by David Hair
‘She lived, but the Invigilators took me. I was locked up and tortured.’
‘Surely they tried to help—?’
‘What, actually put effort into a difficult case, when they’ve got so many good girls to work with?’ she sneered. ‘No, I was given to this fecking sadist, who had me for a week, then declared me irredeemably evil.’
‘That’s appalling.’
‘Save it,’ she snapped. ‘Anyway, I was sentenced to death. But the night before I was scheduled to burn, a hole opened in the wall of my cell and a woman walked through, unlocked my manacles, threw me over her shoulder and hauled me down a tunnel of stars.’
‘A mizra-sorceress?’
‘Ionia, her name was. Turns out there’s still some witches out there. We travelled for a year together, working as herbalists. She taught me the Aldar words and runes, trained me, looked after me – she was the closest person I ever had to a real mother.’ She choked up for a moment, then took a deep breath and pressed on, ‘But the Church caught her and she burned before my eyes while a crowd jeered at her. So I killed my own familiar, in case the witch-finders sensed it and caught me, then I ran. I’ve been drifting west for seven years. I’m here because this caravan is my last chance of a life.’
Holy Gerda, I really am harbouring a mizra-witch – and she slew her own familiar. That’s unheard of.
‘You say the mizra-demon latched onto you in the rath?’ he asked.
She flinched, then said, ‘Wait here.’ She brought back something like a bowl wrapped in cloth from her cart. When she unwrapped it, he recognised the Aldar mask, a blood-red, horned visage of pure ferocity. ‘I saw something like a ghost – of Ionia – and followed her to a chamber where this was buried.’ She proffered it, adding, ‘His name is Buramanaka.’
That was the name Varahana read on the sarcophagus. The mask was cold to the touch. I resealed that chamber with earth-praxis and illusion, but she still found it. The mizra-demon must have reached out to her somehow. ‘Are you a danger to us, Kemara?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘When Ionia and I were together we had complete control of our powers, but after she died, I was filled with anger and my familiar fed that rage – that’s why I killed it. I could feel myself becoming everything the legends speak of – the destructive beast filled with wild magic. But I’m not that person any more, and Buramanaka is different. He’s not feral – he’s more like one of Deo’s seraphim, austere and precise. His anger is cold, like justice.’
None of that sounded comforting, and Raythe had been taught that the mizra was malevolent and destructive, but when they had melded, he had felt only purpose and desperation. Despite the clear perils, the possibilities intrigued him.
What if the Church and the scholars have been wrong all along? What if generations of men and women have been persecuted for nothing more than being different? What if embracing that difference makes us complete?
‘You’ve gone quiet,’ Kemara noted, her voice flinty.
‘Only because I’m a little overwhelmed.’ What if the mizra isn’t the opposite of the praxis, but the thing that makes sorcery whole? ‘Do you see, we could change the way people think of the mizra, what if—?’
‘Deo’s Balls, Vyre,’ she interrupted, ‘to the world’s eyes, you’re a renegade and I’m a demon’s bitch – that’s not just what the empire thinks, but what every person in this caravan would believe. If I’m revealed, I’ll face a lynch mob.’
That was almost certainly true. Raythe wasn’t sure how even Jesco would react if he knew the whole truth. The fear of the mizra was pervasive, and everyone knew how the Aldar had fallen.
It would have been sensible to turn away, but there was such strength in her, and the thought that together, they stood on the threshold of a new understanding of sorcery, overrode more craven notions.
‘You won’t face a lynch mob,’ he told her. ‘We’ll keep it to ourselves and explore it together.’
A little tension went out of her, but she still pulled a face. ‘Explore? What does that mean? Because that meld—’ She shuddered. ‘It was intimate – too intimate, like I could taste your spit and smell your thoughts. I guess that was the same for you?’
He nodded and started to speak, but she interrupted. ‘I don’t do intimacy, and I don’t feel anything for you, so if it means anything more than holding your hand while conjuring, it’s not happening.’
‘Kemara, there’s no sexual implication – more than that, there’s plenty of evidence that sex gets in the way. Most meld-partners are the same gender – and yes, I know full well that doesn’t preclude a sexual relationship, but most people aren’t built that way. At the Academia, we were encouraged to pair up with as many others as possible. My best meld-partner was male, and not someone I particularly liked.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He betrayed his country, executed my father and stole my wife.’
Her eyes went round. ‘Holy Gerda.’
‘Yes, Luc Mandaryke. It’s a small world.’ He fought down the bitter memories that always accompanied that name. ‘What I’m proposing is a working relationship, that’s all.’
She studied his face, then said, ‘All right. Let’s do it.’
In his relief, he went to hug her, then realised what he was about to do and stopped dead. ‘Um . . . thank you, I appreciate it. We’ll do amazing things together.’
She snorted derisively, but all she said was, ‘Let’s see.’
She’s got more prickles than a porcupine, but I’m starting to realise why. ‘See you tonight for dinner, then?’
She looked away, her handsome face in profile framed by coils of hair that gleamed like copper wire in the morning sunlight. She looked deathly tired, yet stronger than stone. His chivalric urges had him wanting to protect her, even though she’d probably break his jaw if he said so.
‘Tonight, then,’ she said, and stomped back to her waiting patients.
*
From his blanket, Trimble could see Vyre’s fire, and his daughter, dancing round the flames like an imp, while Jesco Duretto played a fiddle. A skinny thing, this Zarelda, with a strutting manner like a nymph of the old tales. Her father was darker, a man who had a way with shadows.
But Trimble’s mind wasn’t really on them right now. He was watching the voluptuous redhead with the tough face who was labouring over a brazier, her face cast in firelight. Kemara Solus, he breathed, tasting her name.
‘I do like me a redhead,’ he murmured aloud.
One of the other wounded men looked up, an oldster named Rosset. ‘What was that, fella?’
‘Our healer-lady’s a tasty piece,’ Trimble replied. ‘I’d like a piece of that.’
‘Heh, heh. Got a sharp tongue on her, but I’d happily bury my face in that cleavage of hers,’ Rosset chuckled. ‘Minds me of a woman I knew back home, a sweet widow with a willing way.’
Trimble let the man ramble. The first few nights he’d felt threatened, very aware that he’d washed up among enemies, but most of these travellers were Pelarian and they’d quickly accepted him once they’d decided he wasn’t an empire-lover. And their purpose intrigued him.
Istariol . . . They thought they could sneak out of the empire, mine a seam of blood-dust then return rich. The naïveté was laughable. My empire will teach them the realities. Small people get nothing.
*
On the evening of the fifth day since leaving the beach, the leaders gathered at Raythe’s camp to confer. Elgus Rhamp’s rearguard had rejoined them, reporting no sign of pursuit. The knight brought Banno, but sensibly left Osvard behind. Mater Varahana sat with Vidar, Tami was chatting to Jesco and Kemara, wary as ever, perched to one side.
Raythe carved a crude map into the gravel, saying as he drew, ‘We’re here, on the eastern Verdessa coast, and here’s the imperial garrison at Rodonoi, about eighty miles west. We figure the imperial troopship will have reached them by now and we must assume cavalry will have
been despatched yesterday. They’ll average about forty miles a day, so in two to three days they’ll be in our faces.’
‘And where’s your cartomancer’s lake?’ Elgus asked
Raythe touched a point in the mountains to the north, midway between their position and Rodonoi Fort. ‘Here, in the foothills of the mountains, at the edge of the Iceheart. The empire don’t know our destination, which is our big advantage. But they’re four times faster than us, and that’s theirs.’
‘That’s a damned big advantage,’ Elgus growled.
‘I know. Essentially, there’s around twenty miles between the coast and the mountains for us to manoeuvre, and we’re slower than them, so if they pick up our trail, all the praxis in the world won’t stop them from finding us. The trail-obscuring spell can only do so much. Somehow we have to elude them. Any ideas?’
‘Can we take them on?’ young Banno asked.
‘No.’
‘But on the beach—’
‘We got lucky,’ Jesco interrupted. ‘The lightning strike needed fortuitous weather; and the fact they had to attack from longboats played into our hands. This time we’ll need to protect our wagons, which will force us to defend, and they’ll be able to attack where and when they choose.’
‘Can we evade them?’ Varahana asked.
‘If they sweep forward with a wide perimeter of scouts, that’s damned unlikely,’ Elgus said.
‘Our hunters can pick ’em off one by one,’ Vidar growled.
‘They’ll notice, Shaggy,’ Tami drawled.
Raythe, turning over ideas in his mind, let the conversation falter, then said, ‘I do have a plan. It’s a gamble—’
‘What isn’t, with you?’ Kemara observed.
‘My gambles pay off,’ he said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘Listen, here’s what I think we should do . . .’
*
Larch Hawkstone followed an imperial scout, a Ferrean mercenary, to the edge of the pines, and peered up at the hilltop where Vyre’s people were supposedly holed up. To his right, the sea was pounding the coastal cliffs and the wind slashed in, straight off the snowy heights to the north. The air was bitter, even though the sun was about to rise.
‘I’ve seen sentries,’ the Ferrean murmured, ‘and I’ve heard animals, too. They’re up there.’
‘Good,’ Hawkstone murmured, as the scout signalled behind them and a few moments later, a man with blond hair and a lordly face joined them. Alexi Persekoi, the Rodonoi komandir, was followed by his arrogant-looking aides.
‘They are trapped, yuz?’ the Bolgravian komandir asked. His accent was aggravating, but they were the overlords, so Hawkstone concealed his distaste.
‘They’re on a headland and surrounded on the inland sides,’ the scout confirmed. ‘They’ve got nowhere to go but into the sea. And I swear they don’t know we’re here.’
Persekoi glanced at Hawkstone. ‘This Vyre, he is unwary, think you?’
‘They may believe they’re clear of danger,’ he answered, uneasily. Vyre hadn’t seemed the unwary type, but perhaps they thought their victory at the bay had bought them their freedom?
‘You believe this?’ Persekoi asked. ‘Your reputation you will stake, ney?’
I don’t have a ‘reputation’, Hawkstone thought sourly. And I didn’t expect them to be this easy to find. But around Bolgravian nobles, it was best to just shut up and let them do the thinking, so all he said was, ‘Vyre is dangerous, but the fact remains, they’re trapped, even if they do know we’re coming.’
‘Then we make silent advance,’ Persekoi decided. ‘No flintlock fire until we’re among them.’
‘And prisoners?’ Hawkstone asked, thinking of Angrit and Rosebud. ‘Children are blameless, and the women—’
‘Children have value in southern flesh-markets,’ Persekoi commented, avarice in his eyes. ‘Young women also. Rest can die.’ He turned to aides. ‘Begin advance.’
Hawkstone rejoined his own men, wondering how to handle this. Angrit’s got to be up there, and our Rosebud. How do I get to them before these bastards do their worst?
*
‘Here they come,’ Jesco whispered, crouched beside Raythe in the lee of a wagon.
Raythe peered through the gloom and saw a row of grey-clad men with long flintlocks break from the undergrowth below and start toiling up the steep, brush-covered slope. The sun was almost rising, lending enough light for visibility.
‘Are we ready?’ he asked.
‘As we can be,’ the Shadran murmured. ‘Give me a half a minute.’ Crouching low, he scampered away, seeking the other men lurking in shadows with weapons primed and ready.
‘Cognatus, animus,’ Raythe whispered, and his familiar immersed itself in him. Cognatus loved these moments when he could unleash upon the natural world.
In the darkness to his right, Vidar was crouched, eyes glowing amber, teeth bared and breath coming in short rushes. Raythe worried again that Vidar might not be able to prise himself from the fray, but he needed him here.
‘Gently, my friend,’ he called. ‘This is a fight we’ll need to run from.’
The bearskin answered with a low growl.
For a moment, Raythe missed Kemara and the hideous strength she wielded, but they couldn’t risk her falling into Bolgravian hands, and though she was deadly, she wasn’t battle-trained.
This one’s my fight, not hers . . .
He stepped to the fire, swept up a burning brand and raised it. ‘Paratus nunc, praesemino igneous,’ he chanted, tracing Ignus, the rune of fire. Cognatus sucked at the bonfire, drawing some of that heat into himself, then exhaling it through the nebulum.
Below them, the dozens of firetraps they’d laid on the slopes burst into life, eliciting shouts of alarm as the flames roared through the brush. Then Jesco and his men opened up, a dozen flintlocks belching smoke, and the archers loosed shafts that ripped into the ranked soldiers. Bolgravian voices shouted in alarm as the pre-dawn burst into vivid chaos.
The sun kissed the slope and a lance of sunlight shot across the skies.
‘Paratus lumis,’ Raythe shouted, and felt the familiar’s shriek of joy as the light poured over them. He shouted again, to curb the daemon’s impatience. ‘Expecto—’
Wait . . .
A rosy glow lit the slopes as his comrades reloaded and fired again, then began to pull back. ‘Go,’ Jesco shouted to those around him, ‘go, go, go—’ and they fell back into the bare space around the embers of the bonfire where Raythe waited, his arms spread and shouting, ‘Cognatus, ignus nunc!’
His fingertips drew the rune and Cognatus roared, pouring flame from the nebulum to the material world, into the smouldering bonfire, which burst into life – then a dozen or more lit logs hurtled like rockets into the air and shot outwards over the top of the ringed wagons, trailing fire like comets. They slammed into the brush and exploded, sending jagged burning splinters ripping through the undergrowth like shrapnel.
*
‘Easy does it, lads,’ Larch Hawkstone muttered as he led his Borderers up the headland, through the thinning pines. ‘Keep your heads down.’ The defenders had not apparently noticed his contingent so far, concentrating their fire on the Bolgravians ahead. ‘Let the Bolgies soak it up.’
As if in answer, fire flared on the headland above and suddenly musketry rattled over the crackling of a bunch of firetraps bursting alight.
Hawkstone shouted at his men to seek cover as alarm spread. He saw Komandir Persekoi floundering, momentarily stunned, but then emanating Bolgravian fury, he roared his men forward even as muzzle flashes lit the ring of wagons above and lead balls whistled down. Two men spun and fell and the rest dropped to one knee and fired blindly. Arrows flew too, silent and deadly, and Hawkstone hurled himself back into cover.
Vyre truly is the Pitlord Himself.
That thought caused him to consciously hang back – he’d never been a great one for that ‘first into the breach’ shit anyway, and certainly not on behalf of a
ny kragging Bolgies.
Besides, where were the animal noises, or the screeching of women and children?
It’s a kragging trap.
‘Slow it down, boys, stay with me,’ he ordered.
His Borderers looked scared, and willingly followed his lead in dropping to the ground, while the Bolgravians continued to labour upwards through the flame. As they advanced, sunlight burst through the eastern hills, lighting the headland and the sky in brilliant gold and casting the rest into shadow.
Let Persekoi and his bastards face whatever Vyre’s got planned first.
His instincts were vindicated seconds later when the very air shook and the crown of the hill exploded into flame, sending burning tree trunks rocketing up then crashing down into the brush, igniting everything they touched. In seconds the entire slope was being devoured by the rapacious flames, with most of the Bolgravian troops trapped inside the maelstrom.
Hawkstone heard Persekoi screaming ‘Obvini—’ in his guttural tongue, urging his men to attack, despite the chaos. Madness. And somewhere above, a beast roared like an enraged Pitfiend. He recognised that roar. The bearskin is here. The bearskin had been a guide on Gospodoi’s mission, further proof of conspiracy. The Norgan, Vidar Vidarsson, now had a substantial price on his head too.
Maybe I can make a little money on him?
But right now, Hawkstone had no intention of walking into whatever Raythe Vyre had prepared, so while the Bolgravians advanced with all their famously blind courage, he called, ‘Stay down,’ and his Borderers did as he bade them.
Let the Bolgravs do it: it’s their kraggin’ empire, after all.
*
Raythe tore off his bandana and looked around. There wasn’t much to see – the bonfire was a burnt-out ash-pit and those Bolgravians who had reached the summit were dead, cut down by his little group of defenders. It was time to go.
But even as he opened his mouth to holler the signal, half a dozen more Bolgravs burst through the cordon of wagons from the east flank, near the cliffs, led by a dashing young officer brandishing a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. It could have been Raythe himself a decade ago. Behind him, his men raised flintlocks and took aim.