by David Hair
And he woke.
They were all with him: Ramita, Puravai, Corinea, and faithful Yash, who must have inveigled his way in while he slept. His face whipped around the room, caught the after-images of Meiros and his father as they faded from view. Ramon and Cym, too. And his mother, whole and unburnt . . .
Ramita squeezed his hand. ‘You made it,’ she breathed.
‘Welcome back, Brother Longlegs,’ Puravai said with a smile. Corinea and Yash just looked at him, her with cool analysis, he with awe.
He took a deep breath, and kindled the core of his gnosis, the little flame inside him. Around it, his gnostic aura reformed, an image akin to Sivraman, four-armed and clothed in all aspects of the gnosis. It shone so brightly he could barely look.
I did it.
I’m an Ascendant.
11
Manoeuvre
The Katlakoz, or Javon Rift
The Katlakoz has played a vital part in the development of Javon. The desert below the Rift is the summer hunting ground of the nomadic Harkun, a northern Keshi people who dwell in the wilds east of Halli’kut throughout winter, the growing season, farming and raiding while the weather is cool. In the Keshi summer they retreat through the mountains and live off the massive horse and cattle herds of the lands below the Rift.
SISTER GULSEPPA, SOLLAN SCHOLAR, JAVON, 722
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929
17th month of the Moontide
Governor Tomas Betillon stepped from the dark stateroom to the bright balcony overlooking the palace parade ground. Trumpets blared, then fell silent. The two legion commanders were with him; Kirkegarde Grandmaster Lann Wilfort was rubbing at his scarred face, while stolid Sir Roland Heale just stared at the massed ranks of the Dorobon legion he was leading east, to Forensa. Heale wasn’t happy; he wanted to wait for reinforcements.
He’d be right if we were going to be reinforced, Betillon thought grimly, but that’s not going to happen. Korion’s overstretched, and Lucia won’t send more men here, not with the destruction of the Bridge still to come. We’re on our own for now.
The governor stepped to the edge of the balcony and saluted the ranks of Dorobon soldiers. They’d been promised wealth and land if they uprooted their lives and came to Javon, but now their ruling House had been obliterated, their loyalties played with and their commanders suborned. Only the fact that their families were here kept them loyal. Though they were fighting to protect those families, it was clear they’d all rather be shipped back to Rondelmar, and the tensions between them and Betillon’s other soldiers were growing. At least getting them out of Brochena would remind them who their real enemies were.
Of course, he hadn’t said that to Roland Heale. Instead he’d blathered words like Victory, Glory and Revenge. He doubted Heale was fooled. If we can crush the Nesti rebellion the native resistance will die away, reinforcements will come, and we’ll all be fine. Once I’ve dealt with Gyle, of course . . .
He rattled off a prepared speech about the valour of House Dorobon and their proud history and other such turd-stained waffle; the men cheered and the drums rattled into a marching beat. He took the salutes of Heale and Wilfort and saw them off.
If they let me down I’ll eviscerate the pair of them.
‘The windskiff scouts say there are more than ten thousand Rimoni soldiers in Riban, and the same in Forensa, plus many more Jhafi,’ Craith Margham commented as the Dorobon marched out the gates. He looked pleased to have his main rival for pre-eminence in House Dorobon marching away.
‘It’s two hundred miles to Forensa, through the desert,’ Betillon mused aloud. ‘Twenty days if they don’t rest, but that would be foolish. When they get there, they must storm a walled city while possibly outnumbered. But if Gyle’s people join them, they should prevail, especially given our superiority in the gnosis.’
‘Yes, we’ve got the magi to do it,’ Margham enthused, as if battles were won using textbooks. ‘Thirty magi against what? Two?’ He laughed derisively.
Betillon scowled. ‘Yes. But one of those is Elena Anborn.’
The Katlakoz Rift, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929
17th month of the Moontide
‘This place is said to be one of the marvels of Urte,’ Rutt Sordell commented miserably. He’d been explaining that his eyesight was deteriorating to black and white, the latest in a series of complaints about his own well-being. Gurvon was past sympathy and just wished he’d shut up.
Gurvon had seen plenty of marvels, but he was still mightily impressed with the Great Rift. It was a giant cliff that ran roughly north–south for over one hundred and seventy miles, from the Tagraz Mountains near Forensa, all the way south to the Karebedi Mountains that separated Javon from northern Kesh. The Rift – called ‘Katlakoz’ in the Jhafi tongue – was a massive east-facing wall of stone reaching hundreds of yards above the desert floor. It reminded him of the sea-walls of Yuros and Antiopia, except that the ocean below the Rift was of sand, rippling in waves towards the horizon. All of that land belonged to the fierce Harkun tribes.
Only the Rift had prevented Javon being inundated by Harkun: there were just four places where a man could ascend the cliffs, and each was fortified. Currently, Staria Canestos’ Sacro Arcoyris Estellan legions occupied three of those forts, including this one; the Red Fort, prosaically named for the colour of the sandstone from which it was hewn. The fourth such fort was near Forensa and Nesti-held.
‘The Ordo Costruo believe this used to be the eastern coastline, thousands of years ago,’ Sordell went on. ‘Then something happened, maybe the same impact that destroyed the land-bridge between Dhassa and Pontus, and this was all lifted out of the sea.’
Gurvon tried to imagine that moment. Will it reverse, when we destroy the Leviathan Bridge? Wouldn’t that be a thing to see? He pictured the entire Harkun nation drowning in a new flood. Though of course, they’ll be back in Kesh by then, so maybe not. A shame. The Harkun weren’t his favourite people just now; they were tying up Staria’s legions at a time he badly needed them. That was why he was here.
He turned to Staria, who was peering out over the desert, her olive Estellan skin sun-bronzed, the hard planes of her face a mirror of the desert below. If she’d worn a bekira she’d have passed for a native, but she was in sweat-stained leather and chain-armour and looked entirely fed up.
‘What’s the latest from Hans Frikter?’ he asked.
‘Hansi’s making decent time,’ she replied in her dusky Estellan accent. ‘He’s in contact with the Dorobon man, Roland Heale, via relay-staves. They expect to reach Forensa by the end of this month. There’s no sense in going faster, not in this heat.’ It was still Noveleve, but summer was lingering, baking the ground hard and scorching any crops that weren’t well-irrigated.
‘And Endus Rykjard?’
‘He’s on a ridge over the Baroz Road, about forty miles south of Brochena. He’s been passing the supply trains through and taking our share. No incidents so far.’
‘Good.’ Gurvon returned his eyes to the sea of sand below. Somewhere out of sight to the east was a large oasis with a Harkun camp of at least twenty-four thousand raiders kicking their heels. There were just six hundred men in the Red Fort, the smallest of the three, but the Rift itself was all the defence that was required. A child with a slingshot could have defended it.
Surely they wouldn’t be stupid enough to try us?
Staria tutted softly. ‘Do we really need these nomads?’
‘In a word, yes. Basically, we’re stuck in a three-way stalemate unless extra pieces are added to the tabula board. Betillon is begging Pallas for reinforcements, and he might even get them. We haven’t the same option, which means dealing with these barbarians.’
‘But aren’t the Harkun going to just slaughter anyone they encounter?’ Rutt asked. ‘I’ve been stationed in Javon for six years now and it’s the one thing everyone agre
es on: only a lunatic would let the Harkun climb the Rift.’
‘Well, I might be that lunatic. Is that damned go-between in sight yet?’
‘You’ll need to be nice to him,’ Staria reminded him, peering into the distance.
‘You know me, Staria. Charm itself.’ He squinted as a cluster of small shapes appeared over a distant ridgeline. ‘Here he comes.’ The man they were here to meet was called Ghujad iz’Kho; he spoke Keshi, Rimoni and Rondian, and claimed to speak for fourteen different Harkun tribes. He was either a blatant liar or an immensely valuable ally. Time would tell which. ‘Let’s go down.’
The Red Fort guarded a slow and treacherous goat path up the Rift wall. An Earth-mage could easily have rendered it completely impassable, but Gurvon understood the mentality of keeping the path intact. If you didn’t keep communication lines with your enemies open, they found other ways to sneak up on you. There had always been some trade between the Harkun and the Jhafi, strictly controlled but lucrative. He’d heard rumours that Cera Nesti had once been so desperate she’d tried to negotiate with the Harkun, but nothing had come of that in the end; the plan had been forestalled by his own subversion of the girl.
The three magi descended using Air-gnosis, reaching the bottom of the cliffs well before the Harkun, as he’d intended; frightening them with open use of their powers would be entirely counter-productive. The nomads arrived soon after, on comically lurching camels. Ghujad iz’Kho had brought six bodyguards; if one could judge from the patterns of their headscarves they were probably relatives. They made their camels kneel in a slow forward collapse that threatened to tip them all onto their faces in the sand, then slid gracefully down their flanks to the ground.
Ghujad iz’Kho greeted Gurvon like a long-lost son, embracing him and pounding his back. ‘This is where the knife could have gone, but we’re friends’, the gesture implied, apparently. Gurvon suffered kisses to both cheeks then stepped back and introduced Rutt and Staria. Iz’Kho fawned over them while his guards set up a small pavilion, producing saddle-cushions to sit upon and even decanting some arak.
‘So, my friend Gyle,’ iz’Kho began as they sat, pronouncing his name ‘Jill’. ‘Please, tell me how may I be of service?’
‘I have come to speak of the lands of your ancestors, which the Jhafi stole,’ Gurvon replied, coming straight to the point. He didn’t care whether the Harkun claims of being rightful rulers of Javon were true; what he needed was a horde of warriors prepared to fight where he told them to.
Iz’Kho smiled broadly. ‘This is the chance all Harkun dream of. It is the destiny of my people, Ahm willing, to once more rule these ancestral lands.’
‘I believe every nation has the right to dwell in their ancestral homeland,’ said Gurvon, who believed no such thing.
Ghujad iz’Kho nodded agreeably. ‘Our tales say that the Jhafi were once a Harkun tribe, one of many that roamed throughout Ja’afar, sharing it without conflict. A Golden Age. But the Jhafi betrayed the rest, seizing the highlands when the other tribes made the autumn trek back to Kesh. Now we are sundered by the Rift, and their intransigence. It is the will of Ahm that they be punished.’
‘Then you’re talking to the right person,’ Gurvon told him. ‘The Rondian Empire sympathises with your people.’
‘Do they?’ iz’Kho enquired. ‘I understand your emperor claims “Javon”, as you call it, as his own.’
‘These are vast lands, Ghujad, with room for us all,’ Gurvon replied smoothly. ‘The plains north of Forensa, for example, are as large as the plains below the Rift, and offer far better grazing for your herds.’
‘Those plains are only a fragment of our ancestral lands,’ iz’Kho countered. ‘Further, they are inaccessible except via the Rift fortresses, which you now hold.’
‘Then let’s get to the point,’ Gurvon said. ‘Last time we spoke, you said that fourteen tribes – almost thirty thousand warriors – had agreed to join this campaign?’
‘This is so: we are eager to walk the cliffs above, my friend. We burn to do so.’
‘I’m sure. Ghujad, if I allowed your people access to the highlands, you and I together could crush the Jhafi and their Rimoni allies, and I would happily give you all of the eastern plains from Forensa to Loctis. But my emperor fears that you will not stop at that. He fears that we would be trading a weak enemy for a strong one.’
Iz’Kho rubbed his whiskery chin. ‘Not an enemy, my good Gyle: a grateful friend.’
‘Perhaps while you and I are involved, but what of the future? We both know that young men can be opportunistic and ambitious. Some might forget that Rondian magi can destroy swathes of men at will – we would be relying on you reminding them, lest we have to.’
‘All know the might of the Rondian magi,’ iz’Kho replied evenly.
I don’t trust this villain as far as I could spit him . . . which wouldn’t be far. But I need his men now.
Content to accept alliance in the short term, they haggled a little; Gurvon ceded Forensa and the eastern plains. ‘But we keep Riban and Intemsa, and all lands west of Mount Tigrat.’
We . . . meaning me, once I’ve dealt with Betillon.
Ghujad iz’Kho declared himself entirely willing to take the proposal back to his tribal chiefs, and after more professions of undying friendship he and his bodyguards mounted up and lurched off across the flat land.
The three magi remained below the cliffs, now in shadow as the sun drifted west, while the camels plodded away into the haze.
‘Well, “Jill”?’ Staria asked. ‘Are you content?’ It didn’t sound like she was.
‘I think so. Here’s the way it’ll happen: Frikter’s legion will join the Dorobon outside Forensa. That’s enough to deal with the Nesti, or at least tie them down until we can bring the Harkun into play. The Dorobon either play along or not: in which case I set the Harkun onto them too. I don’t think it’ll come to that. Roland Heale will defect to our side, and together we’ll crush the Nesti, then destroy Wilfort’s Kirkegarde too if he doesn’t see the light.’
‘But how will we control the Harkun?’ Rutt was always worrying.
‘That’s a problem for another day,’ Gurvon declared. ‘Like as not, give it a few years, they’ll settle down. It’s an old story: the barbarians sweeping down into the valley becomes the next generation of peasants defending it.’
‘What about my people?’ Staria asked. ‘The Jhafi despise us, but they’re liberals compared to the Harkun.’
You and your damned ladymen . . . Gurvon was envisaging a situation where Staria’s legion was caught in the middle somehow and things just got out of hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘We’ll move you west after the fighting. You’ll be safe, and able to live the lives you want.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
Sure, Staria. If you can . . .
They kindled Air-gnosis and, buoyed by the updrafts, flew back to Red Fort, high above the seas of sand.
*
‘Well, my friend?’ Ghujad iz’Kho turned to the smallest of the bodyguards once they were out of sight of the magi. ‘What have you to say?’
Harshal ali-Assam lowered his keffi, glancing behind him at the stolid faces of iz’Kho’s sons and cousins, framed by the massive walls of the Katlakoz beyond. He almost fancied he saw movement, three shapes rising into the skies, but in the heat and haze it was hard to be sure.
‘I’d say that any man who believes Gurvon Gyle is a fool. And any Amteh man who takes up arms for the Rondian Emperor is a betrayer of his people and his faith.’
Iz’Kho chuckled at his defensive tones. ‘Nevertheless, he offers a great bargain, does he not? From nomads to conquerors; a chance to right old wrongs.’ He smiled wryly. ‘You live in a marble palace, my friend. We live in tents. And yet we’re of the same people. Why should you have so much and we so little?’
‘Jhafi and Harkun are kin, of course,’ Harshal acknowledged. ‘But we’ve been sundered by the Rift for centuries – as you sa
y, we’ve become a sedentary people. We grow crops and build permanent dwellings. We eat different foods, wear different clothes. But our languages remain similar, and so too our faiths. Our conflicts are resolvable without seeking accursed Rondian magi for aid.’
‘But the Rondians offer us lands in the upper realm, something you’ve never given us. If that means some brief cooperation with the Rondians, what of it? In a few years they will tire of Ja’afar’s heat and leave.’
Harshal wondered anxiously how much of this was real and how much was posturing, to wring some further concession. ‘Consider the Nesti counter-proposal,’ he said earnestly. ‘The Regency Council have allowed me to offer your tribal clan favourable trading terms on all goods. We know that some seasons your people struggle. We know that you’ve little or no metal-working, such that most of your armour is boiled leather and a sword is worth more than ten camels. Imagine a future trading with the Nesti for all you need. You could dominate the Harkun plain yourselves, and keep the other tribal clans at bay.’
‘Become clients of the Nesti, in other words.’
‘Partners,’ Harshal countered, ‘working together. Ghujad, you don’t even have schools. Imagine educating your children so that they can make better lives.’
‘Civilising us?’ iz’Kho scoffed.
Harshal took a deep breath. ‘All right, yes, let’s use that word: civilising. There are places on the Harkun plains where you could build, if you knew how. Places where you could create cities like we have. It is in our interest for your people to become more like us, and it’s in your interests too.’
‘Is it?’ iz’Kho rumbled. He gestured back to the great Katlakoz, looming over the plains. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to live in the shadow of that wall, my friend. You loom over us, like the gods of the ancients, judging and finding us wanting. “See the barbarous Harkun, illiterate and savage, wandering the desert like herds of wild kine. They can’t build or grow, they can’t write or count. Just primitives!”’ He reined in his camel and suddenly Harshal was acutely aware of the men behind him.