedly saved many gasks’ lives.’
Cassandra looked disgusted by
the turn of events as she realized how well she had done her captors’ work for them. ‘They were fools. Shouting to grab and bind me. They should have prostrated themselves on the ground in front of me. Then I would have known they were sent to serve me.’
‘How did they come to know her location?’ wondered Sheplar.
‘We do not keep the womanling chained inside her room,’ said Kerge. ‘There are travellers who pass through our roads with eyes to see and tongues to wag, loggers and trappers.’
Sheplar scowled at the young imperial. ‘More is the pity. Chains would suit her.’
She flashed him a rude hand sign. ‘Now I know I have allies among your local tribes, mountain barbarian. Those who would claim my grandfather’s favour. It seems that your country is not so different from the empire, then. Men will do anything for gold here, too.’
‘Cutpurses may follow their gold,’ said Sheplar. ‘I will follow my honour, and we shall see which shines stronger.’
‘You need no longer wait upon the council’s decision,’ said Slell. ‘You are not safe as long as you remain in Quehanna. The raiders will come searching for the young human again, and likely swelled by additional numbers when their scouts fail to return.’
Sheplar couldn’t deny the imperative of the ranger’s logic. We need to move on. After crossing half of Pellas to reach the imperium, he’d done enough travelling to last a lifetime. But it seemed a foul wind would blow them a little further, still.
FIVE
THE ROAR OF THE KREVHALLE
Duncan walked with Princess Helrena towards the double doors of the lift that would take the noblewoman down to the staging area before entering the arena, the vast Krevhalle. The largest arena in the capital, Vandis, and by the same token in all of Vandia. Duncan could hear the crowd’s roar beyond the walls, like the sea’s breaking surf. The people watched images of past combats on the giant kino screens outside, duels fought between celestial-caste nobles as well as the general gladiatorial melees laid on to help keep the capital’s restless mobs subdued. Two guardsmen waited at the lift doors, as, for some reason, did Apolleon. He strode forward to meet them.
‘I thought you weren’t coming to watch the challenge,’ said Helrena.
‘I had a meeting in the vicinity earlier. I won’t be staying for the challenge,’ said Apolleon. ‘I find these tedious physical entertainments a distraction to my work.’
‘Even when you have so much riding on the outcome?’ probed Duncan.
‘What will be, will be,’ said Apolleon. ‘One will live, one will die.’
‘Forgive me if I say that I find your philosophy far from reassuring at this point,’ said Helrena.
‘Then perhaps you will find my advice more to your taste,’ said Apolleon. ‘As the challenged party you will have first choice among the pair of weapon cases presented. The sabres inside the boxes will be identical, but if you look closely, you will see a slight difference in the daggers accompanying the swords … one with its pommel shaped as the head of a panther, the second hilt’s head shaped as a tiger. Select the dagger with the panther-shaped pommel. I presume you can distinguish between the two animals?’
‘Well enough,’ said Helrena. ‘And why should that be important?’
Apolleon smiled cruelly. ‘Let us say that I think the right choice will bring you luck.’
Helrena was about to say more, but they were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps echoing down the narrow corridor. It was Paetro, sprinting towards the lift at full pelt. He pulled to a halt, panting, before passing on his news. ‘There has been a substitution of challengers! We should have heard hours ago, but news of the amended contest was “delayed”. The tribunal courier was found stuffed dead in an alleyway inside our district.’
Helrena sighed wearily. ‘Whom now, if not Machus?’
‘You will face Elanthra Skar.’
Duncan knew her. One of Helrena’s numerous half-sisters from the emperor’s army of children. She had been one of the first allies to switch sides and betray Helrena. But Duncan was more than a little puzzled by the development. ‘Why? To what advantage? Isn’t Machus stronger?’
‘Stronger, certainly,’ said Helrena. ‘But this is not a brute contest of lifting weights. Elanthra is an expert in sabre and dagger work. One of the best in the celestial caste. Her only rivals are the professionals in the arena who specialize in long-and-short-stab style.’
‘Can’t you switch class? Choose pistol-and-paces?’
‘Not allowed at this stage,’ said Apolleon. ‘Oh, a most adroit move.’
‘We should challenge the substitution,’ said Paetro.
Helrena shook her head, grimly. ‘Not in this world. The challenge was issued on the basis that my house is unfit to contribute leadership to the punishment squadron. If I withdraw, it will be seen as proof of the house’s weakness and broadcast for all to see on screens across the empire. Circae knows I have no choice but to fight.’
‘Wheels within wheels,’ said Apolleon. ‘I give the old whore-keeper her due; she does the great game honour.’
‘Some game,’ said Duncan.
‘Best to think of it as such, lad,’ advised Paetro. ‘The alternative is to live weighed down with fear and worry every minute of the day.’
‘One will live, one must die,’ said Helrena, resigned.
Duncan leaned in and whispered in her ear. ‘Live,’ he said, simply.
‘I intend to,’ she smiled, speaking softly so that only Duncan could hear her reply. ‘But if things go badly, stay close to Paetro.’
Duncan wanted to ask her what she meant, but the lift doors opened and the two imperial guardsmen accompanied her inside. Then the doors slid shut and she was gone.
Apolleon looked at Duncan and Paetro. ‘So. We shall see. May our ancestors give us lucky allies and clumsy enemies.’ He strode away looking as unconcerned as if he was taking in the air at the imperial gardens. There was something deadly cold about that one. As though his emotions were entirely afterthoughts, expressed only for the benefit of his audience and to allow him to fit in better.
From inside the massive, elliptical arena of the Krevhalle there was no sign of the triumphal arcs, squares and wide boulevards that led up to the structure. The Krevhalle stood six hundred yards high, concentric tiers of seats covered by the greatest dome in the empire. Copper-plated on the outside, mounted at its summit by a stone eagle with its claws clutched around a spherical globe representing the world of Pellas, the dome’s interior ceiling was a single massive kino screen. Not showing past entertainments. That was left to a series of vast screens furled like banners around the arena walls. No, the dome’s interior rippled with colourful murals, ancient artworks of Vandia’s long-forgotten victories; scenes rotating every minute through a sequence of panoramic paintings. The imperium’s air fleet hovering over cities burning in bright napalm light, her legions raising the imperial standard over mounds of broken bodies; foreign forces fleeing before galleon-sized armoured vehicles and equine cavalry; cannon and lance, blood and death. Duncan gazed out across the arena; completely packed to capacity this day. Two hundred thousand seats squeezed under the massive dome, tier upon tier with acres of additional standing room behind the electric fences that surrounded the arena’s walls; so many spectators breathing that the arena’s air misted with its own internal weather system.
Duncan stood at the stadium’s north end on the celestial caste’s private platform. The wide space was conspicuous for its comforts, servants in tunics circulating around the noble spectators, some seated in deep, cushioned seats and attended to by slaves and staff, others standing, like Duncan, behind the glass barrier that afforded them a high clear view of the challenge below. Paetro aside, there were a few familiar faces from their house that Duncan recognized, but one that stood out.
‘Doctor Horvak,’ called Duncan, spotting the scientist among the milling courtiers. ‘I didn’t take you for a follower of blood sports.’
Yair Horvak l
ifted out his monocle and polished it with one hand, pointing with his spare towards the glowing banner-like screens where images of the crowd flashed. ‘I am most assuredly not. Trust me; I would much rather be working. But those with standing in the house’s ranks are expected to show their faces here today. The alternative is for the mob to think we believe our cause lost and that we cower behind the Castle of Snakes’ walls.’
Duncan glanced towards the marble gallery behind them, its floor running with reflections like a river. Crimson-uniformed hoodsmen stood along the length of the galley, the secret police’s more visible guardians. ‘We have Apolleon’s thugs to protect us.’
‘Oh, dear boy,’ laughed the doctor, his voluminous girth shaking as he brushed his wild silver beard and raised a bushy eyebrows. ‘The hoodsmen are only notionally here to protect us from the mob. The officers’ function is similar to the stewards’ posts.’ Horvak indicated spire-like structures built into the arena walls, circling the vast oval of sand like prayer towers. ‘Monstrous amounts of money are wagered on the outcome of the games here. The snipers in the towers execute those foolish enough to invade the arena, flash mirrors into the eyes of the contestants or slip stones into catapults smuggled past the gates. But no common arena guard could be permitted to gun down a member of the celestial caste – who knows what assassinations might be attempted in that manner? So the hoodsmen behind us stand ready to execute any noble caught violating duelling law and interfering with the challenge’s outcome.’
So, the emperor’s law applied to all. Apart from Emperor Jaelis Skar himself, of course. Duncan remembered his last terrifying visit to the diamond palace alongside Cassandra and the princess. The paranoid, skittish emperor taking fright and gunning down a delegation of visiting dignitaries bearing tribute. ‘Nobody here cheats, then?’