by Col Buchanan
‘We don’t want any trouble here,’ called out a man who came rushing from behind the bar to stand between the two groups, wringing his hands in distress. He was Khosian. Coya turned to address the fellow, using Marsh to prop him up.
‘Good to be in from the cold, eh? And you are?’
‘Mull, the proprietor. We’re a family business here. We don’t need any trouble.’
‘Then I’m surprised you opened your doors to this vermin,’ Sergeant Sansun snapped at the man, drawing a sidelong glance from Coya.
A chair scraped; one of the Mannians getting ready to climb to his feet, restrained by a burly fellow with a hood over his head despite the stifling heat of the taproom. They were the only other customers there, save for a few drunk Contrarè sleeping it off against the walls.
‘Brother Mull,’ announced Coya gently. ‘We require shelter for the night, and some hot food if that is possible. It has been a long and tiring day and we are all more than a little spent.’
The proprietor nodded, eager to please if it meant peace for the night. But then the door clattered open once more, and the remaining rangers entered one by one, rifles in their hands, and stopped short when they spotted the Mannians on the far side of the room.
In return the Mannians stood abruptly around their table, hands now resting on the hilts of their swords, though the burly fellow remained sitting, watching from within his hood, puffing smoke from a long-stemmed pipe in a casual manner.
‘No trouble I say!’ screeched the proprietor again. ‘If you’re going to fight then take it outside into the storm!’
In brooding silence the two sides glared across the smoke of the fire at each other, though the Dreamer Shard ignored them all and dropped herself heavily into a chair.
‘Stand down,’ Coya said quietly. ‘All of you.’ And with Marsh’s aid he took a seat next to her and waited for the Volunteers to settle.
In moments both parties were sitting and exchanging guarded looks through the smoky hostile atmosphere. Satisfied they wouldn’t kill each other just yet, the proprietor nodded and hurried away, returning quickly with flagons of hot spiced wine and loaves of warmed bread.
Still, the mood of potential violence remained in the air. Sergeant Sansun’s chest was rising and falling fast as he stared hard at the group of Mannians, his hands clamped to the sides of his chair as though to hold himself in place. Young Xeno scratched his neck consciously, drawing attention to the tattooed slashes which symbolized his enemy kills. His gaze was much like Curl’s beside him, dark with animosity.
Across the room, the burly fellow threw back his hood to display a bored smile. At once, Coya straightened in surprise.
‘Well I live and breathe,’ he declared.
‘You know him?’ whispered Shard.
The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, the wind of the blizzard blew in a sudden gust, causing the structure to creak around them. The burly man puffed a few perfect rings of smoke as though to mock them in their silence.
‘Alarum,’ answered Coya in a hush. ‘Spymaster for the Imperial Expeditionary Force. Member of the Empire’s secret intelligence web, the Élash. I’m surprised to see him leading this delegation into the Windrush himself.’
Once more the door blew open and the blizzard gusted into the room. Kris the medico stepped inside and shut out the blast of the storm with a bang, snowflakes settling around her.
‘It’s done,’ she whispered to Coya as she passed his table.
What was this?
‘Well, time to make our introductions, I suppose,’ Coya announced as he dabbed his mouth again with a handkerchief then pushed his chair back and rose with a firm grip on the table.
‘What?’ said Marsh with a start, but Coya only waved him back into his seat. He reached for the stick that had replaced his lost cane, then turned and shuffled over to the Mannians.
All talk ceased again. Chairs creaked as the rangers turned their heads to follow his slow walk. A click sounded from beneath Marsh’s dripping cloak and then another; the bodyguard pulling back the hammers of his pistols.
With Coya’s approach, the spymaster flicked a finger and his three companions left the table for another beyond earshot. Coya settled opposite his arch-rival.
They both spoke quickly, hunched over the table together, teeth flashing.
Restored a little by the hot wine and bites of food, Shard cast a listening glyph that projected their voices into her ear.
‘Coya Zeziké,’ Alarum was saying, taking in the man’s head wrapped in its sodden bandage. ‘Here to enlist the Contrarè.’
‘Alarum. No doubt you are here for the same reason.’
‘I speak with them tomorrow at the full-moon council. I do hope you can make it.’ Alarum paused to take in the party across the room from him. ‘Though you all look about ready to lie down and die.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t discount us just yet.’ Coya leaned closer towards the man. ‘What are you thinking here? That you’ll turn them against the Khosians? It will never happen, man, the Contrarè of the Windrush hate the Empire even more than they distrust the Khosians. They’ll likely dance on your corpses after you’ve had your say.’
‘Yet even so, you seem in a great lather to beat me there.’
‘Only because I know what you are, spymaster. I know what it is that you do.’
‘Oh? And what is that?’
‘You are of the Élash. Notable for blackmail, bribery and torture, subversion and slander, assassinations, the sowing of paranoia, the killing of innocents for leverage, indeed every filthy trick in the book. I’ve read your field manuals on the subjects. Chilling stuff, I must say.’
‘So you know what spies really do in this world. Good for you,’ snorted Alarum, enjoying himself or at least pretending to.
‘Aye,’ said Coya, ‘and I also know how the world looks when you get down on all fours like a Mannian. And I tell you now, it will not work here, none of it. The Contrarè will see right through your rotten scheming.’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps you underestimate me, and they will not.’
For a spell they both stared at each other across the table. And then Coya was rising from his chair unsteadily, his body as crooked as ever. A thin sliver of blood had run from his bandages down upon his neck. It looked as though he would leave the discussion without a further word, but then Alarum held up a hand to delay him.
‘You know, don’t you, that if your people would only cease their struggles against the Empire, none of this would be necessary at all?’
Suddenly Coya straightened with a crack of his spine, anger overriding his pains.
‘What did you say to me?’ he demanded loud enough for all to hear, and the Volunteers shifted on their chairs, ready for anything, their leathers creaking against straining muscles. Marsh the bodyguard narrowed his eyes, glancing once to Shard.
‘Lay down your arms,’ advised the plump spymaster. ‘Succumb to the inevitable in this war of ours. It will go easier on your people if you do.’
Violence might well have erupted just then, had Coya not surprised them all by stamping his stick upon the planking. A drop of blood shook from his head and fell to the floor.
He raised the stick and pointed it unerringly at Alarum.
‘You are uninvited guests here in our lands. Do not provoke a bloodbath tonight, for you will die in it, more surely than anyone else here.’
In the quietness of the room a chair creaked loudly: Alarum, leaning backwards with a mocking grin. ‘Such marvellously strong words for a cripple!’
Yet Coya seemed impervious just then. His left hand clutched the back of a chair for balance, but his right pointed his makeshift cane straight at Alarum as though it was some stick of truth, and his expression shone with a fierce certainty.
‘We will beat your empire in this war, you know. The ascendency of Mann will come to pass and then you will topple into yourself, as all empires do in the end. And the spark of it will happen here, in Khos, wh
ere your forces will be smashed to pieces against our defiance.’
And with that, Coya tossed his stick clattering onto Alarum’s table, and hobbled slowly away with all eyes upon him.
‘If only it was that easy,’ Alarum called after him. ‘But we Mannians still have a few surprises up our sleeves yet.’
Coya stopped to look back over his shoulder.
‘Aye,’ he replied through naked teeth. ‘As do we.’
CHAPTER FORTY
The Yapping Dogs of War
The skyboat was an old trading rig of a style familiar here in the Free Ports, though if a person knew where to look closely enough they would see that the vessel was not so old or raggedy as it first appeared; that it had been recently refitted, and the repairs and replacements had been treated to look weatherworn rather than new.
The small crew stood or sat around the deck while the skyboat hung in the night air over the floating city of Tume, deep in the heart of the island of Khos.
In a gloomy cabin below the rear of the weather deck, centred in a dim circle of light cast by the lantern hanging from the low ceiling, Sparus the Little Eagle, Archgeneral of Mann, and young General Romano, challenger for the throne, both sat tied to chairs facing each other with spite gleaming brightly in their eyes.
A third shape sat in a shadowed corner, clad in the white robe of the priesthood. It had been silent so far but now it spoke aloud, and both men turned their hostile stares in surprise.
‘Gentlemen,’ Kira croaked through the shadows. ‘The words I am about to say will no doubt be as detestable to your ears as they are to my tongue. Listen carefully, nonetheless. This business between you must come to an end. The assault on Bar-Khos happens now.’
The two captives said nothing. Both panted fast through their nostrils. Sparus, though, glared with particular venom from his one good eye, obviously suspecting what was coming.
‘Save your scorn, Sparus. I gave you warning. I gave you time to settle this affair. Yet I arrive to find you still locked in this stalemate with the young pretender. Nothing has been achieved.’
The Archgeneral’s voice was a rumble of disdain.
‘Then what do you suggest we do about it?’
‘That you agree to a joint command of the Expeditionary Force with General Romano here. It would seem he is to be the next Holy Patriarch after all, if only you are able to take Bar-Khos.’
‘Sense, at last!’ hissed Romano, tipping back in his chair in sudden enthusiasm.
In contrast, Sparus the Little Eagle was silent for a moment, his eye fixed to the floor.
‘Impossible,’ he said at last. ‘I cannot agree to such terms.’
‘Then my Diplomat has been instructed to throw you over the side.’
In another dark corner the shadow of an old Diplomat shifted his balance, ready to act in the instant. It was the same man who had surprised them both in their sleep, forcing each back to this boat under the noses of their guards. Kira’s way of telling them that she meant business.
Young Romano held his tongue now, though his eyes gleamed with triumph. Sparus the Archgeneral could only hang his head.
‘Of all the people they could have sent to put the knife in me – I did not expect it to be you, Kira dul Dubois.’
‘Nor I, Sparus. But in this instance I must submit to a greater power, as you must submit.’
From beneath his thick brow his one eye glared at her coldly. ‘You are fine with this? After your daughter made me swear never to let it happen?’
‘No. I am not fine with this. But we must move on. What does it matter anyway, a dying promise to Sasheen? She is gone now. She is no more. What will she know of it?’
‘I will know of it. You will know of it. And this piece of dirt here in front of me will know of it.’
‘Easy, old boy,’ Romano retorted. ‘Or do you forget who you are talking to here?’
A delicate sound came from Sparus, the Archgeneral rubbing his molars together in silent fury.
‘Young Romano,’ declared Kira. ‘The Archgeneral has remained a loyal ally of my family for many years now. I will not forget that easily. Even if you do become the next Holy Patriarch, Sparus is to remain Archgeneral of the Empire. Publicly, we will state how he is your personal choice for Archgeneral, and that he has agreed on joint command of this campaign in order to support your claim to the throne. You have become allies, and it will be seen to be so. The Archgeneral’s reputation will remain intact in all of this, do you understand me?’
‘And what if I said no, old witch?’
Across the room, the Diplomat took a step closer towards the light.
‘Then it is you who must be thrown over the side, Romano, not the Little Eagle,’ announced Kira with a subtle delight.
Now it was Sparus’s turn to glare at Romano.
‘Do not mistake me here,’ Kira told the young general. ‘I come at the urging of the order. Your family has already agreed to this, as has mine. There are no choices here. From this point onwards your hostilities will cease. You and Sparus will both lead the assault on Bar-Khos. I will stay here in Khos to ensure that this is done.’
Her words left a lingering silence in their wake.
‘We are settled?’ she asked Sparus, and the Archgeneral brooded for a long moment before nodding his head.
‘Romano?’
Another nod, the young man refusing to look at her.
‘Now get me out of these ropes, you bitch, before I truly lose my temper.’
‘You will have to ask me with more decorum than that, child.’
Suddenly Romano jerked his arms against his bonds to be free. ‘Get me out of these damned ropes I say!’
But Kira ignored him now. With a creak of stiff joints, she leaned forward to exchange a meaningful glance with Sparus.
‘Who’s to say our young general here will even survive the battle of Bar-Khos? Or the diseases running through the army? He should be careful while he is here. He is not the Holy Patriarch yet, hm?’
And all three looked at the man struggling in his chair, enjoying the display of his discomfort.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Race
In full daylight the figures ran across the gleaming snow, leaving a trail of footprints in their wake, remaining only barely ahead of their pursuers – a pack of wolfhounds with their tails held straight behind them; a loose wedge of renegade Contrarè; and at the very rear a line of Purdahs, last survivors of the imperial scouts.
It was Shard down there running for her life through clouds of her own exhalations, she and the rest of the party, the Volunteers at the front and rear and Marsh the bodyguard jogging along by her side, carrying a jostling Coya on his back.
‘They’re gaining on us,’ noted Coya with a quick appraisal over his shoulder.
‘They’ve been gaining on us for the last hour, you fool,’ snarled the sweating, panting Marsh beneath him.
All morning they had maintained this same relentless pace along a trail following the Moth river, ever since setting off from the trading post at daybreak; a pace that was threatening to drop Shard in exhaustion.
Aware that tonight would be the time of the full moons, night of the Longalla council, they had risen as early as the imperial delegation, who had slept in a different room from their own, and had watched the Mannians and their few Contrarè guides gather their zels from the corral before setting off for Council Grove at a fast clip, quickly outdistancing their own march on foot.
No sooner was the delegation out of sight before them, and the Contrarè settlement far behind, than a howl sounded through the trees of the forest, and the enemy rangers who had been waiting all night for them launched their latest attack.
Since then it had been a contest of endurance, firing the odd wild shot backwards as they ran.
Only once had they slowed in their flight, when they had come upon the zels of Alarum and the others of the Mannian delegation on the trail. Some of the animals were lying down in sl
umber while others circled about in confusion. Doped up with something, she realized. Dosed sometime during the night. Shard recalled the older medico coming in from last night’s blizzard after the others, and sharing a few words with Coya.
Coya had grinned mightily when he saw the bewildered animals on the trail. No doubt imagining the spymaster’s pinched expression as their mounts had become useless beneath them.
Now, with the winter sunlight slanting sideways more than downwards, the party was scrambling up a snowy slope in ragged desperation, following the bank of the river as it rose into rocky bluffs and cliffs. If Shard had possessed the energy to project her mind just then, to soar like a hawk, she could have seen over the next hill beyond the party, where the bulky form of Alarum and his companions hurried along the trail that would take them to Council Grove, ragged too now that they had lost their zels.
Into the west the sun was falling fast. Rich iron tones struck the trees of the Windrush, casting lengthening shadows across the virgin snow.
They were running above a deep ravine, she saw. Ahead, a face on the rocky trail turned to glance backwards. It was Curl, with the sweat pouring off her as she ran. The young medico caught Shard’s eye and then she looked ahead again, where the foremost rangers had thinned into single file as their path became a ledge in a sandstone cliff, falling straight down into the river. Their pace slowed as a consequence, needing more care with their footfalls. For a time it looked as though their pursuers would catch up with them, but then the enemy reached the ledge and slowed down too.
‘I think they’re flanking us,’ rasped Sergeant Sansun.
Sure enough, a short time later a screaming renegade Contrarè leapt down onto the ledge right in the path of the foremost rangers – the captain and the sergeant.
Steel dazzled in the sunlight as more renegades jumped down to join the fight. The party was trapped. Marsh dropped Coya onto the snowy track and turned to face their pursuers behind with his two pistols in hand. Xeno did the same with a wicked-looking blade.