by David Hair
‘Magister Lyndrethuse is known to us,’ Kaltus said, his voice suggesting she wasn’t known in a good way. ‘Not Magister Hale.’
‘I’m related to House Korbriene,’ Hale said nervously; the Korbriene line had been wiped out in one of Lucia’s purges, but the Hale half-bloods of Andressea hadn’t been implicated in anything. Yet.
Kaltus raised a faintly contemptuous eyebrow, glanced at Hale’s wooden left arm, then fixed his predatory eyes on Seth. ‘I think this is best resolved between you and me, don’t you?’
Seth glanced at Jelaska; she gave him no sign, so he nodded. Kaltus dismounted silently and approached, and Seth did the same, very conscious of how very unsafe he felt. They stopped, almost close enough to touch, but Kaltus didn’t offer his hand and Seth had to lower his, snubbed. Close up, he thought his father looked much older, his iron face showing deep fatigue, the sheer exhaustion of playing tabula with emperors and kings.
‘Father,’ he began, though, ironically, given what he was about to say, he’d never felt less akin to this man, ‘you are my father. We both know that. I’ve got your face, your eyes, your build. Whatever you might have paid Mother to say otherwise, it doesn’t change the truth.’
‘Truth? What is truth?’ Kaltus scoffed. ‘Let me tell you: truth is what people believe, and they believe what they’re told to. In a few months few will remember I ever had a son called Seth. In a few years, you’ll have never existed. But my name will live on for eternity.’
‘That won’t make it true.’
‘It’s the only truth that matters: it’s what the histories will say. In a few years’ time, Arcanum students will hear of the destruction of a band of deserters led by someone called Fetallink and wonder how they could have been so foolish as to defy the great General Korion and the might of the Rondian Empire. Perhaps the only thing they will truly recall this moment for is the first combat deployment of drakken in Antiopia. Or perhaps you and your rabble will simply be forgotten.’
Seth bit his tongue, stifled his helpless anger. I should have told someone else to do this. But leadership included doing the unpleasant tasks too. ‘My men have marched across Kesh and back,’ he snapped. ‘They deserve your respect.’
‘They’re deserters.’
‘They fought their way out of a trap at Shaliyah, as I’m sure you know, given that you set it.’
His father made a dismissive gesture. ‘Unprovable, even if it were true. Jongebeau read you the charges; they haven’t changed. You and your magi will be arrested, tried and executed. Those of your men married to Noories will be executed, and the remainder decimated. The Noorie women and children will be sold as slaves. That is all irrevocably set down by the Imperial Judiciary.’
Before Seth could protest, Kaltus went on, ‘You claim to be a Korion, Seth: then listen to me, the head of that House. If you were truly a Korion you would know that a Korion acts only for the good of his House. We must protect its reputation. Your mother understood this. That honour now requires of you the ultimate sacrifice. In time, I’m sure to be able to find a way to ensure that your sacrifice is marked in some way.’
‘What? You’ll cut me loose and let those bastards behead me, but if I keep my mouth shut, you’ll give me a grave-stone? What the Hel kind of father are you?’
‘I’m the Father of House Korion.’ He bent closer, his voice an urgent whisper, ‘Listen, Seth. There is some room for manoeuvre: I’m the commander in the field, and I set the rules here. Give us access to your command records and your baggage without resistance or deception and I will ensure that things go easier on you. I’m not unaware of the feats of your command. When the gold you have is mine, I will swiftly be answerable to no one, here or in Pallas. Justice will be what I say it is, and history could write something entirely different about you.’
‘So if I let you have this gold to fund a coup, you might let me live? That’s the honour of House Korion?’
‘For Kore’s sake, Seth, don’t be such a damned child! There is only one rule in the eternal struggle for dominance: win by any means. Honour is just a cloak we wear to enlist the allegiance of the weak-minded. That’s the world we live in. No one cares how the victory is won, only that it is! Freeing Rondelmar from the Sacrecour tyranny is worth any sacrifice.’ He jabbed Seth in the chest with his forefinger. ‘If you wish to be my son again, prove yourself a Korion!’
They stared hotly at each other, nose tips almost touching.
All I ever wanted was to be worthy of him . . . Holy Kore, is this what that means? ‘Father,’ he said thickly, ‘I need to return to my men and make preparations.’ He turned to go.
Kaltus swore under his breath. ‘I need to know your purpose, Seth,’ he said slowly, as if to a stupid child. ‘I will destroy your forces if I don’t have a clear indication that you will comply.’
‘It’s not just my decision.’
‘What? You still can’t make a decision on your own?’
‘This decision is not mine to make. The lives of almost fourteen thousand human beings are at stake here. We will decide our fate, in our time.’
‘Not your time, Seth. You’ve got until midday tomorrow. Any who seek to run will be hunted down – as you will have noticed, I rule the air here, and I can see everything you do.’
‘It hasn’t escaped me. Tomorrow then.’ Seth saluted perfunctorily, and walked back to his mount.
‘How did it go?’ Jelaska whispered.
‘Badly. I thought there were things worth dying for, but apparently there aren’t.’
‘Sure there are,’ Jelaska told him. ‘You just need to choose them carefully.’ She pointed back to their lines and the faces of their people, anxiously watching. ‘These reasons here will do for me.’
As they rode back, someone called out, ‘Three cheers for General Korion!’ The call was taken up, all along the line, a swell of noise that cracked the veneer of his composure. As he closed on them, he had tears running down his cheeks. They were met by men breaking ranks to shake his hand, pat his thighs, his calves, his horse, and Hale’s too. The bravest kissed Jelaska’s hands, then fled. It took an hour to get back to his pavilion and get his magi together.
Ramon Sensini arrived last, the look of suppressed excitement on his face enough to silence the room. He took in their gloomy despondency and exclaimed, ‘Don’t say we’ve already surrendered?’
‘We’re debating our options,’ Seth replied. ‘So far we’ve got three: surrender to save lives, fight to the death, or run like Hel and hope they can’t catch us all. Do you have any better ones?’
They waited with bated breath as the Silacian pulled some ambiguous faces, then struck a theatrical pose. ‘Si! I have found a way to fight them!’
‘But there’s no point unless we can win,’ Evan Hale said tiredly.
‘I only fight to win,’ Ramon replied. A slow smile crept over his face. ‘It’s about the worst plan I’ve ever come up with, a hundred things could go wrong, but . . . there’s a chance that come tomorrow it could be us accepting Daddy Korion’s surrender instead.’
Seth stared. At best he’d hoped Ramon might have some way to escape, but victory?
*
Ramon slipped into the circle of cook-fires just after midnight, his brain fizzing, his body keyed up. The sentries were posted and three magi were watching the aether, but the Rondian camp, a mile away on the rise, was quiet.
‘Anyways, why not go back east?’ Bowe was saying, ‘I’ve got nothin’ left in Pallas anyway.’
‘There’s always the mercenary legions,’ Harmon said, then he noticed Ramon’s approach and fell silent. The whole cohort followed suit, watching his face to gauge his mood. Ramon looked for Pilus Lukaz, and found him sitting in the background with the dour Baden, the bannerman. Lukaz often did this, letting the men talk unimpeded, giving them a chance to blow off steam.
‘Bowe’s jus’ tellin’ us how ’e’s only ’ere cos’ you’ve got a plan, sir,’ Vidran put in. ‘Hope it’s a fuckin’ good one.’
>
‘Lads,’ Ramon began, ‘Baby Korion asked us magi to go through the camp and gauge the mood. You’ve likely heard all sorts of stories about what we’re going to do, but here’s the truth: we’re going to try something on, just before dawn, because that’s when sneaky bastidos do their thing. If it works, we still mightn’t win, but to my thinking, that’s better than surrender. How do you lot feel?’
The men looked at each other, then Bowe put his hand up. ‘Like I was jus’ sayin’ boss, some of us was thinkin’ of headin’ back to Ardijah, see if’n Bondeau might hire us. But it’s a bloody long way, yeah?’
‘An’ Bondeau were always a wanker,’ Vidran added, to general amusement.
‘Mostly it’s you, boss,’ Harmon said to Ramon. ‘We figure on seein’ what you do and taggin’ along. Seems best way to get out alive and flush.’ There was a murmur of agreement around the cook-fire.
Ramon was oddly humbled by their faith. ‘My plans don’t always work out, and they can get people killed.’ He grinned. ‘I was thinkin’ of Ardijah myself for a while. But I’m staying, because I think we’ve got a chance here. And let’s face it: anything’s better than crawling back to Renn rukking Bondeau.’
The men all laughed.
Lukaz called out, ‘So what do you want from us, Magister?’
‘To hold this piece of the line. I won’t be here, but I’m placing you beside Kip’s Bullheads.’
‘Those mad fuckers?’ Vidran grimaced. ‘I’d feel safer tied up in the women’s camp.’
‘We’ve all ’ad that dream, Vid,’ Manius chuckled. ‘Why’dya put us alongside those nutters, boss?’
‘Simple enough: Kip’s a mage, an’ you’ll have Jelaska’s Argundians on your left as well. The rest of my maniple are in the rear, but you men are rankers, and the line needs you. You’re the best we’ve got.’
‘Aw, pooty!’ chuckled Bowe. ‘We’s the best! It’s official now!’
‘“Pooty”?’ Ramon asked.
‘Great. Fabulous,’ Harmon clarified, giving Bowe a withering look. ‘It’s a baby’s word.’
Bowe frowned. ‘I’ve said it all me life—’
‘Exactly.’
Lukaz waved for silence. ‘So, we jus’ hold the line, boss?’
Ramon nodded. ‘Just until we can spring our surprise, then it’ll be all about staying alive. I’m going to set something in motion and then I’ll get back to you as soon as I can – but it relies on factors out of my control.’
‘Plans don’t always work.’ Lukaz shrugged. ‘We’ll hold our lines. Tell those bastards flanking us to hold theirs.’
Ramon stood. ‘Good on you, lads. I’d like to say you’re the best men I’ve served with, but as you’re the only ones I’ve served with, it’s a bit hollow. But still true! Good luck tomorrow – I’ll rejoin you as soon as I’m able.’
He took their salutes and offhand good wishes in return and walked away into the rear of the camp. The mood was quite different where the Khotri woman were gathered amongst the wagons. Most were pregnant or bearing newborns. They’d gathered in a large circle about a bonfire, and Ramon noticed many of their husbands had slipped from the lines to see them. They were singing a mournful song in their native tongue; it was both melancholic and longing, quite lovely, but very foreign. Then his ears pricked up as the Rondian men raised their own chorus, an old Brevian folk song:
Under forest, under sky, walking home to you;
Through winter snow, ice and rain, coming home to you.
The women’s eerie voices wove around the song perfectly, enhancing the hoarse, ragged chorus of male voices. He wondered how many of the women had even seen ice or snow. This army was creating something new, born of both northern forests and eastern deserts, as fragile as any windblown weed, desperately thin and scrawny, struggling to take root, faced with the reaper’s scythe and fire. The burden of responsibility bit him deeper. He’d brought these people together, however unwittingly, and they were his to see safe, if it could be done.
He moved on, beyond the sentries posted in case the Rondians were trying anything sneaky themselves, though Seth swore his father disliked what he always called ‘chicanery’, preferring ‘victory with honour’. It was the sort of luxury a man who had always commanded the most powerful army could afford.
Delta slid impassively out of the darkness. ‘Magister Sensini?’
‘Call me Ramon. Are you ready?’
The shaven-headed man rubbed at the ugly brand on his forehead and set his jaw. ‘Yes, Ramon. I’m ready.’
‘You know most of my fellow magi believe you’ll betray us, don’t you?’
Delta smiled his lugubrious smile. ‘Ramon, they can believe what they like. But you know what I am. My kindred and I have this “condition” that is inhuman. We have had that condition exploited by your “Holy” Inquisition. Your people might think us monsters, but we have consciences; we want it to stop. We desire revenge. I pray we can take this chance.’
Ramon clasped the Dokken’s hand, the first time they’d made physical contact. His inner eye engaged and he got a queasy feeling watching the way their auras exchanged a frisson of energy. They both pulled away nervously. ‘I’ve not seen that before,’ Delta mused, ‘though you are the first mage I have met in friendship.’
Ramon’s hand still tingled. ‘Interesting. If we get the chance later, let’s talk.’
Later . . . as if there will be a later . . .
Jelaska appeared, wraithlike in her black robes and pallor. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yeah, I’m pooty,’ Ramon replied.
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind. Let’s go.’
They skirted the dung-trenches and rubbish heaps and found their objective, a windskiff Chaplain Gerdhart was recharging. ‘I don’t like this,’ he muttered in Ramon’s ear. ‘I don’t trust that Dokken.’ Or you, entirely, his eyes added.
‘I do. He hates them more than we do. That’s good enough for me.’
Gerdhart inclined his head. ‘I’ll pray for you, Sensini.’
‘Tell the healers to look after my daughter,’ he told him. He clambered in, taking the tiller, and Jelaska and Delta followed. Delta moved to the prow, where he could work unimpeded. They wrapped themselves in blankets to trap the heat and a minute later they were rising through the darkness. Delta went into a meditative trance, while Jelaska snuggled against Ramon’s side and promptly began to snore.
Ramon’s plan required elevation to widen the reach of Delta’s spell-work, and to give themselves as much time as possible before any Rondian windcraft reached them. Initially they drifted on breezes from the northeast, quickly leaving the occupied areas behind them. He worked the tiller gently, subtly extending his senses. There were Rondian skiffs patrolling above their lines, and venators too, although they were all far to the north.
By midnight they were some twenty miles south of the crossroads. Now the real work began. He found an updraft and slowly climbed into the sky whilst tacking across the wind, working his way steadily back towards the armies. His plan required them to return to the air above the Bassaz crossroads an hour before dawn, undetected, and high up, just below the point where altitude sickness and the freezing temperatures became deadly. Windcraft seldom went so high, and Ramon hoped that would mean the Rondian air-patrols wouldn’t be looking upwards.
As they neared the crossroads again, it became apparent that Kaltus Korion’s army were far from complacent. Ramon counted six pairs of windskiffs and venators aloft at a thousand yards or so, more than three thousand yards below them. The air up here was bitingly cold, even wrapped up as they were. All of their blankets were now coated in frost and their breath was streaming out in clouds.
Jelaska roused herself. ‘Getting too old for this sort of shit,’ she grumbled cheerily. ‘My arse is frozen solid.’
‘Then bring it here and I’ll warm it for you.’ Ramon winked.
She snorted tartly. ‘Got your spirits back again, have you?’
&n
bsp; ‘It’s the danger, amica,’ he replied, not entirely jesting. ‘This is what it is to be alive.’ He looked beyond her to Delta, whose fleshy face was impassive. ‘Over to you,’ he called softly.
The Dokken reached inside his robes and drew out the cluster-crystal he wore instead of a periapt. At once it kindled, but only dully; he wasn’t yet fully exerting. He raised his hands from the blankets and began to call names, those of his kindred, and the air about him began to glow.
*
Kaltus Korion always slept poorly before engagements, though battle seemed unlikely today, and in any case would be brief and one-sided. He was a professional, and took nothing for granted. He’d ordered a full quarter of his magi to stay awake listening to the aether, scrying the enemy or on patrol above, or pre-enchanting ballistae shafts and crossbow bolts for use against important foes. He kept himself busy with correspondence, and dealing with a never-ending stream of gnostic contacts from far afield: nobles and courtiers wishing him well. After the disaster in the north they were anxious; rumours were flying of a renegade Inquisitor and a daemon army. It all sounded preposterous, but he couldn’t make contact with anyone among the magi he’d left in the north, and all kinds of rumours were flying about. Clearly the sooner he returned to Ebensar and retook command the better.
Today’s operation was complicated because of Seth’s presence in the other army. It would be intolerable for anything to happen that his rivals could interpret as father-son collusion. The Imperial Court was full of mediocre men with clever, spiteful tongues: he refused to give them anything to work with. Victory had to be total.
After tomorrow, I’ll have the only intact army in the field and all the gold for a march on Pallas . . . all unwittingly presented to me by my former son, and the bastard of one of my chief rivals. Perfect . . .
Eventually Kaltus went and lay down, drifting in and out of sleep. Mater-Imperia Lucia had contacted him in the evening, worried about the money again – she’d finally got wind of the bullion these ‘Lost Legions’ supposedly carried, and she wanted it, desperately. He was getting tired of swearing protestations of ignorance, but his army was filled with her spies and he didn’t know what she believed. He’d begun to wonder if the pending destruction of the Bridge was designed to handicap him more than any other purpose.