by David Hair
They’d occasionally dozed, but never for long, not with their blood racing and their heads and hearts pounding. He moved the curtain of long black hair from her neck and kissed it. She felt so small and precious in his arms that he wanted to hold her there for ever. But thinking of for ever brought other thoughts. ‘Why did you ask about widows?’
‘You know why,’ she purred. ‘It will be expected that we marry, if we wish to keep doing this.’ She looked up at him. ‘I presume you wish to, my Goat?’
He kissed her. ‘I do.’
‘Then we must marry.’
So they did, three days later on the next Holy Day. Master Puravai presided over a simple Zain ceremony in which they exchanged pledges of love. The whole monastery came to watch, including the eleven acolytes who’d so far taken the ambrosia. Corinea brought Dasra forward and Alaron pledged to be a father to him, an honour he was determined to live up to. He made the same promise to Nasatya too, although they still didn’t know where he was.
Touchingly, the Zains brought gifts for the newlyweds; Master Puravai gave a leather-bound book that made Ramita very excited. Alaron leafed through the first few pages, but it was all in Lakh and the occasional wood-cuts appeared to picture Omali gods, so he put it to one side for later study. The wedding feast was modest, just a little meat, and sweet-cakes for dessert, with an extra glass of wine for everyone.
They took two nights and one day to cement their new marriage, to just be themselves, Alaron and Ramita, alone together. Around midday they broke the ice around the shutters and stared out at the mountains for a while, but mostly they just lay together, alternately sleeping and coupling. It was the most blissful day of Alaron’s life, the closest thing to the Zains’ moksha that he could conceive: too perfect to last, and all the more precious for being fleeting.
16
Rifts
The Jhafi
The Jhafi were once a Harkun tribe, who escaped the cycle of migration between northern Kesh and southwest Javon to found their own kingdom, Ja’afar. They built towns and started farming crops, giving up the nomadic life to become settled, and they fortified the Rift to prevent their Harkun kin from following and destroying everything they had built. But it was not until the Rimoni came that their nation achieved real prosperity.
SISTER GULSEPPA, SOLLAN SCHOLAR, JAVON, 722
The Jhafi were great before the coming of the Rimoni, and we will be great when they have gone to dust.
GODSPEAKER URKUL, INTEMSA, 807
The Katlakoz Rift, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 929
18th month of the Moontide
Another trembling Harkun walked his mount over the brow of the Katlakoz, dropped to his knees and kissed the ground. He removed the blindfold from his horse, swung into his saddle and trotted down to join his fellows, puffing out his chest and feigning nonchalance, as if scaling the barrier that had haunted his people’s nightmares for hundreds of years were no great thing to a man such as he. A minute later another followed.
‘Are we almost done?’ Gurvon asked Rutt, who had a better view.
‘A dozen to go,’ Rutt reported. They’d been watching most of the day from a tower on the Red Fort, the northernmost of the Rift Forts. They were there ostensibly to greet Ghujad iz’Kho, but they were also using the occasion for a show of strength, to deter the Harkun from trying anything stupid with their Western allies, like trying to seize the fort. Staria Canestos’ magi were not just visible, but making occasional flamboyant use of the gnosis to awe the nomads. So far it looked to be working.
‘They hate us,’ Staria noted.
That hadn’t been lost on Gurvon. ‘How many today?’
‘Another three thousand,’ Staria replied, ‘as many as they’re permitted. But there are hordes below still.’
‘Those are just the woman and children, and the old men,’ Rutt replied loftily. He and Staria had an entirely mutual dislike, which was growing now that Rutt was reduced to an insect inside another man’s skull. ‘They’ll be there waiting until their men return victorious: that’s the deal.’
‘I know that,’ Staria snapped back.
Gurvon forestalled further acrimony by raising his hand and pointing to the vast camp outside the Fort. ‘That’s the lot: thirty thousand mounted men, pledged to fight for us in Forensa, after which they’ll move on to Loctis while we deal with Stefan di Aranio in Riban.’
‘If they keep their word,’ Staria said.
‘Which is why I’ve got your full two legions here,’ he reminded her patiently. ‘You’ve got to be the gatekeeper, or we’ll be flooded with these savages and lose control of them. Can you handle it?’
‘Of course. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.’
True enough. ‘Look, this isn’t a last-minute deal thrown together in desperation. I’ve been wooing Ghujad iz’Kho for a year or more. He’ll keep his word.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve finally found true love,’ Staria replied snarkily, ‘but when will we be relieved from this dump? My lads are going half-crazy in this rukking wilderness. We’ve been here for months with nothing to do – except jump. That rukking drop mesmerises you . . . we’ve lost three already. Not to mention that the supplies are always late, and too little—’
‘I’ll look into it,’ Gurvon replied, not really interested. ‘Look, you’re here until the end of the Moontide, so I suggest you keep your men busy. That’s the best remedy for boredom.’
‘I know how to run a legion, Gurv! But this place saps the soul. We really need to rotate—’
‘They can rotate on each other’s fingers,’ Rutt jeered.
‘Why don’t you go find some dung to feast on, scarab-head?’ Staria shot back.
‘Shut it, you two,’ Gurvon sighed. ‘Staria, you’ll be relieved when it’s convenient.’
‘For who? You think you can string my people along for ever? We want what we were promised; we’re not patsies to your ambition!’
Yes, you are. But he put on his most placatory voice. ‘Staria, I promise you, your wellbeing is as important to me as that of Hansi and Endus and everyone else. But we need you here, where you can control the most vital line of communication we have, barring the Krak. You’re absolutely necessary, and that will be recognised. I’ve told you: you’ll have Intemsa after this, a whole city to make into whatever you want. Your own kingdom, effectively. Where else would you get that?’
She lowered her eyes, then said slowly, ‘You’re right.’
‘Thank you,’ he said tersely, impatient now to be gone. ‘In the meantime, stay alert.’ He threw her a salute and walked away, Rutt trailing after him.
‘Staria’s lot are going to be a real problem,’ the Argundian muttered. ‘Once this war’s done, they’ll be a liability.’
‘Yes, maybe, but for now, we need her,’ Gurvon agreed. ‘Someone’s got to control the Rift for us, or we’ll be swamped by screaming fanatical nomads. So this is the best place for her and her froci. If we’re lucky, they’ll all fucking jump!’
*
Staria tapped her fingers on the old stone bulwark, watching one of their windskiffs as it zipped over the Harkun horde, sending panicked riders scattering in all directions. Leopollo, her adopted son, laughed, but she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy the moment.
The young man stretched sensuously. The desert sun, the bane of everyone else, had merely bronzed his cheeks into something even more godlike. He was in his mid-twenties, and beautiful enough that he could make even battered armour look fashionable. ‘Look at all these Noories,’ he grinned. ‘Imagine the mess they’ll make of Forensa.’
Ah, my Leopollo: conscienceless and amoral.
‘Imagine them battering down our walls,’ Kordea replied darkly, which was more along the lines that Staria had been thinking. Lately she and her adopted daughter had more often been of similar mind.
‘They’re primitives,’ Leopollo yawned, ‘no threat, not to us.’ He peered towards Gurvon
Gyle. ‘Are they going already? I thought they were staying the night?’ Leopollo was fascinated by Gurvon, and couldn’t imagine the spymaster wouldn’t be equally entranced by him in return.
‘Mama mentioned that you fancied him and he ran away,’ Kordea snickered. They both laughed and mock-sparred with each other while Staria watched with worried fondness. They were her chosen successors when the time came – and if her senior men were willing to allow it. But they were both problem children. Leopollo was like his father: charming, arrogant and so vain he’d erected statues of himself all over Estellayne. And Kordea’s defensive belligerence got on even Staria’s nerves at times. Neither was ready, not yet. But they had time to mature, she hoped.
‘Listen, you two,’ she said at last, stopping the fight, ‘Gyle is sidelining us. The rest are being given plum cities and the chance to really establish themselves: Paavus at the Krak, Rykjard in Baroz, Frikter . . . maybe Hytel. We’re here.’
‘Let’s seize Intemsa now,’ Kordea suggested. ‘Why wait for Gyle’s permission?’
‘We can’t just abandon the Rift,’ Leopollo countered, ‘not during this season, and not with the Harkun here. We need to wait for them to go south for the summer, so Martrois at the earliest.’
Kordea scowled, knowing he was right. ‘What then?’
‘If we do nothing, we’ll get nothing,’ Staria told them. ‘Leo, go and fetch Capolio and a bottle or two of the scarlo. I think we need to have a long talk about all this.’
Kordea and Leopollo exchanged a look. Capolio was Staria’s spymaster and closest advisor.
‘What are you thinking, Mama dearest?’ Leopollo drawled.
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘You’ll have to see.’
*
Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 929
18th month of the Moontide
Sir Roland Heale reined in and peered at the approaching riders: an Argundian and a Harkun, with a guard each. The Argundian was Hans Frikter, commander of Argundia XX, a royal legion that went rogue after the messy end to a recent invasion of Estellayne; it now operated as a mercenary unit. Frikter was a big, dour man riding a giant Argundian warhorse. Heale wrinkled his nose; he disliked Argundians for any number of reasons, and having met Frikter in Brochena and shared a few pints of ale, he’d concluded that the man was a buffoon.
But at least they’re real men, not like Staria Canestos and her froci.
The nomad was the first Harkun that Heale had seen. He was heavily wrapped in robes, his face only clear when they got close enough to speak. Scars disfigured Ghujad iz’Kho’s already shifty visage, and Heale felt his inclination to dislike him solidify; partly due to the rumour that iz’Kho had beheaded a Nesti envoy. Heale had little time for men who flouted laws of parley. Such laws had to be obeyed or all would revert to chaos.
‘Greetings, Sir Roland!’ Frikter boomed as he dismounted and they went through the usual ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ backslapping before turning to the Harkun. Heale had to endure having his cheeks kissed and his back patted by the sinister Noorie.
I’ll have to wash after this, he found himself thinking. ‘How many of your people have come, Lord iz’Kho?’ He had no idea if that title was the correct term of address, and didn’t care. He thought it higher than the dirty nomad deserved.
‘Thirty thousand, as agreed,’ iz’Kho replied, his Rondian awkward. ‘We have many more. Our riders long for Jhafi blood.’ He didn’t appear to be speaking metaphorically.
‘Let me show you the city,’ Heale offered, and led them up a slope to a vantage point overlooking Forensa. The Nesti capital shimmered in the heat-haze. Like many cities in Javon, Forensa had spread beyond its walls and before them was a ramshackle maze of abandoned Jhafi huts of mudbrick that had been burned out by Heale’s men as the army advanced. There was a clear space before the walls, which were of a pale brown sandstone that glinted as if powdered in gold; the battlements were festooned with violet Nesti banners, and red ones too, for the Kestrians from Loctis.
‘What are we facing?’ Frikter asked.
‘We estimate no more than twenty thousand Rimoni soldiers inside,’ Heale replied. ‘The Rimoni are experienced in close-formation fighting, like we are. They also have Jhafi archers, akin to your own people, Lord iz’Kho.’
‘Only akin as the donkey is to the horse,’ iz’Kho sniffed. ‘They are weaklings, city-bred beggars who have lost their pride.’ He was chewing a wad of brown-orange betel-leaf that turned his spittle a dirty colour. He hawked and spat messily.
Disgusting peasant. Heale looked away and pointed towards the city again. ‘Within the walls, the buildings are generally several storeys high, the streets are narrow and there are many canals. Once we get inside, it’ll be messy. And then there’s the Krak al-Farada, the Nesti castle. We’ve been constructing siege-engines – towers and catapults – to get us inside that.’
‘Who for, yourselves, or to share?’ Frikter grunted.
Heale frowned. ‘For us Dorobon, of course. You should have thought of that before you marched. We’ll breach the walls, then we all go in together.’
‘We will not be able to take horses in there,’ Ghujad iz’Kho commented.
‘None of us will. It’ll be street-fighting, hand to hand.’ Heale doubted the Harkun would relish that. ‘We Dorobon will take the north flank. Hans, your men will launch from here, the western side. Lord iz’Kho, deploy between us and assail the northwest.’
Frikter pointed. ‘What are those peaks east of the city? Can we get men up there?’
‘Not without a major engineering project,’ Heale replied. ‘The cliffs are sheer and treacherous. Essentially, it’s impassable.’
‘There’s a road through them leading to the fourth Rift Fort,’ iz’Kho said. ‘With magi aid, my people could seize it and assail Forensa from the rear.’
Meaning you’d be able to slip tens of thousands more of your men into the upper plateau. I don’t think so.
‘No. We will take Forensa with what we have,’ Heale replied stiffly. ‘Lord iz’Kho, your tribesmen’s role will be as archers, until the walls are breached. Thereafter, what you do in the city is your business. But the Nesti palace is for the Dorobon to plunder, and the Nesti family are to be our prisoners, as agreed.’
‘Of course. Though in the midst of battle, there is always confusion.’
Heale looked at Frikter for support, but the Argundian looked away.
Because he knows what the real fight is here.
It was a sobering thought: Frikter might have white skin and speak with a familiar accent, but in truth, he was the real enemy here. The Nesti held the walls, but they were chaff; iz’Kho might be unsettling, but he and his savages were no real threat. It would be Frikter’s Argundians the Dorobon really had to worry about.
‘Let this battle be a model of future cooperation,’ Heale proposed. ‘Then we can all have a drink and go home.’
Frikter laughed, but iz’Kho murmured, ‘You are both a long, long way from home.’
Next morning, the catapults were rolled forward and the assault began.
*
The Krak al-Farada had been built on a spur of the mountains behind the city, about half a mile from Forensa’s outer walls. It was the best vantage for Cera to witness the destruction of her city. The seige had been underway for more than a week now. Sometimes Timori and a flock of counsellors joined her; other times it was just Tarita and her, watching the Rondian catapults destroy everything she loved. The crunch of every hurled boulder on the distant city walls seemed to ripple through her tower, until she was convinced it too would collapse.
Today, it was just she, Tarita and her confessors watching.
Despite the distance, all of her senses were assailed: the stench of fire mixed with nauseating wafts of burnt flesh and the roiling miasma of wrecked sewers. She could taste the smoke from the burning buildings in the back of her throat – the Rondian catapult loads had so
me gnostic-power built into them that made them explode in bursts of flame or ghastly clouds of noxious gases, and every explosion shook the ground, reverberating through the city. Then came the dreaded sound of massed clarions, signalling another frontal assault on the battered walls. There had been three, each one coming closer to breaking the defences open.
‘Dear Gods, how can we stop them?’ she whispered.
Tarita squeezed her hand. It wasn’t seemly for queen and maid to do such a thing, but right now she was so scared she couldn’t let go. She didn’t think Tarita was any more composed.
Behind her, Scriptualist Nehlan and Drui Tavis ignored each other, each chanting ostentatious prayers to their gods. Pita Rosco and Luigi Ginovisi had been coming and going throughout the morning, in between coordinating the logistics of war. There was much more to it than placing soldiers on walls: setting up feeding stations, getting newly made arrows to the archers, sending runners to keep the commanders informed, overseeing the dousing of fires and bolstering of weak points, and much else.
She was proud of her people: every citizen was playing their part, be that on the walls, hurling javelins and firing arrows, or dousing flames, bearing supplies, or tending the wounded, and so much else. What they lacked in training and equipment they made up for in courage and numbers. Conventional wisdom might say that only one in ten of a city’s populace could fight effectively; the rest, the women and children, the aged, the infirm and the crippled, and those unsuited in other ways, being nothing but a nuisance. But when faced with extinction – which they all knew was what they were threatened with – even those who thought war beyond them had come forward. The Rondians might just be here to conquer, but the Harkun tribesmen were here to exterminate every single Jhafi. That left no room for shirking; it was fight, or die.
The losses were atrocious. With so many working in the space behind the walls, the Rondian catapults and Harkun archers couldn’t help but kill every time they loosed their weapons. But they were taking their own toll as well: every man or woman who could draw a bow was firing back – poorly, no doubt, but the enemy were so numerous and tightly packed that even the meanest shot hit often enough.