by David Hair
‘Then let us forget him,’ Ramita replied. ‘Did you find the Scytale?’
Alaron looked down at the bundles beside his feet. ‘He had it on him. And that spear-head . . . I don’t understand what it does, but it’s too dangerous to touch.’
Ramita looked at the wrapped artefacts. ‘I honestly don’t know how I survived when he used it against me – but the Goddess upheld me: she warned me, and fed me strength, enough to survive and reach him.’
‘The Goddess?’ he enquired, gently sceptical.
‘Yes! I felt her touch me, in the throes of battle. She warned me to shield from the spear, then upheld me through his attack.’ She looked up. ‘I saw inside the heads of those Ablizians: their god was with them, giving them their power; so why not mine?’
‘I don’t think what was in their heads was a god,’ he replied, but his mind was going over what Malevorn had said during the fight, about being the chosen of Corineus, some rot like that. ‘Some daemons pretend to be gods to help them possess stupid people.’
‘Stupid people?’
‘I meant Malevorn,’ he said quickly. ‘Not you! Never you!’
She gave him a very hard look. ‘I can well imagine that what was in Malevorn’s creatures was a daemon, because his god doesn’t exist. But I also know what I felt.’
Alaron swallowed apologetically and they fell silent until Corinea appeared, wandering out of an alley as if this were a garden she was strolling in, a glazed look on her face.
I had to kill him again, she’d said. He stood and walked to the ancient mage-woman, offering an embrace that she accepted wordlessly. He couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, feeling helpless.
‘Life is a circle,’ she said, hugging him in return, then stepped away and glanced over his shoulder at Ramita. ‘That was me, inside her mind,’ she said softly. ‘She’d forgotten to shield – she wouldn’t have survived. I lent her strength through a mystic link until she reached him. But I’m not going to tell her, and nor should you. She needs her beliefs.’
Alaron nodded mutely. ‘Is Corineus . . . is he truly dead now?’
‘I don’t know. But I think so. I hope so.’ She hugged him again, then sighed wearily and went and sat with Ramita, laying her head in the Lakh girl’s lap and closing her eyes. Ramita looked up at Alaron, puzzled, then cradled the Queen of Evil and whispered something Alaron couldn’t hear.
We’re all damaged, every one of us. Images of the battle returned, and he found himself trembling at the eye-blink luck that had kept them all alive. Please, let this be the end of the war . . . if wars ever truly end.
Ebensar Heights, Zhassi Valley, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22nd month of the Moontide
Alaron found a relay-stave wrapped up with the Scytale. He kept it close, because it seemed inevitable someone would use it. That contact came the evening after the destruction of Malevorn’s creatures, as he and Ramita sat on a salvaged Mirobezian carpet in one of the less damaged houses surrounding Ebensar Plaza. A half-eaten meal was spread between them. Corinea was eating with the Brothers, and Yash and Tegeda were off together, doing what young lovers the world over did.
The house Alaron and Ramita found to sleep in had enough repairable furniture for them to be somewhat comfortable for a day or two, and from the eastern window they overlooked the valley below, where Rashid Mubarak’s Keshi army were encamped. The Keshi army hadn’t moved, but their scouts had been circling closer, obviously trying to work out if they were still facing an enemy army.
The answer to that question was ‘barely’. The Rondian First Army, shorn of its generals and battle-magi, was camped two miles further south on the ridge, paralysed by indecision. Corinea had been scrying them and reported nightly desertions as individual men and even whole cohorts gave up and headed for the Leviathan Bridge.
When the relay-stave lit up and began to quiver, he touched Ramita’s shoulder and put a finger to his lips, before grasping the stave.
A frosty, fragrant mind like cold roses brushed his.
Her lips thinned as she regarded him in turn.
His heart thudded. Mater-Imperia herself. He found himself tongue-tied, to his extreme annoyance, until she demanded,
She’s been talking to Malevorn? Holy Hel! But she clearly doesn’t know what’s happened here! That ignorance humanised her, and he pulled himself together.
Alaron glanced at Ramita, who looked distinctly unimpressed at this brush with Rondian royalty.
Lucia’s face radiated cold anger.
She recovered with remarkable celerity.
Alaron responded.
The Living Saint’s face filled with barely repressed fury.
Alaron was about to retort when Ramita grabbed the stave and broke the connection. The globe of water hanging in the air sprayed over him, soaking his grey robe. He threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘What did you do that for? I was just getting warmed up!’
‘You were getting angry,’ Ramita said mildly. ‘No one bargains well in anger.’
He opened his mouth crossly, then closed it again.
‘In Aruna Nagar we say you should reveal neither what you know, nor what you don’t know.’
‘Rondian traders say the same,’ he admitted. ‘You were right; I wasn’t keeping my cool.’ And her words reminded him of something else too. ‘As well as Nasatya, we have to find my father. I’m scared someone will hold them both over us, like in Teshwallabad.’
She put her hands over his. ‘Husband, at the Mughal’s Dome in Teshwallabad you willingly exchanged the Scytale for the lives of my sons. I love you for that. If you must do the same for your father, you must.’
‘Best we remain a secret, then. If the emperor and his court don’t know who we are, then they don’t know what they can hold over us – which means you were right.’
‘As always.’
They shared a grin, and the tension drained out of him. He sighed tiredly. ‘I suppose we should move on from here.’
‘Yes, but not tonight.’ Ramita looked up at him tiredly. ‘Husband, tonight I’m very proud of you. But I feel sad . . . and awfully tired, and I wish to sleep.’
He gathered her to him, lifted her and carried her towards their tent. She was asleep before he got her inside.
The next morning they all rose before the sunrise, returned to their windcrafts and were gone before the sun kissed the ridge.
Ebensar Ridge, Zhassi Valley, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22nd month of the Moontide
Salim Kabarakhi I, Sultan of Kesh, sat alone in his silken pavilio
n, wondering if the time had come to abandon the shihad – not officially, of course, never that. But the time for one battle was ending. Another bloody and fruitless assault on Ebensar Heights would be stupidity ittself. The scarlet tides were ebbing, flowing westwards towards the Bridge. The Moontide was almost done, and his armies – his people – were exhausted.
Wars needed manpower; they needed food, equipment and money. They also needed willpower, the emotional stamina to keep going. The victory at Shaliyah had given his people a great burst of vigour for the fray, but that was subsiding as the ceaseless fighting took its toll. There had been no further successes to buoy their morale, just awful, grinding defeats. The hope of fresh victories was receding, overtaken by the recognition that this was all attritional now, grinding at the enemy to deter them from ever returning.
But have we done enough?
He’d reunited his army, joining forces again with Rashid, in part to reassert his authority: the emir’s men had not seen their sultan for almost two years, and he wanted no confusion in their minds when it came to Rashid’s position as his subordinate.
Recently there had been a terrifying new turn of events: a Gatti border-town called Vaqo, far behind the lines, had been completely razed, then a Rondian-held fortress at Sukkhil-wadi had been similarly destroyed. There were no survivors at either place; no reports of what had happened. It was as if some deadly storm were striking at random, taking lives on either side, without reason or explanation. Even Rashid was at a loss – he claimed the vast expenditure of magical energies was well beyond his own experience. There had been another such outpouring in a supposedly deserted town only twelves miles to the south, at Zarrabadh. Whatever was happening was coming closer and closer.
Then, two nights ago, there had been another gnostic-firestorm, centred around the castle of Ebensar itself. The fort was clearly damaged, and now he wasn’t sure whether to advance or retreat. Scouts had been sent out; he awaited them impatiently.
There was a discreet chiming on the gong that hung outside his tent, followed by a servant entering, bowing and prostrated himself before declaring, ‘Great Sultan, Emir Rashid begs audience.’
Salim pursed his lips. He’d issued instructions not to be disturbed unless the world ended – or the scouts were returned – and yet here was Rashid again, pushing boundaries others daren’t.
He is a mage – he thinks himself above the rules. How will we contain him after this war?
‘He may enter,’ Salim told the servant, resigned.
But it wasn’t the usual Rashid who entered the tent; that creature was almost serpentine in all his poised, glittering grace and complexity. This Rashid was someone else entirely: an excited student who had just graduated. He scampered into the pavilion, forgot to bow – forgot how to speak for a few seconds – and then blurted, ‘Great Ahm on High! Salim, you must come—!’
Salim came to his feet, emotions racing through irritation to bewilderment to fear to excitement. ‘Emir Rashid!’ he snapped, to remind him of his standing, ‘Stop! Tell me: what is it?’
Rashid dropped to his knees on the prayer mat facing Hebusalim and kissed the ground. ‘Sal’Ahm!’ he cried again, ‘Sal’Ahm on High!’
Salim went over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder – a shocking breach of protocol – but Rashid’s behaviour made no sense: all this awed excitement, as if the Prophet had returned. ‘What is it, Rashid?’
Rashid lifted his head, clutched his hand and kissed it. ‘Great Sultan – I bring you joyous tidings!’
‘What? What has happened?’ Salim demanded in exasperation.
Tears began to stream down Rashid’s face. ‘Great Sultan, the scouts have returned with a herald from the Rondian First Army. They wish to surrender.’
34
Jekuar
Magi and Battlefield Supremacy
After the Ascendancy, the magi were the dominant piece on the battlefield. But their role has changed over time. The first Ascendants used only Thaumaturgy, destroying legions with Fire- and energy-blasts. Since then the magi have learned other uses of the gnosis – but most now are of lower blood. Meanwhile, the legions have developed superior archery and siege-weapons, and better tactics for combating magi; no longer can one man with the gnosis easily vanquish hundreds of ordinary soldiers. The role of the mage on the battlefield is now more focused upon reconnaissance, coordinating attacks, disrupting the enemy with precision strikes and duelling each other.
GENERAL RHYNUS BERGIUM, IMPERIAL LEGION COMMANDER, PALLAS, 908
Jekuar, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22nd month of the Moontide
Gurvon Gyle looked across the plains and asked, ‘Endus, my friend, how did it come to this?’
Endus Rykjard gave him a puzzled look. ‘Well, after Forensa—’
‘I was speaking rhetorically,’ Gyle interrupted.
‘You should have said.’ The Hollenian looked irrepressibly cheery, exuding confidence: Look like a winner, and you’ll be one was his mantra.
Gurvon couldn’t say he felt the same. The Nesti flags still fly over there. Rutt failed in his sacrifice, though he did at least kill Timori Nesti . . . but he hasn’t destroyed the unity of our enemy.
He knew who to blame. I should have killed Cera and Elena when I had the chance. But this is still a battle we can win, especially if Aranio plays his part . . .
Gyle and Rykjard were in the command position, at the centre of their lines. They’d set up along a low ridge facing east, straddling the main road near a tiny mud-brick village called Jekuar, eighty miles east of Brochena and twenty southwest of Riban. ‘The Battle of Jekuar,’ Gurvon murmured, trying out the sound of it. What songs would the bards compose to remember it? What lessons would it teach to history?
He really just wanted it to be over so he could retreat from the glare of visibility to the back stairs and shadowy alleys that were his natural habitat. Even during the Noros Revolt, I fought behind the lines. I’m a spy, not a bloody king . . . I should’ve stuck to what I’m good at.
He had a sudden urge to apologise to Rykjard. ‘Endus, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Elena should have done her job – there’d be no rallying point without her; no Cera Nesti to unite them. We’d have occupied the whole of Javon without a fight.’
‘Aw, where’s the fun in that?’ Rykjard grinned.
‘I guess I’m just bitter, that’s all. Elena’s made it complicated – she’s forced me to improvise, and now we’re trapped in this bloody cycle. Even if we win here, we’re going to have to re-conquer the whole damned country.’
‘Victory here will knock the stuffing out of them,’ Rykjard predicted. ‘Chin up, Gurv. We’ve got the better ground, the better men, agents inside the enemy command tent and numbers on our side. What could go wrong?’
I know Endus is right . . . After all, he did have the better position – and something else up his sleeve that even Endus didn’t know about.
They reviewed the order of battle together: Roland Heale’s Dorobon legion, only about three thousand men since Forensa, were on the left. He could count on them: they had nowhere else to go. In the centre was Rykjard’s legion, a little under-strength after losses at Lybis earlier that year, but loyal, no doubt of that. That was more than he could say about his right, where he’d placed Hans Frikter’s Argundians; barely two thousand remained in fighting condition, and since Forensa they’d been positively mutinous. To bolster them, he’d quietly brought three thousand of Adi Paavus’ men north from the Krak; he was risking losing the fortress to gain victory here. He really hoped Elena hadn’t got wind of that.
Protecting both flanks and poised to sweep in were the Harkun, led by Ghujad iz’Kho, some six thousand riders in all – all of them survivors of the carnage at Forensa. They gave him little confidence; he doubted they’d stick if things began badly. Iz’Kho had sent most of his surviving riders to the Rift Forts, to try and capture them and so bring more men
up, but so far the Forts were holding.
So: seventeen thousand men, roughly told. He thought about who they were matched against, trying to weigh the odds.
The enemy’s right, facing the Dorobon, were the Aranio, Rimoni cavalry and footmen, just about a full legion, but unblooded – and more importantly, he was inside Stefan di Aranio’s head: the Lord of Riban was primed to run at the first chance. But that could change if the Nesti had some early successes.
On the enemy left: the Kestrians. They’d fought at Forensa so more than likely they were depleted – but they were hardened soldiers. They’d be up against Adi Paavus’ best, plus three thousand Harkun.
The enemy centre would be held by Rimoni of Forensa – only around two thousand of them, from what he could determine. Most of the Nesti fighting men were safely chained up in the Gorgio slave-mines, hundreds of miles away in Hytel. But they did have the Jhafi militia, five thousand or more ragged, poorly equipped Noories of the sort who’d somehow held up Hans Frikter at Forensa. They’d been defending their city then, fighting for their home; an exposed battlefield in the middle of nowhere was a different sort of fight entirely.
So he made it roughly seventeen thousand men each: too even for his liking, but his magi were fighting men, not scholars like the Ordo Costruo. We should be victorious . . . especially with our little surprise . . .
‘What’s your first move, Endus?’
The Hollenian wrinkled his nose. ‘We’ve got the best of the ground, and we’re dug in through the centre and left. We’d do best to defend initially, let ’em beat their heads against our shield wall until they’ve knocked themselves silly, then counter-charge.’
‘If either flank gives way, the Harkun there will bolt,’ Gyle warned.
‘I know that, and so do Heale and Paavus.’ Rykjard peered away toward the hazy southern flank. ‘Adi’s the key. We’ve tried to disguise his legion as Frikter’s, and we’re keeping most of the men behind the ridge so the Kestrians will think they’re up against a weakened force. The plan is to lure ’em in, then once they’re committed to the attack, I’ll loose the Harkun at their flank.’