by David Hair
Miraculously, he wasn’t struck, and nor was Persekoi, who dived in behind the same low earthen bank. Bolgravian voices were clamouring all around them, shouting in fury, but to his bemusement, no one was firing back.
‘Shoot, damn it,’ he told Persekoi, ‘you need to return fire—’
The Bolgrav was scowling fiercely, but now he admitted, ‘No powder – was lost in glacier flood.’
Bloody Vyre, Elgus thought, aware of the irony. He’s going to get me killed after all.
‘Obvini—’ the Bolgravian officers shouted, ‘obvini!’ Attack – attack!
Those who could rose and attempted to storm up the hill – which served to reveal the genius of the primitive fort, for they ran straight into the next palisade fence, which afforded no cross-bars for climbing, just spaced poles too narrow to squeeze through, but wide open when it came to defenders shooting from above. More arrows slashed down on the greycoats, and then another volley sent the Bolgravians reeling back, screaming their pain and fear and fury.
Elgus could pick out the voices giving the orders: Jesco Duretto, Cal Foaley and even Mater Varahana. They knew – but who blabbed? Gerda’s Tits, was it my Banno? But how did he know?
‘Obvini!’ Persekoi shrieked again, and the next wave of soldiers came up and went piling forward – straight into the teeth of another vicious volley, which sent them stumbling back, leaving even more bodies scattered across the killing ground.
Persekoi whirled on Elgus and ordered, ‘Bring your men up – join the attack!’
Elgus bit his lip, thinking, Where are their kragging sorcerers? And where’s Vyre? Suddenly, this plan was going the way of his previous ones. Am I going to die helping the kragging empire?
But he saluted Persekoi, then ran down the slope to take charge of his men. ‘Thom, Crow, get the lads into line—’
‘What the feck’s going on?’ Bloody Thom snarled.
‘Blood and chaos,’ Elgus roared. ‘We’re going in.’ Seeing the doubt, he sprayed spittle in his lieutenants’ faces, roaring, ‘It’s do or die: come on!’ He whirled, raised his old-fashioned broadsword and shouted, ‘Pelarians, forward!’
They didn’t like it, but he was proud that they followed him, falling in with the next line of sweating, fearful Bolgravian soldiers preparing to march up the slopes. Vyre’s lot must be getting low on powder, he told himself. They’ll break.
The Bolgravs took the slope at a run, stumbling over bodies and slithering on the wet grass as they shouted to Deo and Gerda. They slammed into the palisades and hacked at them with axes – until the defenders opened up again, the rattling, flashing musketry presaging the dark flowers bursting into bloom on chests and faces, followed by silent arrows sleeting down, cutting down more and more of the attackers.
Elgus’ mercenaries were up next, but when he hesitated, so did they.
‘Obvini!’ Persekoi snarled, appearing beside Elgus. ‘You will attack!’ He had a drawn sabre in one hand, his pistol in the other. The braid adorning his immaculate uniform glowed in the ringlight. ‘Get your cowardly savages moving, Rhamp!’
That fecking does it.
His longsword crunched into the crook of Persekoi’s neck, smashed his collarbone and severed his throat. The man’s face swelled in shock as his legs went.
‘Not such a fecking relic, eh?’ Elgus roared, kicking him off the blade and bellowing, ‘PELARIANS: KILL THE KRAGGING BOLGIE BASTARDS—’
Mercenaries were used to this sort of volte-face; often as not it was the only way to stay alive. They reacted instantly, plunging blades into the backs of the men before them, shouting, ‘PELARIA – PELARIA—’
In moments, the remainder of the Bolgravians were dead or running from Rhamp’s men. Those at the rear fell back, spilling out onto the plains. The Pelarians cheered, hollering insults at their backs as they fled into the gloom, and the defenders added their own voices.
But there are still plenty of Bolgies out there, Elgus thought, and there’s the small matter of how I extricate myself from this mess. One step at a time . . .
For now, he grabbed Persekoi’s plumed hat and put it on the end of his sword, shouting, ‘Duretto – you there? It’s Elgus—’
There was a ringing silence.
Then Jesco Duretto’s voice rang out, coolly derisive. ‘Sir Elgus? Gracious, is that you?’
‘Pretend it was all planned,’ Crowfoot murmured in his ear.
‘I’m already there,’ Elgus muttered, before hollering, ‘Lured ’em in and nailed them – just like I said I would.’
There was a pregnant silence. ‘Did you just? When was that?’
‘Uh—’
‘The runner must’ve got lost,’ Crowfoot whispered.
‘The runner must’ve got lost,’ Elgus parroted, then inspiration struck. ‘I sent him to Banno – thought he was with you. Gerda’s Teats, tell me my lad’s safe.’
It was a gamble: Banno really might be up there, having betrayed his own kin, but he didn’t think so. The boy was a love-struck fool, but he was a loyal Rhamp.
This time Jesco’s response wasn’t quite so sarky. ‘Banno’s not here.’
‘Deo on High,’ Elgus shouted, relief flooding him, ‘damned boy can’t think past his codpiece.’ He winked at Crowfoot. ‘Are we good to come up? Feeling a bit exposed out here, and the Bolgies are regrouping.’
There was a pause, then Jesco, sounding decidedly vexed, called, ‘Come ahead.’
There was still some chance they would get their heads shot off, but Elgus decided to risk it. Waiting here for the Bolgies would be suicide, and Vyre’s people had some honour.
Like I used to . . . But his lads were alive, at least until dawn. No regrets, no looking back.
‘We’re coming up with hands raised, so you know it’s us,’ he called. ‘There’s still a shitload of Bolgies out there. I killed their commander, but they’ll find another and come again.’
Another pause, then Jesco called, ‘Sure, all good.’
Crowfoot slapped his shoulder and grinned.
Bloody Thom muttered, ‘We gonna feck them over?’
‘Nope. That moment’s gone, Thom. Persekoi’s down and we don’t know what his replacement’s made of. And you know what? I’m starting to feel that betting against Vyre is a losing wager. Let’s see if the prick survived his jaunt to that bridge and how it all shakes down at dawn before we commit again.’
‘But some Bolgies escaped; they’ll know we backstabbed them.’
‘Fog of war,’ Crowfoot sniffed. ‘Never happened.’
Elgus sheathed his sword, picked Persekoi’s beautiful sabre as a trophy – ‘For the mantelpiece,’ he muttered to himself – before leading his men up the slopes. They picked their way between scores of Bolgravian corpses, until they reached the palisade where Duretto and Varahana had deployed their flintlocks and archers to lethal effect. He went to the gap, where the too-pretty Shadran waited.
‘Cleverly played,’ Jesco drawled, his tones ambiguous. ‘Even I doubted for a moment.’
In other words, he’s almost certain we tried to screw them, but he can’t prove it.
‘I’m sorry the runner didn’t reach you,’ Elgus bluffed. ‘Communication breakdown. Won’t happen again.’
‘It really had better not,’ the Shadran said. ‘Come on up.’
Seeing Varahana cradling a smoking gun, Elgus said, ‘I thought you a woman of peace, Mater Varahana?’
‘Needs must,’ the Mater replied, her elegant face expressionless. ‘Gerda was also a warrior.’
Looking around, Elgus realised that the only folk here were the best hunters and most redoubtable of the villagers. ‘Where’re the women and children?’
‘By now, halfway to the bridge,’ the priestess answered.
‘Then you’ve heard back from Vyre?’
‘No, but we decided we couldn’t wait.’
‘You slipped the cordon on the west side, then?’
‘They were all Teshveld folk there,’ Jesco
replied. ‘Hawkstone’s men. They had a change of heart and let us through.’
Elgus blinked in surprise. ‘Larch Hawkstone? Don’t trust him—’
‘Oh, I think I know who I can trust,’ Jesco said archly. ‘Come on, ladies, it’s time to go—’
He stopped suddenly and they all turned and stared as a fresh uproar arose from the plains to the south. The wind carried the sound of panicked voices, screams and battle-cries. Fire flared, setting the Bolgravian tents alight, one after the next, until the whole camp was in flames.
‘What in the Pit?’ Elgus blurted.
Crowfoot and Bloody Thom were looking as mystified as he.
‘There’s only Bolgravs out there, right? Have they turned on each other?’
Jesco clapped Varahana’s arm. ‘Who cares? This is the chance we need. Come on, let’s go.’
*
The first moments were bewildering and glorious. Kemara’s vault took her right to the front of the Bolgravian soldiers closing in on the helpless Otravian, and Buramanaka’s sword swept round with a power and a precision that was nothing to do with her and everything to do with Buramanaka, who was riding her body with bloodthirsty glee.
Even as she landed, her first blow cleaved through the neck of the leading officer before she unleashed a wave of force that scattered men like dolls, knocking aside bayonets and muzzles, then she was among them, spinning like a top and carving a circle in blood. Her sword sliced through flesh, bone, wood or metal as if they were shadow – five men lay dead in three seconds – then she blurred left, away from lunging shafts of steel, and scythed down three more. Carried along by a wave of fury, she lashed out a foot and broke a man’s nose; she lunged and took another in the heart. She found herself crying out in pleasure as a bayonet scoured her back before beheading the man who dared harm her. She leaped and landed, going low this time as she spun around, and another foe was downed, his legs severed at the knee.
The remainder, less than half of the original twenty, broke and pelted back towards the dragon statues as if she were the Queen of the Pit.
Perhaps I am.
She straightened from her fighting crouch, drooling blood and laughing.
Then something punched into her, knocking her off her feet and sending her sprawling among the corpses. Fluting Bolgravian voices rose as two sorcerers – Karil and Jorl, her familiar told her – emerged over the apex of the bridge. They must have been waiting on the far side to close the trap.
Toran Zorne darted to the edge of the bridge and picked up Raythe’s discarded pistol, then throwing wide his arms, conjured a sorcerous shield.
He’s Ramkiseri, she realised, so he’s also a sorcerer. How he must have been laughing inside as he flirted with her. The thought made her blood boil.
But it occurred to her that she should run: three sorcerers against one was suicide.
Inside her, Buramanaka snarled, Kill or be killed. The Lord of Blood does not flee. Get among them before they can conjure.
Then Raythe Vyre groaned, rolled over and looked up at her, scarlet-masked and coated in blood. ‘Kemara?’
‘Get up,’ she ordered, her eyes on the advancing sorcerers. ‘Get up and fight.’
‘What—?’ Then he followed her gaze and mumbled, ‘Oh.’
‘Exactly,’ she said tersely. ‘Come on, Vyre, let’s see what you’re really made of.’
Not nothing, evidently, for he rose shakily and murmured, ‘Cognatus, animus,’ and then, more strongly, ‘Praesemino. Habere scutum.’
His mind brushed hers, the sensuality of the meld flaring between them, bringing traces of his smell, his heat, his taste. An orb of light encased them, lighting the bridge around them.
The Bolgravian sorcerers instantly attacked, the fire erupting towards them turning the outside of their shield scarlet.
‘Consano,’ Vyre shouted, and the shield was reinforced. The flames faded, revealing the pale faces of their foes a dozen yards away. Zorne darted to one side and took aim.
Kemara, feeling Buramanaka snarling inside her, cried out, ‘Cuzka kazei—’ and battered the twins with a blast of wind, but her meld with Raythe was weaker than it’d been in the glacier or at the beach and their protections held.
Vyre’s wounded and exhausted, and I’m . . . She hesitated, caught between two thoughts. Am I too much Buramanaka, or not enough? Previously Vyre had led, but he looked stupefied by injury and blood-loss.
Then the Bolgravian sorcerers shrieked and raised their arms to the sky. Thunder cracked, so loud the stone arch quivered, and Kemara, seeing a flash, grabbed at Vyre’s arm and raised her other hand, palm out, denying the blast. An instant before striking, the bolt of lightning visibly bent, blasting a pit into the bridge surface instead, sending splinters of rock flying about them.
She saw Zorne stagger, struck by a flying stone, but he kept hold of Vyre’s pistol and pulled the trigger at the moment all her protections were down—
*
Raythe was in the meld and yet not: present and gone. Everything was happening through a haze of exhaustion; it was all he could do to cling to awareness. Kemara’s sweat and blood filled his nostrils but she was over there when she should be inside him.
Then the sky cracked in two, something ripped through the air and blinded him. He reeled back, feeling the light encasing him and Kemara fail, and dropped to one knee. He tried to stand, not even sure which way was forward, and now Cognatus was flapping inside him like a caged bird, shrieking in Old Magnian, Fight, damn you – it’s my life too—
He opened his eyes in time to see Zorne’s pistol bark. Kemara staggered backwards with another hole in her chest and fell onto her back.
‘No,’ Raythe croaked, picking up his blade left-handed again, hopelessness filling his heart. ‘You will not take us alive.’
Zorne looked at him curiously, assessing his risk, then tossed the spent pistol aside and drew his sword again. ‘We don’t want you alive, Vyre. I just need proof you’re dead.’
He’s already beaten me once before.
Then Kemara sat up again, coughed blood and said, ‘You keep missing my heart, dear “Moss”.’ She stood and stalked to Raythe’s side. ‘Perhaps you don’t know where I keep it.’
The sorcerer twins halted, their eyes widening, and chorused fearfully, ‘Nava!’
Nava: the Bolgrav word for living corpse.
But Zorne snarled, ‘She’s sustained by a mizra-spirit. Break the link.’
He stepped aside and a moment later, a torrent of energy blazed from the sorcerers’ hands – but Raythe had already reached out and grasped Kemara’s hand and this time he held nothing back.
‘Habere, scutum,’ he bellowed, and their shield flared just in time to repel the blast of energy, giving the instant they needed for their souls to lock – and in a burst of vivid clarity he saw Buramanaka was feeding Kemara life while she fed him energy. He saw her truly for the first time: a woman who’d suffered but still loved humanity enough to be a healer. Despite the callous mask she showed the world, she was a fighter, one who stood for what was right.
Like him, then. Who knew?
The meld flared between them, but even so, the next assault nearly ripped them from each other. He felt Cognatus and Buramanaka howling: they were like sand castles caught in a gale, flying apart grain by grain – but somehow, the four of them, desperate to live, held on together.
But the assault faded at last and now they countered, impelling themselves forward in a blinding rush, sweeping up the bridge with swords swinging.
Roaring defiance, Kemara went straight for the twins, her conjured blade slashing through both necks in one blow. They remained standing – until the heads rolled off, leaving neck stumps spurting blood, and at last the bodies crumpled to the ground.
Raythe’s leap took him to Toran Zorne, standing at the edge of the bridge. His blade smashed down, this time breaking Zorne’s in two, and the momentum carried the tip straight into the Ramkiseri’s right breast, pushing
him backwards.
Zorne struck the stone rampart—
—then flipped off the edge of the bridge and fell, plummeting head over heels into the torrent below.
Raythe gripped the rim and saw Zorne strike the water and vanish below the surface.
He cursed, but right now Kemara was more important. He staggered up to her before whispering, ‘Abeo.’ Cognatus left him, taking away all his strength, and the way Kemara slumped into him, he knew her familiar – her demon – had been dismissed too.
A trace of the hyper-intimacy of the meld lingered, because he found himself reaching with hands and mouth and soul to consummate the bond they were forging—
—until she punched him, hard.
‘Hey—’ he gasped, stars colliding in his head.
‘Don’t take liberties,’ she snarled, a wounded lioness. ‘That bloody meld has nothing to do with anything.’
He rubbed his jaw ruefully. ‘Oh, come on – we just saved each other’s lives.’
‘We just danced on a volcano.’
That was true . . .
‘But it hasn’t erupted yet.’
‘There’s always tomorrow.’
He noticed that her strangely curved sword had vanished, and so had the mask – and that her chest was a sticky mess of blood. He couldn’t imagine how she still lived. ‘Don’t take this wrong,’ he said, ‘but I have to know.’
He reached out and pulled open her ripped, blood-soaked bodice, enough to uncover the wounds on her chest. The ringlight showed a triangular wound above her left breast and a circular one above her right. Both were seared shut and looked weeks old.
‘Holy Gerda,’ he breathed.
She pulled her bodice together and sat up, gazing at the scattered bodies around them. ‘Deo on high, what a mess.’
‘You did all of it,’ he noted. ‘I just got beaten up.’
She swallowed, then abruptly turned away and vomited.
‘How are you even alive?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘He – Buramanaka – he said he’d not finished with me.’
‘Legends say that the Aldar took a lot of killing. According to what I’ve read, you had to pretty much behead them, or cut their hearts out, then burn the bodies.’