by David Hair
More arrows flew, thudding into Perle’s shoulder and leg, and more crackled off Nytrasia’s shields. The cord linking her to Perle glowed brighter as she poured more energy into him, seeking desperately to keep him alive.
Ramon dived for the space between her and her son, sent raw energy into his blade and severed the link, and both Revenant and Necromancer convulsed, momentarily dazed – then Ramon swung his sword and chopped with all his strength into the back of Perle’s neck. The blade carved right through; his head rolled off and sluggish blood ran from the stump.
Nytrasia screamed and fell to her knees.
A dozen steps, taken in two heartbeats, and Ramon rammed his shortsword up under her chin and out through the top of her skull. She stared up at him, a grotesque vision he cut short by kicking her off the blade and punching it through her breastplate and into her heart. He still wasn’t done, not until he had spotted the scarab that darted from her mouth and stamped on it until it was nothing more than a smear amidst the stones.
He looked up to see Silvio Anturo and Tomasi Fuldo and half a dozen other men rising from vantage points on the right. All were carrying bows, with arrows nocked and ready—
Fuldo raised a hand and they lowered their aim. ‘Ramon, are you all right?’
‘Si, Tomasi!’ Then Ramon whirled about, crying, ‘My daughter—?’
He found Severine down a small cleft. He thought at first she was alive, until he got close enough to see that the front of her chest had been blown open, her ribs laid bare. He fell to his knees, aghast, then turned with murderous intent. The Dokken, Delta, was lying on his back, also burned, but still alive and breathing raggedly. Behind him, whimpering blindly, was Julietta. Ramon swept her up, shaking, and hugged her to him.
Delta groaned and rolled over, looking up at him. In ruined hands he held a big, blackened chunk of crystal. He was staring at it, a drawn, haunted look on his face.
‘Hold,’ he whispered in Rondian. ‘I surrender.’
‘Surrender?’ Ramon echoed, as a red flame roared in his heart. ‘You don’t get to surrender, bastido! You just killed the mother of my child!’
Delta looked up at him, his lugubrious eyes pleading. ‘It was not me – I swear this! The crystal flared when she touched it—! It was none of my doing! Please, mercy . . . When she touched the crystal, she broke the bindings on me. I am finally free of them!’
Ramon’s desire to strike didn’t abate, but he managed to rein it in and asked, ‘What do you mean, free?’
‘Free of the Inquisition! Please, mercy!’ Delta’s eyes narrowed with recognition. ‘I remember you – from the camps.’
‘Then you’ll know why there can be no mercy. You’ve killed thousands of innocents, you pezzi di merda.’ Ramon raised his hands. ‘You leave me no choice.’
‘No! No! You don’t understand – I want to help you.’
‘Help me what?’
‘Help you fight the Inquisition!’
30
Ebensar Heights
The Moontide Economy
Since the Ordo Costruo completed their bridge, a new phenomenon has entered the empire: the boom-and-bust cycle of the Moontide. For two years in twelve, money flows in rivers, the wealthy speculate madly on all manner of goods and the prices of everything from grain to timber to gold itself spikes to insane levels. Afterwards comes the fall, leaving new victors and new casualties in the eternal struggle for wealth. It is in its way as devastating as any military action.
TREASURER CALAN DUBRAYLE, LETTER TO EMPEROR CONSTANT, PALLAS, 918
Ebensar Heights, Zhassi Valley, on the continent of Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) 930
21st month of the Moontide
Kaltus Korion was a worried man, and those worries were mounting by the day.
His army was dug in on the Ebensar Heights, a range of hills on the western slopes of the Zhassi Valley. Ebensar was the westernmost point he could safely occupy without risking inundation when the Bridge was destroyed and the floods came. The position was secure and his army was strong, but everything else was falling apart.
His main concern was feeding his men. The caravans from Hebusalim and the west had stopped far earlier than planned; those from Javon had ceased as well – Tomas Betillon had been knifed in the back, metaphorically or literally, it really didn’t matter which – by that snake Gurvon Gyle. The details were sketchy, but it was clear that Gyle had betrayed them. Unsurprising, but it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
It got worse, though: something complicated had happened, the sort of shit Calan Dubrayle had prophesied, and as a result the traders would only accept gold . . . but his army had none left. He’d had to commandeer the last three caravans and hang the traders who protested, but the result of that had been no more caravans. His army had about a month’s food left, if they went on short rations, and then they’d be down to eating their mounts. Some units already were.
We’re fucked. Invincible, and fucked.
It wasn’t even as if his troubles ended there. That idiot Jongebeau’s reports had arrived: the Inquisition and Kirkegarde men sent from Vida to crush the deserters led by his former son had been massacred.
My son has betrayed the empire.
For years, Seth had been a disappointment – no, worse, an embarrassment: timid, overly sensitive, prone to tears, despite everything he had done for him. I tried to bring him up hard, to make him strong. It’s his mother’s fault.
The boy had been ridiculously eager to please, and always overreaching – always trying to show off, by leaping a pond or rose-bush, and always ending up in a squalling pile, while Kaltus fumed and his friends tried not to titter.
The reports coming out of the south, of a trek across enemy territory, cunning ruses and daring manoeuvres, heroic attacks and steely defensive lines? Those weren’t his son. Seth wasn’t capable. And in any case, just like those stupid pratfalls of his childhood, these deeds brought no pride, no honour to the Korion name, just shame.
He’s doing all this to spite me. People will think we’re in collusion . . . The Treasury Arch-Legate, Hestan Milius, was demanding that he bring Seth’s people to heel, insisting that staggering amounts of gold were at stake. I have to take a direct hand in this. I must be seen to serve the empire loyally.
He turned to his aide, who frankly would have made a better son. ‘Tonville, send in General Bergium.’
Tonville saluted, and a few seconds later he ushered in old Rhynus Bergium, who threw him a laconic salute and stumped over to a chair. Rhynus was permitted such laxity; he’d earned it.
‘My friend, we have a crisis,’ Kaltus told him. ‘I have to deal with it myself.’
He quickly outlined what was required to pen the deserter legions and bring them to heel. Bergium was, quite understandably, concerned at being left behind with a weakened army, especially one which was about to go to starvation rations.
‘You’re going to leave me here and take our best men south? When the Moontide has only four months left to run?’ Bergium shook his head in disbelief. ‘Rashid Mubarak has a million Noories on the plains below!’
‘Don’t worry, my friend. We’ve got good men, well dug in, with plenty of magi and archers. You must hold these highlands against the Keshi – it’s simple enough.’
‘And you’ll take all the strike units?’
‘That’s right: all the khurne cavalry, and most of the aerial units. I’ve got to prevent these deserters from seizing Bassaz: they’re going to occupy the city and declare themselves independent.’
That was a fiction: but he needed an excuse to march out and grab that gold. No doubt the Imperial Court was wondering aloud why the sons of Kaltus Korion and Calan Dubrayle were leading the renegades – that spelled PLOT to anyone with half a brain. I must be seen to deal with this threat myself, he repeated to himself.
Bergium looked uncomfortable, but said, ‘Do what you need to, Kaltus. An ugly business, no doubt, but you must do what is right.’<
br />
‘Thank you, my friend. I knew I could rely on you.’
Once Bergium had gone, Kaltus sighed heavily. It made no sense to him, that someone with his blood could be such a lesser creature. Seth Korion – no, Fetallink. It had to be his mother’s fault. That was the only thing that made sense. She’d never been worthy of him.
The next morning he took three fully mounted legions – fifteen thousand men, the teeth and claws of his army – and began the march south. The khurne cavalry were the least of the beasts. There were more than four thousand war-hounds, each as intelligent as the khurnes. Eighteen Inquisitor Fists, all mounted on venators. And even they were dwarfed by his newest weapon, just arrived at the front from the Pallas Animages: two Drakken, winged construct-reptiles bred with the power of Fire-gnosis. They’d flown for the first time at Mater-Imperia’s sanctification two years ago. Now they were flying into battle.
My former son will see his deserters reduced to ash.
*
Three weeks after Kaltus Korion’s force departed, Rhynus Bergium started awake from a semi-slumber. Ebensar Ridge lay quiet beneath a full moon so bright it glowed through the canvas like a giant eye through gauze. He’d nodded off at his desk and spilled red wine was soaking into a stack of unsigned orders. It took him a moment to realise that he’d been woken by a gnostic call.
The whisper was coming through the relay-stave on the table, Bergium realised blearily. The voice was unfamiliar, but only someone who knew the family sigil of the First Army’s Commander could reach the staff Kaltus had left behind. So he composed himself, then grasped the wooden rod.
The young man’s voice became irritated.
Bergium replied tersely.
Bergium scowled at this impertinence and almost broke the connection.
Bergium snapped.
The other tutted.
Bergium sat up, suddenly queasy and cold.
A face appeared: young, but possessed of maturity and elegant disdain. It had a familiar stamp, confirmed when the young man said,
Andevarion. Everyone knew the name and the tale of disgrace. But gossip said this one was a prodigy.
But he doesn’t look like an Inquisitor, the general thought. His hair and beard were unkempt, and his skin so dark he could have passed for a Noorie.
Malevorn’s shimmering face smiled coldly.
Bergium glanced at the map. Sukkhil-wadi . . . ? There! Guarding a road into the heights, not crucial, but important enough. Pallacios IV, a fine veteran legion, occupied that region: ten maniples spread over the key strategic points. It was likely that a maniple would be occupying the castle, certainly, but he’d need to read through the old despatches to verify that.
Malevorn Andevarion smirked.
Bergium stared into the space where the young man’s face had appeared, perplexed and disturbed. He wanted to put it down to drunkenness or some kind of prank, but something about the conversation had been unnerving. He looked again at the map, at that isolated dot. Sukkhil-wadi. He called his duty mage-adjutant with a sharp mental touch and the man shambled in a few moments later, slapping himself awake. ‘Sir?’
‘Contact the garrison commander at Sukkhil-wadi – tell him to be on his guard.’
The aide saluted again, puzzled, but not inclined to question, and set up a scrying bowl. Bergium poured himself another mug of wine and watched the young man cast his spells. Within a few minutes it was clear that the battle-mage stationed at Sukkhil-wadi wasn’t responding. It took longer to establish enough of a fix on the location for someone to scry it – instant scrying usually required first-hand knowledge of a place. That took more time, and before it happened, a ripple of distant power rolled across all of their senses. Then they ran into wards the adjutant’s scrying couldn’t penetrate.
By then Bergium feared the worst.
It wasn’t until dawn that a windskiff reached the fortress at Sukkhil-wadi. He reported that the keep and all the adjacent town, even the ancient Dom-al’Ahm on the ridge, had been destroyed as if melted from above. Every man, woman and child, Rondian and Noorie alike, had been incinerated.
The next contact from Malevorn Andevarion came soon after.
Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) 930
21st month of the Moontide
The sails of the wind-dhou caught the breeze and Alaron stood with Ramita at the side, waving to Master Puravai. A young woman standing beside the old monk held Dasra, who was waving brightly, not understanding that this parting might be for weeks, even months . . . perhaps for ever.
Alongside the dhou, a trio of Keshi windskiffs rose, bearing their new Merozain Bhaicara and piloted by those most skilled in Air-gnosis. Despite their teachings, few of the young Brothers had gained more than a touch of anything outside the core disciplines – that was understandable: they’d had only a few months, not studied for years in the Arcanum like Alaron had, or spent eighteen months with the focused learning that Ramita had received. The subtleties might be beyond them – for months, years, even – but all of them had Ascendant-level strength, and they could shield, imbue destructive gnosis into their staff and throw a mage-bolt of considerable power. None could claim the title “Savant” yet, but they were already formidable, and their skill and knowledge were constantly growing.
But we’re still hardly ready to take on Malevorn and his ilk . . .
When they felt concussive bursts of force in the aether from far to the northeast, they knew they’d run out of time.
Corinea, scrying at the time of the second explosion of force, recognised something in the gnostic signature. ‘Your Enemy has acted,’ she said confidently. ‘I’m not sure where; the mountains have distorted the direction of those blasts – but he has done something. If he continues to use such force we will find him swiftly once we’re clear of the mountains and can scry properly.’
She wouldn’t say why, but she was now eager to go. Alaron and Ramita conferred with Master Puravai, who gave his permission to take the Merozain Bhaicara to war.
Ten Brothers shared the dhou with Alaron, Ramita, Corinea and Tegeda; all took their turn piloting, guided by Tegeda who knew more about how to fly a wind-vessel than any of them. Each of the three skiffs held three Brothers, bringing their party to twenty-three. This signified a return from isolation t
o a world the young Zains had renounced once, but their spirits were high. Even Corinea was alight with anticipation.
At long last, they were off to find their enemies.
31
Delta’s Tale
Slave Uprisings
The most bloody slave uprising against the Rimoni Empire took place at Tetrusium, in Lantris. The Rimoni there had taken shipment of a whole tribe of Sydian nomads, underestimating their bloodthirsty sense of independence. At a hidden signal, the Sydian slaves rose against their masters, then fled into the wilds. Surrounded on a mountainside, they took their own lives rather than surrender.
ANNALS OF PALLAS, 498
Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22nd month (of 24) of the Moontide
A circle of magi sat around the Dokken, their faces rapt. The branded man displayed no fear – but then, he’d likely seen more fearsome foes than the magi of the Lost Legions. They’d been listening to the Souldrinker for more than an hour as he revealed what the Inquisition had been doing with the Keshi and Dhassans in the death-camps, and how the khurnes and other constructs came to be so intelligent.
They were all appalled by his tale.
Delta had a real name – Hul Vassar – but he preferred the name branded onto his forehead, almost as if he’d forgotten how to be that other person. He was of Schlessen descent, with the trace of a forest accent. Perhaps the most horrifying thing was that he’d been bred in captivity.
‘But it was the Inquisition who decreed that all Dokken must die,’ Lanna Jureigh repeated, still stunned by everything she’d heard.
‘So they don’t always play by their own rules,’ Ramon replied. ‘Who’d’ve thought?’