by David Hair
Thus far they were managing to keep the enemy magi at a distance, but no one was fooled; the magi weren’t leading the assault because they didn’t have to. The catapults and the archers were doing enough. It had been eight days now and the dead were stacked two- and three-deep in the mass graves, and every day they were digging more. The outer walls were teetering, and unless something changed, the enemy would be through the breaches within a day or two.
Seir Ionus Mardium was dead, his whole command group torn apart by exploding catapult stones. Camlad a’Luki was gone too, blasted by a precise mage-bolt from a skiff that swooped unexpectedly overhead: young Saarif Jelmud, a kinsman of Camlad, was now coordinating the Jhafi fighting men. Justiano di Kestria was commanding the western walls now, against the mercenaries and the bulk of the Harkun. Piero Inveglio was directing the northern defences against the Dorobon and more Harkun. They’d given up any hope of reinforcements from Riban – the last missives from Stefan di Aranio made it clear that the defence of his own city was paramount to him, despite the fact there was no Rondian army within fifty miles of his walls.
Cera was wondering if it were time for her next Regency Council meeting when Tarita glanced up and gasped a warning. Cera saw a shadow flit across the rooftops and looked up to see a square-sailed skiff. For a moment her heart sang, that it might be Elena and Kazim returned to her, then blue fire seared towards her.
She couldn’t stop herself opening her mouth to shriek, but a web of light blossomed around the entire cupola and the mage-bolt frayed into jagged skeins of light. Someone had warded the tower, she realised dimly as she grabbed Tarita and pulled her towards the stairs, where the two clergymen were standing like startled statues. Someone shouted in Rondian and a young man leapt from the skiff, sword drawn. He pushed through the wards, his face alive with adrenalin and adventure.
‘Cera Nesti, I deem,’ he greeted her in Rimoni, smiling rakishly. His blade extended towards her and light flashed from his hands, sealing the doors. The skiff circled the tower and she could see the pilot grinning excitedly. ‘You’re coming with me, Lady.’
‘No!’ Drui Tavis shouted, launching himself into the space between them and immediately staggering backwards as the mage’s sword blurred into and out of his chest. The young Sollan priest toppled backwards and rolled onto his side. ‘My Lady,’ he croaked, then his face emptied as Cera stared in shock.
Tarita pulled a knife from inside her robes and put herself between the young mage and her queen as Scriptualist Nehlan shouted for aid, hammering on the doors, but they crackled with light and didn’t budge an inch. The mage stepped closer.
With a dignified lift of the head, Nehlan also interposed himself between the Rondian and his queen. ‘Then you must kill me also.’
‘If you insist,’ the Rondian said offhandedly, and blasted another mage-bolt, this one into Nehlan’s chest. The Scriptualist reeled, hit the ledge and slid to the ground. Cera fought a wave of faintness, choked a sob and straightened her back as Tarita brandished her knife fearfully.
The mage looked at Tarita with an amused face and raised his hand again. ‘Don’t waste your life, girl.’
Tarita lifted her knife defiantly, but Cera shouted, ‘No! Please – I will come—!’
Then a fork of pale light blasted off the Rondian’s shields and he staggered backwards, turning as a muscular arm reached over the top of the battlements and a face out of nightmares snarled at him: a serpentine visage, crested and cowled by folds of scaly green skin. The lamia slithered over the wall of the tower and onto the platform, brandishing an enormous sword.
The Rondian sent blue fire at the creature and the lamia shielded, then lashed out with his tail and flashed forward, smashing his giant blade at the Rondian. Steel belled and sparks flew in a flurry of blows and the two young women backed as far out of reach as they could. Then the Rondian threw himself into the air as the skiff came about again and was snatched away. The craft circled the tower once more and the pilot – his eyes agog at the mythic beasts who were now climbing over the walls – sent his windskiff soaring away, leaving Cera and Tarita shaking with relief.
‘My Lady,’ the serpent-man said in his dry voice, bowing from the waist, but before he could say anything more the wards on the door gave way and the guards burst in. Seeing the lamiae and the two dead clergymen, they raised their weapons and started to rush towards the monsters, but Cera threw herself in front of the lamia.
‘STOP!’ she cried. ‘They saved us!’ Tarita joined her and they held out their arms to protect the serpent-men. ‘These are our allies,’ Cera said firmly, adding, ‘They saved my life. It was not they who killed Tavis and Nehlan . . .’ When she was sure that violence was averted, she fell to her knees over the two holy men, fighting not to wail in grief, and very conscious of the alien eyes of the snake-men watching her.
After a minute, Tarita lifted her to her feet and led her down the steps as a sense of impending doom enveloped her.
She remembered something her father had once told her: that when city walls fall and soldiers pour into the streets, it is as if Hel has come to Urte. He’d seen it from both sides, and it was the look on his face as much as his words that convinced her. The thought of such scenes happening here in Forensa was dreadful, and reasons to hope were becoming fewer and fewer.
She had only one such hope now. Oh Ella, Ella, where are you?
*
Northern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 929
18th month of the Moontide
‘Where are we?’ Elena demanded as the wind swirled tendrils of mist about them and peaks and cliffs flashed by alarmingly close. The air was frigid, visibility almost gone.
Molmar raised a placating hand. ‘Hush; we’re close now.’
She threw Kazim an anxious look, then relayed their position to the windship somewhere in the clouds above. Ice glittered on the ropes and timbers of the skiff and she was frozen despite her gnosis, and terrified they were going to plough into a mountain peak any second. The journey had been like this for days, wearing her nerves to a frazzle, but Molmar claimed he knew this route well.
He’d better be right.
They’d travelled more than a thousand miles – normally just a few days in a windcraft, but these mountains made the journey so much more difficult. Most of the peaks were over nine thousand feet high, higher than it was safe to fly, forcing Molmar to weave a complicated route through a maze of valleys and ravines against a prevailing wind that could swat them like a giant fist at any minute. The thin, freezing air caused altitude sickness – without Molmar, they would never have managed to get this far.
She’d scryed the start of the assault on Forensa before they entered the mountains and lost touch. If their plan went as she hoped, they might be back inside three days – if they flew without rest. She prayed the city would hold out that long.
Her senses penetrated the space ahead of them, feeling out the shape of the air currents and what they implied about the terrain, but as they crossed another ridgeline fresh winds struck their sails, sending them lurching sideways. As Molmar fought the tiller, they dropped through cloud and into a small valley, grey slopes streaked with snow. Molmar put his thumb in the air. ‘This is our landing place!’ he said, with a hint of satisfaction. ‘The breeding-house is in the next valley.’
They landed, and while the two men dragged the skiff into the lee of a stand of boulders, Elena reached out with her mind to the windship above, and a few minutes later it dropped through the cloud and into view. The crew, human and lamiae, were working feverishly together, lowering and tying off the sails, as the craft fell slowly to the earth. The buffeting winds made the landing rough, and they had to lash the craft down quickly.
Elena hurried to greet Kekropius. ‘The breeding-house is in the next valley and we’ve an hour of daylight left to find it,’ she called to the Elder as he dropped from the hull and slithered towards her. ‘Come – we need to hurry.’
Leaving enough men to secure the windcraft, Elena followed Molmar up the far slope with Kekropius’ war-party at her heels. The lamia windship had more than a dozen Air-magi to keep the keel powered, enabling them to carry more than the usual two dozen passengers, and helping it stay aloft for longer, but they were all exhausted, and worried to be so far from home. It showed in Kekropius’ face as he put a hand on Elena’s shoulder. ‘Elena, our stores are almost gone, and my people don’t cope well in these cold places.’
‘We’ll not stay long,’ she promised. ‘We must return to Forensa as soon as possible.’
Please Kore, may we not already be too late!
From the ridge, they surveyed the breeding-house: a large compound set in a square almost three hundred yards across, divided into two clear areas with a central yard. The smaller area contained a blockhouse with tiny slit windows three storeys in height; it had a landing area for windcraft on the roof. The other area had what looked like barracks, exercise areas and stables, all centred around a small Dom-al’Ahm. They could see there were soldiers stationed in the corner towers, but there was an air of complacency that suggested the guards had little to do.
Molmar moved to her side and she turned and smiled at him. ‘Thanks for guiding us here, Molmar.’
‘Lady, I only pray that this is the right thing I am doing.’ He still didn’t sound convinced.
‘Your heart is telling you it is,’ she replied, hoping that really was the case.
‘Perhaps.’ His eyes softened a little. ‘Lady, behold: the blockhouse is where prisoners are confined. The men and women are chained to their beds; they are forced to comply with those arranging the breeding. At any time there are up to sixty magi-prisoners.’ He pointed to the second set of buildings. ‘The other area is for the infants and children. They are cared for here until they are old enough to be sent to the Hadishah training facilities. There are usually at least a hundred children aged up to six, and they are tended by those mothers who are willing breeders.’
‘How many Hadishah are here?’ Kazim asked.
‘It varies,’ Molmar answered. ‘Normally the strongest Hadishah magi come here to mate with the high-blooded prisoners, but this is war-time and right now those Hadishah cannot be spared. It is possible that the fertile women are being transported with the armies, so only the pregnant will be here. Or it may be that the high-blooded come here between battles? I fear I am not privy to that information.’
‘Well, all we can do is go in and hope for the best.’ Elena winced, hating having to act without solid information. ‘Are you sure the Ordo Costruo were brought here?’
‘I transported many myself,’ Molmar replied, stony-faced.
This isn’t easy for him, Elena reminded herself. The breeding programme is for a cause he clearly believes in – and he himself was born in such a place. But he clearly loathes the suffering that is endured here.
‘Where will the strongest Hadishah be?’ she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
‘The top floor of the breeding-houses has a number of luxurious rooms for their comfort,’ Molmar replied. ‘The high-bloods will be there.’
‘Reserved for Rashid and friends, like a high-class whorehouse?’
Molmar looked away again.
She turned to Kekropius. ‘I think we should stick to our original plan, don’t you?’
‘I’m in reluctant agreement,’ the lamia Elder replied. ‘I don’t like the chance you are taking,’ he added, giving Molmar a meaningful look, ‘but we do need to get people inside before the fighting starts if we’re to succeed.’ He gazed at the compound. ‘My ancestors were bred by the Pallas Animagi in places similar to this.’
‘Then it is right you are here to end this one,’ Elena told him. She glanced at Molmar. ‘You’ll play your part?’
The Keshi mage gave an unhappy nod.
*
The skiff came in low, hugging the slope as the winds yowled through the taut rigging like mating cats. They were below the snowline, just, but it was the bleakest place Kazim had ever seen.
He glanced at Elena, her gnostic aura bound up by his own Chain-rune. He’d ached to cast it, for the pain it had caused her, and worse, because it had severed their gnostic bond, leaving the place she normally occupied in his heart and soul empty. It was like a foretaste of her death, and that was hideous. Worse, his own power was also Chain-runed, by Molmar.
But it was the only logical way to get in: Elena was Rondian and if she was to seem to be a prisoner, she had to be Chained. And as a Souldrinker, his own aura would have been unexplainable. But it made them vulnerable, especially as their hands were bound as well.
I can break Molmar’s Chain-rune, he told himself. I’m stronger than he is. But what if he turns against us and enlists aid to prevent me breaking free?
Trust: that’s what it came down to.
They skidded over the walls and slewed towards the blockhouse before skidding into a rough landing on the blockhouse roof. They slid to a halt and looked warily at each other. Molmar busied himself securing the sails while he and Elena sat and waited, playing the part of defeated prisoners.
The doors to the floor below flew open and three robed figures emerged, two men and a woman, clad in black with only their faces bare. They were pale-skinned, but all had a distinctly Keshi caste to their faces.
‘Molmar?’ the leading man called. ‘I’ve not been told of any deliveries—!’
‘Special prisoners, Sadikh!’ Molmar called. ‘The emir wanted it kept quiet.’
‘We should still have been forewarned,’ Sadikh complained. ‘Who are they?’
Molmar smiled darkly. ‘These are Elena Anborn and Kazim Makani.’
The three Hadishah faces went from suspicion to vindictive triumph. ‘They’ve been captured? Ahm be praised!’ Sadikh exclaimed. Kazim and Elena’s killing of Gatoz and his men had clearly reverberated through the Hadishah ranks.
He strode forward, kindling the gnosis in his hands. ‘Well, well, well,’ he murmured, almost salivating. His face had turned so violently ugly that Kazim wondered whether they might not have miscalculated.
What if he just kills us?
The other Hadishah man cupped Elena’s chin and spat in her face. ‘I want first use of this one,’ he growled. Then he turned to Kazim. ‘As for you . . .’ His hand went to his dagger.
‘No, Yimat!’ The woman behind him caught his arm. ‘We’ve been wanting more like him,’ she said in a low voice that was no less hate-filled.
It was plain they knew that he was a Souldrinker. Kazim held his breath as Yimat toyed with his dagger.
‘As you wish, Gulbahar,’ Yimat said resentfully at last, then abruptly he backhanded Kazim across the face. The blow was gnosis-enhanced and Kazim’s head rocked sideways, his mouth filling up with blood. ‘A Rondian screwing a Souldrinker?’ he snarled. ‘Ahm only knows which is the more degenerate.’
The woman Gulbahar went to Elena, grabbed her hair and yanked it brutally. ‘Hello, Bitch. We’ve been longing to get hold of you.’
‘Have a care,’ Molmar put in. ‘She is with child.’
Elena flinched and looked away, so convincingly that Kazim found his heart leaping. What if she is—? But he knew it was a lie; they’d already agreed to say this, to make it less likely they’d abuse Elena on arrival.
Gulbahar added her spittle to Elena’s face. ‘She’s an obscenity,’ she hissed. ‘Pregnant by choice to one of these Souldrinker monsters!’
Soldiers were summoned to manhandle them below while Molmar drew Sadikh aside. Kazim watched worriedly: if Molmar was going to betray them, it would be in the next couple of minutes – it wouldn’t take much, after all, not with them both properly restrained. The pilot’s expression was unreadable, and Kazim found himself increasingly nervous.
The soldiers took them down one level, to the top floor of the blockhouse. A pair of stony-faced guards in armour stared at them, their eyes going round in astonishment, their normal rigi
d discipline overcome by their fascination with the identity of the new prisoners. Someone called aloud for Scriptualist Tahir; the name rang dim bells in Kazim’s memory, but he couldn’t take the time to work out where he’d heard it before, not while Sadikh was whispering to Molmar.
Molmar’s eyes met his, and then he whispered something else in Sadikh’s ear.
Something unseen passed between them, and the grip on Kazim’s arms tightened.
Then a blade was pressed to his throat.
17
Breeding-House
Hadishah
The advent of the Leviathan Bridge had another effect, Majesty – the inciting of many of the heathen Amteh towards a more violent and fanatical expression of their religion. The Hadishah are the most dangerous of these sects, and have committed many atrocities even against their own people. I urge you to send further resources so that we might stamp them out once and for all.
GOVERNOR TOMAS BETILLON, HEBUSALIM, 918
The Jackals of Ahm are as feared by their own people as by the Rondians.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS, 917
Northern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 929
18th month of the Moontide
Elena staggered as the two guardsman wrenched her along the corridor towards a door at the end. As she glanced back at Kazim she saw a hidden web of meaningful glances: Molmar whispering in Sadikh’s ear, the guardsmen looking about with sudden tension on their faces, and blades coming out. Then the men holding her tripped her and shoved her to her knees.
She struggled, trying to twist and catch Kazim’s eyes.
If Molmar doesn’t release him in a moment we’re going to have do this alone.
The doors at the end of the corridor flew open and a tall man dressed in heavy black velvet ceremonial robes emerged. He had a hawkish face and wore a big emerald periapt on his forehead. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘New prisoners? Why wasn’t I told?’