by David Hair
‘Lady Elena?’ the largest male ‘Naga’ called as ropes were thrown down and lashed to stanchions along the wall.
‘Kekropius – you’re right on time!’
The emir’s men stared in fear and fascination: few had even seen windships this close, let alone creatures straight out of myth, and they backed away as the lamia Elder flowed down a rope to the battlements. Kekropius had a human upper body broad enough to rival even Kazim’s, but the length of his thick, lithe snake trunk made him a giant. Though his face was almost human, his slitted amber eyes, skin tones and musculature made him look utterly alien.
Elena swept into a respectful bow. Kekropius might not pick up the nuances of the greeting, but the men watching would certainly understand her open acknowledgement of friendship and equality.
Hopefully that will be enough to prevent any of Mekmud’s men from panicking and doing something stupid. ‘Welcome, welcome, and thrice welcome,’ she cried aloud in Rondian, seizing Kekropius’ right hand with both of hers. ‘It is very good to see you, my friend!’
‘And you, Elena,’ the lamia replied, before embracing Kazim, causing murmurs of wonder among those watching. ‘The kin of Alaron our Guide has only to ask and we will come.’
I wonder if I’ll ever get to tell my nephew about all this . . .
Elena turned to Mekmud. ‘Kekropius, this is Emir Mekmud bin al’Azhir. This is his keep, the Kiskale.’
Kekropius straightened, then bowed – not deep enough by Jhafi standards, but Mekmud had been forewarned that these creatures didn’t know their ways, so took no offence – no doubt a creature such as this bowing to him at all would hugely elevate his standing.
‘My people thank you for the bequest you have given us,’ Kekropius said solemnly, and Elena translated his words. The distant river valley where the lamiae had settled might have been uninhabited, but it was part of the emir’s lands. ‘In return’ – Kekropius signalled to the waiting windship and six more lamiae began writhing athletically down the ropes – ‘these six will serve you, Lord Emir, for the period of this war, and if any fall, they will be replaced.’
Elena couldn’t quite hide her wince, though she had helped broker the deal; six males was a significant number for the lamiae, for the tribe numbered barely sixty, and that included the females and children.
By now everyone in the keep had found a perch to watch, and as it became apparent that the six lamiae were going to stay, eyes widened with wonder and excitement and they scarcely noticed the baggage being hoisted into the windship.
Elena went down on one knee to Mekmud and let him draw her back to her feet and kiss both her cheeks in farewell. ‘They are swift learners,’ she reassured him. ‘They’ll pick up your tongue very quickly. They do have the gnosis – it’s part of their very being and they use it instinctively – but they don’t have the deep training of a Rondian mage, nor experience in war. Use them sparingly, I beg you.’
‘I cannot protect them from all danger, Alhana,’ the emir replied, ‘but I believe Gyle will leave once he learns that you’ve gone. I shall then retake my city, and afterwards harass the Rondians as I can.’
She clasped his hands. ‘You have our sincere thanks. Once we’ve made Forensa, I’ll be in contact.’
‘Sal’Ahm, Alhana. I will instruct the Godsingers to offer up prayers to you.’
She laughed. ‘I doubt an Amteh cleric will ever pray for a heathen mage, my lord!’
‘They’ll do what I tell them,’ Mekmud bristled.
No doubt they will, if they know what’s best for them. She bowed in thanks again.
Timori led the way up the rope ladders, moving with all the gangly fearlessness of a child. His sister followed more awkwardly, and Elena and Kazim brought up the rear. Kazim signalled they were all safely aboard and lamiae rushed to loose the anchor ropes and hoist the sails as one of their number released energy from the keel and sent the craft into the air again.
As the emir and his men raised their arms in farewell, the windship turned majestically and set sail for the east, and Forensa.
Lybis, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Rami (Septinon) 929
15th month of the Moontide
Gurvon Gyle slouched on the Emir of Lybis’ ornate but deeply uncomfortable throne at the head of a long council table. He drained his wine goblet, then crushed it in a gnosis-strengthened hand. It was pewter, but dipped in gold, beautifully engraved with hunting scenes and decorated with gems, a rare and valuable piece – but right now he didn’t give a rukking shit about that. ‘You’re telling me they’ve escaped the Kiskale?’
The soot-stained, battered and bruised young mage standing before him cringed. He’d flown the ten miles from the Kiskale to Lybis on Air-gnosis after his skiff was shot from the skies, and he was almost out on his feet. ‘It was an Inquisition ship . . . we thought they were friends . . .’
‘We don’t have any bloody friends in the Kore-bedamned Inquisition!’ Gyle erupted. ‘We’re mercenaries, you rukking imbecile! What on Urte possessed the two of you to pull alongside and blow kisses to them?’
The pilot glanced at his captain, Endus Rykjard, but got no sign of support. He hung his head, as well he might: they’d lost not just his fellow wind-pilot, but two valuable skiffs to that piece of stupidity.
‘Sir, I’m sorry – I won’t . . . I mean, I’ll be more . . .’
‘Get out!’ Gurvon bellowed. ‘Before I throw you out the window!’
The pilot fled to the sound of sniggers from Rutt Sordell, the other man in the room. Rutt had always enjoyed seeing bright young mages being put in their place.
Gurvon was becoming sick of Rutt’s bitterness. The Argundian complained incessantly that his senses were failing. That was the price of no longer being a full human: the real Rutt Sordell was a Necromantic scarab burrowed into Guy Lassaigne’s head, controlling Lassaigne’s body. But Rutt was nothing if not loyal, clinging tenaciously to his ‘life’ so he could continue to serve Gurvon. At least Lassaigne was a pure-blood, as Rutt had been before losing his body.
Worryingly, in the way of pets coming to resemble their masters, Lassaigne’s body now bore a real resemblance to the original Sordell: the once toned, healthy-looking courtier was now florid, anxious and flabby. And he was drinking far too much.
‘Gurv, it wasn’t Marklyn’s fault,’ the Hollenian snapped, protective of his man – once he wasn’t around to hear.
‘Then is it your fault, Endus?’ Gurvon shouted. ‘If you hadn’t been spending all day screwing Jhafi whores, maybe you’d have been able to brief them better? Or maybe you’d have even been there!’
Rykjard’s affable face hardened. ‘Don’t you tell me how to run my lads! Marklyn and Jesset knew their business. But an Inquisition ship, Gurv? Who knew—? Did you?’
‘Of course not!’ Gurvon snarled. He hurled the crushed goblet into the corner of the room, and was abruptly thirsty again. ‘Shit! I wanted Elena locked up in that damned fort! I wanted her contained!’
Rutt raised a cautious hand. ‘We’ve only got eight more skiffs – there’s no way we could have stopped a warbird, Gurvon. And those snakemen . . . well, you know what they can do.’
Gyle shuddered. These impossible creatures Elena had somehow magicked up had not just ambushed a full maniple of Rykjard’s men, but killed them all – every single soldier: five hundred men!
He seldom lost his temper, but he could feel himself fraying at the edges as the stakes rose. With an effort he cooled down. ‘I’m sorry, Endus. I misspoke. Marklyn did well to get out alive. Tell him I said so.’
‘It’s hard to nail Elena down,’ Endus said. ‘You know that better than anyone.’
Meaning that I was nailing her for twenty years and still couldn’t control her. ‘I do,’ he conceded. ‘I presume she’ll make for Forensa.’
‘We can’t stop her,’ Rutt put in, ‘but perhaps others can? Betillon has a few warbirds in Brochena.’
Gurvon grimaced at
the mention of the Governor of Hebusalim. While he’d been Elena’s prisoner Mater-Imperia Lucia had lost confidence in him and sent Tomas Betillon to Javon to fix things. Yes, the Crusade depended upon supplies from Javon, so he could just about understand Lucia’s concerns. But Gurvon had little reason to love Betillon: they’d been on opposite sides of the Noros Revolt twenty years ago and seeking his help tasted bad. But Rutt’s idea had some merit.
‘We’ll give it a try, I suppose. If he can intercept that damned warbird and bring it down, so much the better. We can’t afford a three-way conflict.’
‘Sure, but what next?’ Endus asked. ‘The rest of my legion are marching up from Baroz; they’ll get here in a few days. Do we still plan on taking that hill fort, what’s it called – the Kiss-my-cock?’
‘Kiskale,’ Rutt replied, prissy as ever. ‘We should teach that emir a lesson at the very least,’ he added. He’d been in Lybis when the emir had revolted, and he took such things personally.
‘Pointless. The emir can keep his Kore-forsaken hole for all I care.’ Gurvon got up and went to the map, unrolled on the table and weighted down by a selection of priceless goblets and decanters. He poured more wine and poked the map. ‘Betillon is in Brochena with a legion of Kirkegarde, and presumably now controls the Dorobon legions, some fifteen thousand men. We’ve got twenty-five: Adi’s legion at the Krak, your lot in Baroz, Staria with her ten thousand at the Rift Forts and Hans Frikter’s legion near Riban. Plus we can bring the Gorgio legions down from Hytel, provided they don’t throw in with Betillon.’
Rutt blinked owlishly. ‘Haven’t I told you? I scryed Hytel last night: the Gorgio family are falling apart: Alfredo’s bastards are at war with each other. They’re all vying for control.’
Gurvon stared. ‘What? But Alfredo Gorgio—’
‘—is dead,’ Rutt interrupted. ‘On the day Portia Tolidi gave birth to Francis Dorobon’s son, Alfredo rode to the cliffs and hurled himself into the ocean. They never recovered his body.’
‘Rukka mio, I was only gone for a month!’ Gurvon downed the wine and poured another. ‘Is Constant still emperor? Is Mater-Imperia still a bitch? Does Luna still float in the heavens?’
‘They say the whole Gorgio court is in terror of Portia Tolidi.’ Endus licked his lips. ‘She has the gnosis now – through pregnancy manifestation – and no one to teach her how to use it. By the sound of it she’s completely out of control. Send me up there, Gurv. I’ll straighten her out.’ He sniggered like a college boy. ‘The hard way.’
‘No, Endus. Hytel is irrelevant. They’ve no magi.’ Gurvon studied the map thoughtfully. ‘Let Betillon worry about them. Anyone he sends to bring them into line will be away when we strike. I’m more concerned about the Jhafi – there are more than five million natives in Javon. I know most have no military value, but the Rimoni-dominated cities of Riban, Forensa and Loctis worry me, especially if they act in concert. Dealing with Cera and Timori Nesti is crucial.’
Endus Rykjard looked at him ironically. ‘You let them go, Gurv.’
‘I’m lucky I had them as a bargaining chip, or I’d not be here,’ he replied, while inwardly acknowledging that Endus was absolutely right. He tapped the map. ‘Endus, I’m sorry, you urgently need to turn your men round and send them back to Baroz. We must control the trade routes. Can you leave immediately?’
‘Of course.’ Rykjard stood and finished his wine. ‘Keep me posted, Gurv.’ He gave a sloppy salute and swaggered out.
A good man, but he spends too much energy on whoring and drinking.
He turned to Rutt. ‘I want you to pull everyone we can spare out of Yuros and fly them here, to Javon.’ It was a chilling thought that of all the magi-agents he’d brought to Javon, Elena had killed them all except Rutt, who’d be dead too if he wasn’t a Necromancer.
‘But boss,’ Rutt replied, looking worried, ‘everyone left in Yuros is in deep. Some of those plays you’ve had running for years.’
‘Rutt, this is a kingdom we’re talking about. Those swindles I’ve got running in Rondelmar are nothing compared to this. Right now we need our people, badly.’
‘But most of them aren’t fighters, boss: they’re thieves and courtiers and assassins. And you’ll still need ears in Pallas.’
He’s right: I’m overreacting. But the nagging feeling that this was going to get worse before it got better persisted. He’d have to compromise.
‘All right, let’s bring those outside Pallas at least: I want Sylas, Brossian, Veritia, and their apprentices. And Drexel too: he was apprenticed to Elena for a time – perhaps he can get close to her where others can’t. That’s what, eleven magi? Tell them I’ll double their money.’ He added, ‘You too, Rutt. Double the money, backdated to the start of the Moontide.’
‘I don’t do this for the money, Gurvon. You know that. But I’ll take it, of course,’ Rutt added, with a faint smile. ‘I’ll find some staves and contact them immediately.’
‘Bring me one too, will you? I suppose I’d better speak to Betillon.’
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Rami (Septinon) 929
15th month of the Moontide
Tomas Betillon had been enjoying such an excellent morning that it was only to be expected that the day would go downhill in the afternoon. Nothing good lasted in this Kore-forsaken place. Radiant heat throbbed up from the stones and down from the skies. In the distance the dried-up salt-lake, which was apparently full for only a few months after the annual rains, was eye-blisteringly white.
He’d been presiding over an execution: some crime-lord that Gyle had been pussy-footing around in one of his usual highly suspect games of cat and mouse. Betillon didn’t have the patience for any of that; he just had the man brought in and racked. Mustaq al’Madhi was a fat, balding man who looked like a shopkeeper but apparently ran half the crime in the city. He’d had him and his male kin publically hanged and displayed them on the city wall. Examples had to be made.
By way of spreading his favours, he’d given the criminal’s women to the rankers to screw, apart from one, a skinny little maid who looked girlish enough to stir his own blood. She was roped up in one of the bed chambers awaiting his pleasure – his pleasure, not hers.
The Grandmaster of the Kirkegarde legion who had come with him to Javon, a scar-faced mage-knight named Lann Wilfort, leaned against the nearest pillar, picking his teeth. He’d just been expounding on the need to go north and knock some Gorgio heads together. ‘I’ll bring back the Tolidi bint for you to break,’ Wilfort was saying. ‘The Hytel mines are vital.’
‘I don’t care about this Tolidi woman,’ Betillon replied with a wave of the hand. He preferred unbled virgins, the younger the better, and the famed beauty of Portia Tolidi held little attraction, especially not when she’d so recently given birth – what an ugly mental image that was. She’ll be fat and stretched and ugly now, not to mention amply used by Francis Dorobon, they say. Why would I want that? ‘Forget Hytel. We can’t afford to send anyone, not until Gyle comes to heel.’
‘But the mines . . .’ Wilfort rubbed his scar, which ran from his right eye to the remaining stump of his ear. ‘They provide this wasteland with all its iron.’
‘Irrelevant for now: it’s food the Crusade needs. We’ve got to take the Krak in the south or Kaltus’ legions are going to starve.’
Wilfort whistled softly. ‘The Krak di Condotiori . . . defended by a mercenary legion . . . I’d call that nigh on impregnable.’
‘Not from the north. The Krak’s main defences face south.’ Betillon scratched his crotch and thought about the skinny Jhafi girl tied up in his suite. Was she scared enough yet? She’d be ripening nicely, but he could let her stew a little longer.
Or maybe not . . . The stench of the bodies was becoming unpleasant and he began to rise when a familiar gnostic contact nudged against his awareness. He fed the link, and shuffled into the shade of a wall, away from prying ears.
Tomas rocked back on his heels, momentarily discomforted. Gyle had supposedly been Anborn’s captive, but perhaps they were colluding – they had been lovers, after all . . . perhaps they still were.
This sounded ever more far-fetched.
Gyle faked Cera Nesti’s death? Betillon almost laughed. Sweet Kore, the man spins in strange circles! But even if this was true and not some ruse to divert his attention, he was unmoved.