Moontide 04 - Ascendant's Rite

by David Hair

  ‘Tell us about this,’ Seth asked Delta, turning over the blackened but icy-cold lump of crystal the Dokken had worn about his neck. He held it gingerly in a gloved hand – it fit easily in his palm. Despite the scorched exterior, it glowed as if a galaxy swam inside it. Delta claimed to be attuned to it, though it was what had enslaved him.

  ‘It’s made of the same crystals that power the Leviathan Bridge,’ Delta explained. ‘An Ordo Costruo man called Ervyn Naxius brought them to the Imperial Arcanum and taught us how to use them.’

  ‘Ervyn Naxius?’ Ramon looked around, but the name meant nothing to anyone. Seth looked superstitiously scared, but resolved. Gerdhart was in the corner, as far from the avowed enemy of his Church as he could get and still hear him. Even Jelaska was on edge. Only Kip looked relaxed, but then, he had a beer in his hand.

  ‘What does it do?’ Seth asked. ‘It feels inordinately powerful.’

  ‘Like one hundred of your periapts,’ Delta said, ‘that’s what we were told. But they are fatal to use.’

  ‘You’re alive,’ Ramon noted.

  ‘I’m Dokken,’ Delta replied. ‘We can trade a life for a life to sustain ourselves. I needed to take a soul every day I used it.’

  Seth looked sick. ‘We’ve been on this Crusade for nearly two years.’

  ‘I dwelled in the Imperial Arcanum far longer. They brought us men and women sentenced to die for their crimes.’ Delta’s face was enigmatic. ‘There were very many. Rondian society must be full of crime.’

  Gerdhart could contain himself no longer. ‘This creature must die!’ he shouted suddenly, storming into the midst of the pavilion. ‘He has forfeited his right to life a thousand times over, by his own admission! He must die!’

  Seth raised a hand. ‘Peace, Chaplain.’

  ‘I cannot remain silent! He must—’

  ‘I said peace!’ Seth snapped, with a sudden crack of authority they’d never heard from him before. ‘Kore’s Blood! We’ll learn all there is to know here, and then I will decide what happens!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Sit!’

  Gerdhart blinked, then backed to a seat and fell into it.

  ‘Thank you,’ Seth said with a touch of acid in his voice. ‘So, “Delta”, how many of you are there?’

  ‘Attached to the Inquisition? Twenty-six.’

  Ramon did a quick mental calculation and came up with a lot of corpses and khurnes. ‘What are your affinities, Delta?’

  ‘Sorcery and Earth, the same as all those of my Brethren assigned to this mission.’

  A combination that is best for Necromancy: for the leeching and capture of the dead . . . That makes sense. ‘You told me you want to fight the Inquisition. Do you still hold to that?’

  ‘I most certainly do.’

  ‘Neyn! He’s lying,’ Gerdhart snapped. ‘He’s a Souldrinker – he’d say anything to save his life!’

  ‘Let him speak,’ Seth said impatiently, glaring at Gerdhart until he fell silent.

  ‘Thank you,’ Delta said gratefully. ‘Please, hearken. I know that you think us evil – think what you will! – but please know that killing was not a pleasure but something they forced us to do. Know also that we are strongly bonded, we of the Brethren: we live inside each other’s minds, sharing thoughts and emotions. I have suffered, and even now I feel the suffering of those still enslaved. Your Inquisition compelled us to kill – but we do not want this. We want to be free.’

  ‘Free to kill,’ Lanna Jureigh breathed.

  ‘Free to just be.’

  ‘We all know what your freedom means: the death of others.’

  ‘It need not – when a Rune of the Chain is applied. The hunger within us is subdued and we can live just like normal people. That was what we were, before the Inquisition found us, and that is all we want. Believe me. Let me help you.’

  Ramon found the whole room was looking at him – except Kip, who was looking for more ale. ‘I think we would be foolish not to accept his aid,’ he said.

  That decided the matter.

  *

  The next morning Ramon led his cohort northwest towards Medishar to try and purchase supplies. There was no point going right into the city, because the garrison there had apparently rioted a week before, plundering the centre, then burning it to ashes before leaving. But gold was still gold, after all, and everyone, Keshi, Dhassan or Rondian, wanted it badly. Time was running short if they were to make the Bridge by the end of Maicin: it was Aprafor already, and they had only about three weeks of full rations left.

  ‘How’re your men doing?’ he asked Lukaz as they picked their way through yet another dried-well village in the middle of nowhere. Broken-down houses, dried-out rice paddies and fields gone to brown weeds spoke of the ruin that always followed war. Dust coated everything – even the crows had lost interest and gone.

  ‘We’re down to ten of our original twenty,’ Lukaz replied softly. ‘It’s Ferdi the lads miss most; he used to keep ’em laughing with his pranks. But we’re not the kind to look back too far.’

  ‘Tell me, that first javelin thrown at Siburnius . . . that was Bowe, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Might’ve been, sir.’

  ‘He did right, whoever it was. I’d forgotten to signal. You all did well.’ He clapped the cohort commander on the shoulder. ‘Pilus, is there anything you need?’

  ‘Well, I need more men, frankly: we’re operating with four in the front rank, and only two in the second with the long spears, and only one flanker on either side. That means Baden or I have to help the second rank in a scrap – so we lose tactical oversight, and our flanks are exposed. Harmon can likely handle it, but Tolomon’s not so good on his own.’

  ‘I’ll watch that if we’re caught in the open,’ Ramon said. ‘And I’ll talk to Seth about dispersing the under-strength cohorts, maybe having fewer, but each at full strength.’

  ‘Fair enough, sir.’ Lukaz dropped his voice and asked, ‘What’s with the Dokken?’

  Delta had ended up riding with them because he was more forthcoming when talking to Ramon. To ordinary men like Lukaz and his rankers, the Dokken were a fairy tale, mythical bogeymen to frighten children – but this one was real, and evil: all the tales agreed on that.

  ‘I think we can use him to hurt the Quizzies,’ Ramon said.

  Lukaz thought about that, then saluted. ‘That’s good enough for me, sir.’ He glanced at the road ahead, where a dust-cloud was moving fast. ‘Outrider, coming in hard: it looks like Coll.’

  Ramon rode out alone to meet the scout; anyone going that fast had to be bearing bad news. The rough-faced outrider pulled a face. ‘There’s a “delegation” waitin’, ’bout a mile up, wantin’ to speak wi’ yer. Man calls hisself “Arch-Legate Hestan Milius”. Looks like Kore hisself – an’ prob’ly thinks he is.’

  Ramon whistled softly. He knew who Milius was: a very senior Imperial Treasury-man, sent to Antiopia to solve the promissory note issue. He’d already talked to Seth, and demanded Ramon’s arrest. ‘How many men did he have with him?’

  ‘Half a dozen. They’d flown in, I’d warrant: I didn’t see any horses. He an’ this fat guy were the only magi.’

  ‘Did the fat guy have a name?’

  Coll shrugged. ‘Din’ share it wi’ me.’

  Ramon chuckled. ‘All right. I need mage back-up – who’s closest?’

  ‘Kip’s lot,’ Coll replied, pointing out a column of men in the hazy distance.

  Ramon exchanged salutes with the scout, waved Lukaz and his cohort into motion, and they all trotted off to see Fridryk Kippenegger.

  An hour later they found them on a little-used track Coll had found for them, eyeing up a cluster of armed men about a hundred yards away. One heavily robed mage waited between them, sitting on a low bridge.

  ‘Do I need to punch anyone?’ Kip asked. ‘Is it one of those meetings?’

  ‘I wouldn’t: they’ll be pure-bloods. Just look threatening and pretend you’re a half-blood.’

>   ‘Halb-blut? How do I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just look competent.’

  ‘I do that already,’ Kip replied, in a hurt voice. He was clad in his battered leather jerkin and his bulging shoulders and arm muscles were horribly sunburned. He looked like a dragon-slaying hero of northern sagas. ‘Should’ve brought my Bullheads. They look scarier than your men.’

  ‘Your “Bullheads” dress like sheep-fuckers and can’t fight for shit,’ Kel Harmon replied coolly. ‘And they en’t real Schlessens, they’s jus’ playin’.’

  ‘They are my Bullheads,’ Kip rumbled. ‘You say these things to their face, skinny, and see if they can fight.’

  ‘Half o’ ’em is from Kenside in Pallas,’ Vidran sniffed. ‘Dockers, mos’ly.’

  ‘Cunnis, mostly,’ little Bowe added. The hatred fostered between those of the different districts of Pallas was legendary; Lukaz’s cohort were mostly from tough and insular Tockburn-on-Water. Bowe was an odd case: Ramon disliked his views on almost everything, but he was devoted to his cohort, and utterly irrepressible.

  ‘The spirit of the Bullhead makes my men strong,’ Kip sniffed. ‘Not puny like you,’ he added, eyeing the scrawny, rat-faced little man contemptuously.

  ‘That’s enough, you lot,’ Ramon interjected. ‘I’m going to go down there to talk with this mage. If his guards try anything, warn me and we’ll take it from there.’

  The cohort fanned out, finding the best vantage points, while Ramon swung from the saddle and walked down a gentle slope to where a thirty-foot-long stone bridge crossed a dry stream that at best could have been no more than twelve inches deep and three feet wide. It was perhaps the most pointless bridge in Creation.

  Arch-Legate Hestan Milius looked just as Coll had described: like some vision of magi wisdom and majesty plucked from the Book of Kore, where all gnosis was wielded by Imperial Saints. He wore heavy purple robes lined in gold and was sucking in gnostic power, presumably to keep from perspiring or expiring in the desiccating heat.

  His voice was impressively deep. ‘Ramon Sensini, I presume?’

  The Arch-Legate’s guards were clustered on the opposite ridge, including the obese mage Coll had mentioned. Ramon stopped at the near end of the bridge. ‘Si, I am he.’

  Milius produced a sealed envelope, which he sent slowly towards Ramon using kinesis. ‘It’s from your father.’

  Ramon had been expecting some kind of approach, but here it was and suddenly he was trembling slightly, especially in the wake of the news about the riot in Medishar. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘You’ll have to read it yourself.’

  The envelope hung before Ramon. He plucked it from the air, examined the seal – it was unbroken – then pulled it open. It contained an amulet bearing the seal of House Dubrayle, and a letter. He glanced at Milius to ensure he wasn’t about to try something while he was distracted, then read the letter.

  My Son,

  It has come to my notice that you’ve misused my acknowledgment documentation, which is disappointing, but unsurprising. Nevertheless, I see silver linings to the dark clouds you’ve blown my way. No doubt you are aware that your little forgery business has exacerbated the usual over-inflation of investment, credit and gold prices that always occur at this stage of the Crusades. However, I understand that you have managed to protect much of the bullion poured into the Crusade, and have therefore become a potential agent for bolstering the Treasury.

  You and I are in a unique position, my errant son, to forge an alliance that will be mutually beneficial. I’m sure you see no need to aid such a recovery, but I assure you that order must be maintained, and a small army in a desert isn’t a secure place for wealth of this sort. The vultures are circling.

  The amulet I have enclosed will act like a relay-stave and enable you to communicate with me directly and securely. I urge you to use it.

  Your Acknowledged Father

  Calan Dubrayle

  Ramon was immediately struck by a number of things: there was no expectation of familial feeling, but considerable knowledge of his situation. That fit with the man he pictured. And his father dangled tangible benefits, not emotional ones. ‘What else are you allowed to tell me?’ he asked Milius.

  ‘That the offer is genuine. I am authorised to protect you and yours, provided certain baggage accompanies you. That you will be conveyed to a place of guaranteed safety and an Imperial Pardon is authorised.’ The Arch-Legate’s voice conveyed his dislike of playing messenger-boy.

  Ramon held up the amulet. ‘You know about this?’

  ‘Of course. You may be aware that there is an eight-hour difference in time between here and Pallas; bear that in mind when you choose to communicate.’

  When, not if, Ramon noted. ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘Not long. Your name is now known in very high circles. I can tell you for free that other parties are aware of what you’ve done. You must chose a side, before it’s chosen for you: Crown, Church, Army or Treasury. Your father can extend some protection, but not for ever.’

  He’d hoped the powerful men and women who controlled the empire might have better things to do, but he wasn’t really surprised. There probably wasn’t anything left worth doing in the whole of Antiopia that was better than finding his gold.

  ‘I’ll speak to him soon,’ he told Milius. ‘Stay close, Arch-Legate. I might need you.’

  Milius lowered his brows disapprovingly. ‘You will need me, boy. This is no game.’

  Ramon forced an impudent grin. ‘Everything’s a game, Milius. Arrivederci, for now.’

  *

 

  There was a long silence as Ramon’s call echoed out into the aether, during which he had a lot of time to question Dubrayle’s motives, his own motives, and to simply stare out at the flat horizon. This latest campsite was a little-used road chosen to avoid the refugees streaming out of Medishar, and today was Holy Day – the only movement on the road was their own wagons, bearing rice and lentils purchased at outrageous prices from the locals.

  After some consideration, Ramon had gone to Seth Korion and told him about the proposed meeting with Dubrayle. He wasn’t used to confiding in others, but Seth knew most of the tale anyway, and they were likely going to have to cooperate to get out of this. Seth had even looked a little envious, being estranged from his own father. They’d had two days to discuss what they might do.

  A cool mental voice interrupted his thoughts. There was an echo, due to the three or four thousand miles between them.

  Ramon replied, deliberately using the Rimoni word, emphasising that he had another parent.

  Dubrayle spoke briskly, as if this were a conversation slipped in between much more important meetings – but Ramon doubted that was the case. He’d chosen the time deliberately – morning here; around midnight in Pallas – hoping Dubrayle would be tired or drunk or both. He didn’t sound it, though.

 

  Dubrayle tsked, already impatient with small-talk.

  Ramon concluded for him.

 

  Ramon snarled.

 

 

  Dubrayle’s voice became distant, haughty. ied. Such people don’t like to acknowledge truths that don’t suit them. They’d rather lie about strangers. Regardless, she did well from our ‘transaction’. And you were given life, which you’ve clearly seized with both fists.>

 

  His voice became more relaxed as the discussion became less personal.

  Ramon bit at his lip. The offer wasn’t unexpected. Bring the gold to Papa and you’ll be safe.

 

 

  Dubrayle sighed ironically.