by David Hair
She opened one eye. Her lips tried to move, but nothing came out. His mind caught the word.
Her mental voice sounded resigned, and horribly faint.
He looked about wildly. ‘GATEEM! GATEEM!’
The novice looked at him helplessly. ‘Already done all I can, Al’Rhon-sahib.>
‘No! No you haven’t! We’ve got to do more—!’ He gripped Cym’s arm, shouting at her as he flooded the wound with all the healing-gnosis he could, skills he’d not learned until recently, from Corinea’s sporadic tutelage.
Stop the blood-loss, reconnect the veins, bind the flesh, seal the wound, cauterise!
All the while he was shouting into her brain,
Her eyelids fell, her head flopped sideways and her gaze emptied.
Alaron stared, disbelieving, as something broke inside him.
Gateem’s face was awash with tears of futility. ‘I can’t do anything more . . .’
‘Then get Lily!’ Alaron cast his eyes upward.
The sorceress arrived a minute later, tight-lipped and angry, Dasra cradled in her arms. She looked at Alaron’s face and her expression softened, and she bent over Cym dutifully, but by now even Alaron could see she’d already gone. And then he realised, when he thought nothing could be worse than what had already happened, that Ramita hadn’t appeared . . .
*
As the ravine opened beneath her, the air ripping past as she plummeted towards the icy rocks and frigid water, it occurred to Ramita that she had never really learned how to fly.
She’d principally been an Earth-mage, until Master Puravai’s teaching had opened her up to the other Studies, and though she’d been broadening her skills in what little spare time she had, flying was one of the more challenging aspects of Air-gnosis.
Below her, Alyssa Dulayne’s aura flashed blue, and suddenly the Ordo Costruo traitor was no longer falling but gliding, heading down the valley. Ramita screamed in fury. She tried to gather the air and control her fall, but nothing made any impression.
‘Then forget flying,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll do it my way.’
She let the Air-gnosis go and called kinesis instead, caught the walls flashing by and used them to push off. The concussion of force against the rock face broke part of it away, starting a small avalanche. Her bones jarred, but now she was hurtling in Alyssa’s wake, swooping down the main path towards an outcropping. She landed on the path some hundred yards behind her quarry and began to run along it in ever-greater bounds, growling in fury.
There was another, darker aspect of the Goddess, beyond even the controlled ferocity of Darikha-ji: Dar-Kana, the embodiment of female rage.
Ramita let the darkest aspect of the Queen of Heaven engulf her from within. She roared in wordless ferocity, and her aura took flesh about her as she grew and changed, pulling weapons out of the air, with extra arms grown to wield them. The transformation was agonising but perversely fulfilling, as she strode on with the thought of that kutti Alyssa getting away fanning the flames of her rage. She rounded a bend in the path with orange flames blazing in one left hand and blue mage-fire in another, while her right hands held ready shards of ice and stone. Her cloak rippled with Air-gnosis and she began to attune to it, leaping a gully and closing the distance to her prey.
‘I’M COMING, ALYSSA!’ she screamed. ‘I AM COMING FOR YOU!’
*
The cry echoing down the valley after her chilled Alyssa Dulayne’s soul. It was a roar of rage, and so enflamed she could feel the heat of it. The words were Lakh, but needed no translation.
I’m coming for you.
She called more Air-gnosis to her, frantically trying to escape.
Ramita Ankesharan isn’t a mage – she’s possessed! Corinea did it – surely that had to be it? Shaitan’s Whore has erased the girl’s humanity and made her into something out of Hel.
Alyssa was certain she was right, but she wasn’t going to stick around to work out the details. She took to the air again, though her exposed skin was frozen from the air streaming over her. Her robes, torn to shreds by her fall, offered no protection. All her ambitions – of bringing Rashid this great prize – were coming apart too.
But we’ll come back, in force and prepared. Then we’ll see . . .
So she ran, swooping over ice and snow toward the skiffs, screaming for help. She’d left a pair of Hadishah to keep the windcraft ready, and Lesharri was here too. Names sprang to mind: Tegeda, good, faithful Tegeda . . . and that pilot . . . Neridho? She couldn’t see him anywhere. ‘Lesharri! Sister!’ she screeched, casting a panicky look about, then seeing her, slumbering on a seat beside the cabin door, ‘Sister! We must flee!’
Lesharri didn’t stir, even though the valley was magnifying a high-pitched scream of rage, like a demoness from Hel, or one of the Bullhead’s Bloodmaidens. Alyssa suddenly felt herself trapped in a nightmare, helpless to affect the outcome.
‘Lesharri?’ Alyssa tugged her sister’s shoulder fearfully, then whimpered as the blanketed figure rolled off the seat and flopped to the icy deck, her throat cut open in a bloody arc, the scarlet fluids frozen over the wound. Alyssa staggered backwards, then looked in utter incomprehension at Tegeda.
Tegeda produced a bloody dagger from behind her back and said, ‘You let Megradh use me.’ Her voice was emotionless, hollow. ‘Ever since I gained the gnosis, I’ve kept myself innocent, and let no man touch me. But you . . . you let him do to me whatever he wanted.’ Her eyes focused beyond Alyssa on a monstrous shape that had appeared at the head of the plateau. ‘The Great Goddess is coming, jadugara: she is going to rip you limb from limb. And even that is not punishment enough.’
Alyssa stared at her, uncomprehending. How can she turn on me? she thought, bemused. Everyone loves me!
Then a roar of triumph came, alarmingly close, and she turned to face Ramita – but whatever was rampaging through the snow towards them was no longer the girl she’d known. It was something from the Lakh pantheon: a twelve-foot-tall four-armed black-skinned giantess. Alyssa snatched at Air-gnosis and threw herself sideways just as the Ramita-thing hurled a spear of ice, carving through her shields as if they were gauze and slashing an inch-deep gouge in her hip. She landed near one of the skiffs and darted away again, terror lending her the wings to fly as the Ramita-monster shot fire at her. The skiff was engulfed in flames but Alyssa evaded the centre of the blast by an instant. She cartwheeled across the snowy plateau, shrieking in terror as a crossbow bolt shattered against her shields – not Ramita, this time, but Tegeda, and she was already cranking the weapon for the next shot.
I don’t understand . . . Tegeda never said—
Then a gigantic leap brought Ramita to her, and though Alyssa leaped skywards, a huge taloned hand shot out and raked her back. Pain lanced through her as flesh and muscle was shredded. Then a colossal weight landed on her – a massive foot, smashing into her back – and she heard her spine crack.
Alyssa blacked out on a numbing wave of emptiness.
*
The goddess screamed in triumph and slashed her prey’s back, the razor-sharp claws shredding cloth and flesh. Her mouth slavered as she gripped the fallen witch’s face, ripping at skin then gripping her blonde hair and wrenching. The scalp came away and her talons tore through right to the skull.
Then she realised that her prey was unconscious and paused, disappointed; there was no joy to be had from her in that state. She moaned, and cast about angrily. But her fury faded, until Ramita regained some degree of self-awareness.
Then memory of the carnage she’d left behind in the monastery overcame her, and she heard a silent wail of desolation from her new husband, a cry of loss that penetrated her inner raging storm. The moment for rage had passed – the intensity was unsustainable.
Dasra needs me. Alaron needs me.
As the goddess’ power ebbed away, so did her shape and Ramita shrank back to her own form. Her own clothes had been ripped to pieces and the icy winds began to bite. She dropped the bloody blonde scalp in disgust and wrapped her arms about her, panting heavily.
‘Lady?’ said a timorous voice in Lakh.
She turned, startled and frighted, to see another Hadishah, just twenty feet away, a crossbow in her hands. But before she could gather her gnosis, the serious-faced young woman fell to her knees in the snow and began babbling, ‘I am no enemy of yours, Lady Dar-Kana! My name is Tegeda: I was Omali before the Amteh took me! Please let me serve you!’
INTERLUDE
The Vexations of Emperor Constant (Part 5)
On Monarchy
What is a king? Someone not just bred and raised to reign over others, but divinely ordained to do so? Or is he a despot clinging grimly to power, hammering down those who threaten him? Or is he just a figurehead, someone the truly powerful can agree upon for stability’s sake, so that they can get on with their own agendas?
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, HEBUSALIM, 884
Pallas, Rondelmar, on the continent of Yuros
Summer 927
1 Year until the Moontide
The room fell silent, and for a few seconds, everyone looked reflective, their gaze turned inwards. The Plan had been laid out: the cards were on the table and they were more or less in agreement. This was the culmination of months of preparation, secret meetings between individuals, and no little wining and dining. Gurvon Gyle picked up his goblet, noticed with considerable disappointment that it was empty and put it back down again. He needed something considerably stronger than watered wine.
If there really were gods, any now listening to us would be appalled, he thought as he silently reviewed the meeting.
I’m going to seize Javon, then hand it over to the Dorobon. He smiled privately at that. Well, maybe. He could sense opportunities there. The Rondian Empire underestimates Javon; they think that just because the Dorobon seized it once, it’ll be easy. They forget that the Dorobon also lost Javon. Perhaps we can capitalise on that. Elena will have a view. He shied away from thinking about Elena. Their relationship wasn’t what it once was.
After Javon, we send the Duke of Argundy into a trap. He wondered if they could rely on Rashid Mubarak to fulfil his side of the bargain; he suspected more likely Echor would just be weakened. There was no way the Keshi would be able to defeat a trained Rondian army.
It’s Naxius and his soul-stealing that worries me. What a Hel of a thing! Naxius is dangerous . . .
And then this final act: the destruction of the Leviathan Bridge. Even though he and Belonius Vult had conceived the whole plan, he was still stunned at the immensity of it. To destroy the Ordo Costruo’s great construction was one thing, but to also lift the ocean floor and restore the isthmus? That would be truly astounding. The world would be so profoundly changed he could scarcely encompass it.
His eyes roved the room, assessing what each stood to gain.
Belonius Vult, his friend – well, so-called. Bel was an adept courtier, and was no doubt already angling for a bigger role. After all, the emperor would be requiring some special envoys and legates as the Crusade began.
For Tomas Betillon and Kaltus Korion it was another chance to plunder the East and fatten already bulging treasuries. But will Korion be content to remain subservient to a young – and immature – emperor? he wondered.
Calan Dubrayle played his hand close to his chest, but the treasurer had revealed hitherto unsuspected links to Belonius too. Wars were notorious for bankrupting the state while enriching well-placed individuals, and Dubrayle’s allegiances were distinctly murky.
Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther had been withdrawn, only becoming passionate about distracting things, playing the clergyman role even when it made the others impatient. It was tempting to write him off as a buffoon, but fools didn’t rise so high in the Church. He’ll have some angle too, I’m sure of it.
He turned next, unwillingly, to Erwyn Naxius. The old Ordo Costruo traitor was nodding his way like a senile dodderer, but when their eyes met, Gurvon saw reptilian cunning. How much of Vult’s contributions to the plan can be attributed to Naxius? he wondered, keeping his lips fixed in a light smile.
Finally, he studied Emperor Constant and his mother Lucia, because really they needed to be considered together. Constant couldn’t rule without his mother’s guidance, and Lucia would have no role without her son on the throne. If this plan went as planned, they would become unstoppable: masters of both Yuros and Antiopia. The thought gave Gurvon no pleasure, but the rewards that were promised did: a lifetime’s worth of gold. Yes, crime did pay, if you did it properly. But what really excited him were the two things one couldn’t buy – well, not exactly: immunity from prosecution, and a hereditary title, finally allowing him to join the aristocracy. At a stroke, he would become one of the great of the empire, with the seniority to force the old pure-blood families to give him at least the semblance of respect. And if Elena wasn’t with him in that lakeside manor they’d always dreamed of . . . well, she wasn’t the only woman in the world.
Betillon’s rough voice broke the silence. ‘I have a question,’ he said, looking at Lucia. ‘We all understand that the emperor will be unrivalled after this plan is brought to fruition, and we all rejoice in that. But what reward do we personally derive? We in this room, that is.’
Gurvon was a little surprised: Betillon prided himself on being a man who told things as they were, but this was pushy, even for him. Lucia looked at the Governor of Hebusalim with an amused surprise on her face, which Gurvon instantly distrusted. Lucia was seldom genuinely surprised or amused. ‘Ah, Tomas! We can always trust you to bring venal self-interest to the table.’
‘Spare me, Lucia! Look around the room: we’re the kings of venality, all of us! We all want to better ourselves; we want to rise when you rise! That’s why we’re here, working for you! We all know it, even if I’m the only one with the balls to say it!’
‘If it takes balls to speak like a Tockburn thug, then I’m glad I don’t have any,’ Lucia retorted. ‘What further reward do you imagine you deserve, friend Tomas? You’ve already been promised yet another king’s ransom.’
‘The Ascendancy,’ Betillon replied, and the room fell silent – a different sort of silence than before. Everyone was shocked . . . and more than a little curious.
The Ascendancy! Hel’s Belles . . . Gurvon realised he was sitting there open-mouthed, and he closed it at once. Yes, please!
‘All of our lives,’ Betillon continued, ‘we’ve had the Scytale of Corineus dangled above our heads like a carrot on a stick. “Be a good, loyal subject and the emperor will reward you!” Well, here we are, handing you the world on a platter. Who could be more worthy of Ascendancy than we in this room?’
Kaltus Korion was now nodding along to Betillon’s words, and the rest, whilst loathe to risk siding with such a confrontational approach, were most certainly intensely interested.
‘My dear Tomas, even I have not been permitted to Ascend,’ Lucia replied slowly.
‘And why is that?’ Betillon affected confusion, perhaps genuinely. ‘You’re a Living Saint, Mater-Imperia. If anyone deserves the honour, surely you do?’
It’s a damned good question, Gyle thought, although I’m not sure I’d ask it myself.
‘The Keepers decide on whom the Ascendancy is bestowed, not I,’ Lucia replied, clearly wanting the subject closed. The Keepers – the mysterious group of surviving Ascendants – answered to no one, not even the emperor. They had no other role in society except to guard and preserve the Scytale.
‘Don’t giv
e us that shit,’ Betillon snapped. ‘If we’re going to conquer all of Urte for my Lord Emperor, the Ascendancy is the least we deserve!’ He looked around the table, but only Korion was showing open support. His face changed as it finally dawned on him that he might have overstepped.
Gurvon glanced at Belonius Vult, who had a strange look on his face, as if he knew something pertinent.
I must ask him what he knows later.
Lucia’s voice was brittle. ‘I’m sure that if we’re successful, the Keepers will consider us all closely.’
‘I want to hear that from one of them,’ Betillon declared, but Korion touched his arm warningly.
Lucia eyeballed Betillon unflinchingly. ‘Enough, Tomas. The Keepers stand apart. It’s not my decision.’
The tension remained for a few moments, then Betillon sat back, grumbling under his breath. Gurvon was watching Lucia’s eyes. There’s something she’s concealing about this matter, he thought, and I think Betillon just earned himself a knife in the back when the time is right.
‘Mother, we’re due in chapel soon,’ Constant interjected. ‘Are we finished here?’
‘Yes, we are,’ Lucia replied firmly, as the men facing her gave up the matter of the Ascendancy and relaxed. ‘Gentlemen, thank you for your time. In particular I wish to thank Governor Vult and Magister Gyle. We now have a stratagem: no victory can be won without one. Let the thanks of the emperor be recorded.’
Betillon, Korion, and Dubrayle made perfunctory murmurs while Naxius smiled benevolently. Constant just looked like he badly needed to pee.
Everyone stood as servants entered with fresh wine. Betillon and Korion were locked in immediate conversation. Wurther hobbled off in the opposite direction to Naxius and Dubrayle, while Constant scuttled out. Lucia glided over to join the two Noromen. Vult bent over her hand reverently, and Gurvon made his best courtier’s bow.
‘Gentlemen, we are all very impressed,’ Lucia told them. ‘Kaltus, Tomas and the others may not act like it, but if they weren’t in full support, your plan would have been ripped up. You men are so competitive,’ she scolded, as if all of womankind were a sisterhood of mutual support.