by David Hair
The giantess roared in fury as Alaron’s energy wilted.
No – not when we came so far—! We can’t have failed!
Midpoint Tower, Leviathan Bridge
Junesse (Akhira) 930
24th and last month of the Moontide
Emperor Constant had just reached the doors when there was a great roar behind him. He turned in time to see Ervyn Naxius launch a blast of scarlet gnosis into the dome above him. The entire crystal dome went a deep red and the tower quivered, sending Constant and his guards to their knees. Naxius stood, facing south, with his eyes blazing triumphantly, shouting, ‘It is done! The Bridge’s energies are freed and directed. You’re too late, Lady Ramita! The Bridge will fall!’
Constant clutched at the arm of the nearest soldier. ‘Thank Kore for that! Now get me out of here!’
Naxius hobbled from the central chamber and came towards him. ‘I’ve taken all the energy I could, and disconnected the links. The energies are now channelled downwards at the remnants of the meteor, which is what this island is. She can’t reach us to prevent that; only someone here can control the flow. So we must depart, my Lord. We have five minutes.’
‘Then let’s go! Take me away this instant.’ He threw a glance back at Naxius, aware that some show of gratitude was warranted, but in truth the man was loathsome and he didn’t want to spend another moment in his company. Nevertheless, forms must be kept. ‘You will join us later this evening on the Royal Barge, Lord Naxius?’
The ancient mage bowed ironically. ‘An honour, my Emperor.’
Constant’s guards hurried him to the sloop hovering outside the tower. He glanced down and saw chaos below where soldiers in motley rags were milling, shouting with rage and fear. He waved down ironically, though he was probably too high to be seen. A shame. Then he was bundled safely onto the windcraft and they were rising and away as another came to collect Naxius and the others.
He looked skywards, exhaling in relief. The windfleet above circled or simply hovered, awaiting the great moment, and he wanted to be there, seated on his throne on the Royal Barge, when it happened. ‘Fly like the wind!’ he shouted to the pilot. ‘Like the storm itself!’
*
Ramon saw the beacon atop Midpoint go scarlet, and he knew instinctively what it meant. The windships tethered to the tower hurriedly lifted away, and whatever lingering hope he had withered: the men below were all going to die. A few of the magi might escape, but the ordinary rankers and camp followers who’d crossed the continent with him were doomed. He blinked back tears.
On the forecastle, Mater-Imperia began some speech about how the Bridge was an affront to the traditions of society because it took the God-given rights of control from those bred to rule and handed it to bickering traders who cared only about gold. The hypocrisy enraged him. He looked around, rashly angry but still calculating, and spotted Gurvon Gyle nearby. The spymaster looked ill at ease among the glittering peacocks of Pallas. ‘Hey, Gyle! Come here! I’ve got something to tell you!’
Vann looked at him warningly, but Ramon ignored him. He wanted to hurt someone, and Gyle was the only target he knew he could hit.
‘What is it?’ the Noroman asked, approaching quietly.
‘What’s happening down there?’
Gyle grunted indifferently. ‘The Bridge’s destruction is assured. Midpoint Beacon is now holding all the available gnostic power and will release it downwards into the island in less than five minutes.’
Good. Then I have nothing to lose . . .
‘I suppose you’re back in favour now?’ Ramon asked.
‘I’m the one who recovered the gold. I have a certain standing again.’
‘That’s nice. Have you checked the ingots?’
The spy blinked, his body tensing. ‘Of course.’
‘Deeper than the top level?’
Gyle went utterly still, and his voice fell to a whisper. ‘What in Hel are you saying?’
Ramon flashed his most irritating grin. ‘Those wagons contained only about ten gilden of ingots: the top layer of each box. The rest is stone covered in gilt. You’d have discovered eventually, but I wanted you to know now.’
Gyle closed his eyes and breathed one word. ‘Rukka . . .’
‘All the rest of the gold is still on the Bridge.’
‘But – those were your only bullion wagons . . . We know they were full in Hebusalim, and you’ve been under surveillance ever since . . .’
‘No doubt. But the gold has been turned to coin and distributed to the men. I paid them as they stepped onto the Bridge, each and every one: ten auros each, with bonuses for the officers and magi. So all of it is down there, on the Bridge you and your friends are destroying. It’s all going into the sea.’
Gyle’s face went grey as his tunic. ‘You . . . rukking . . . dung-rat!’ He threw a panicked look over his shoulder at the clustered Pallas magi, who were clapping Emperor Constant as he stepped onto the barge and hurried to his throne, his mother resplendent beside him. No one was paying Ramon or Gyle any attention.
Gyle drew his dagger.
‘Really?’ Ramon asked. ‘Right in front of everyone, with no explanation?’
Gyle gestured and Ramon’s tongue and lips went numb. ‘Silence, Silacian!’ he snarled softly. He choked off Vann Mercer’s cry with a flick of the hand, then cast about. There were plenty of vessels hovering alongside the royal barge, but all the skiffs were below, ferrying magi up from the tower, or skimming the Bridge, firing mage-bolts into random soldiers.
Except one.
Gyle waved and called mentally. Ramon couldn’t hear the communication; he could sense little at all in his effort to breathe, but he saw the skiff respond. The pilot, swathed in imperial robes and barely distinguishable as female, swung her craft about and brought it alongside. Gyle surreptitiously unlocked his manacles, looked at Vann for a moment, then wordlessly unlocked his as well. He used kinesis to pull Ramon and Vann towards the skiff. Then as Constant made some remark and the whole court dutifully cheered and laughed, Gyle flung Ramon bodily through space to land roughly in the windskiff. He landed hard, and the skiff shuddered. Vann followed, then Gyle leapt, landing beside the mast. He flashed coin at the pilot.
‘Pontus! Get me to Pontus as fast as you can. There’s a fortune in it!’
The woman pilot, cowled and shadowy, sent her skiff dropping away from the royal barge and then began to speed through the clustered ships on a northeast tack. Vann and Ramon struggled to an upright position, but before they could contemplate jumping, ropes in the hull snaked out and grasped them.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Gyle snarled. He fixed Ramon with a furious glare. ‘I’m going to make you wish you’d never drawn breath.’ Then he glanced at Vann. ‘As for you – I want to know what your son has done with the Scytale. I’ve heard the rumours, and I want in.’
‘Alaron knows better than to let anyone use my safety against him, Gurvon.’
While they glared at each other, the tip of Midpoint Tower flashed from red to indigo. Seth’s army was massed below the tower and waiting to die, while the storm itself drew breath in expectation. Ramon pictured Julietta and all the people he loved trapped down there, between fire and water.
Pater Sol, let their end be swift.
*
Seth Korion limped down the stairs, his arm around Kippenegger’s massive shoulders for support. The scenes below were like a foretaste of Hel. The word was now out; his soldiers realised that
something terrible was happening. They were reacting as men did, in a thousand different ways, all together and all alone, facing the end. Many were on their knees praying. Others were running, or even leaping into the sea. Several were rapidly getting drunk, and dozens had found their wives – or someone else’s – and were holding them, taking and giving strength in these final moments.
As Seth stumbled from the tower, the whole army seemed to pause as one as they saw him. Their collective eyes struck him like a blow, but he set his shoulders and faced them. Behind him, Pilus Lukaz strode from the tower, followed by a straggle of wide-eyed men – the six other survivors of his cohort, all wounded. ‘Present arms!’ Lukaz shouted.
Seth watched dazedly as the tiny group of rankers formed up behind him.
‘Bannerman Baden, raise the standard!’ Lukaz shouted. A dour, stocky man who was so inexpressive he might have had no facial muscles, strode forward as if on parade. ‘Soldiers of Pallacios Thirteen, salute your standard!’
Seth swallowed as the men lifted their heads and raised their hands, touching head and heart with their fists. Utterly at a loss, he followed suit, then all of the men in sight were saluting, whether they were of Pallacios Thirteen or any of the dozen other legions that had formed part of their trek.
Silence fell over the Bridge while the beacon went indigo. Seth found his voice, sensing the final seconds were here. ‘Men of the Second Army, the emperor has seen fit to destroy this Bridge! I’m so sorry to have brought you so far, only to die here, of all places!’
‘Good as any, Gen’ral!’ someone shouted. A few men even laughed.
He blinked away a stinging tear. ‘I’m so proud of you all!’
‘’Cept you, Bowe,’ someone muttered, sotto voce, behind him. ‘He en’t proud o’ you.’
‘Fuck off, Harmon.’
The Bridge fell silent again, then someone slammed the butt of their spear into the stone, and began to chant, ‘Korion! Korion! Korion!’ In a few seconds they were all doing it, and the Bridge began to shake.
Then the beacon went brilliant white, and lit the entire sky . . .
43
At the Last
The Rage of Dar-Kana
One of the most powerful myths of the Omali Faith is that of Dar-Kana. It is said that when in battle against demons threatening those she loves, the Lakh goddess Parvasi becomes her warrior-aspect, Darikha. But if the battle still goes badly, she becomes a ferocious creature called Dar-Kana. In this form, the goddess is so destructive that all creation is threatened.
Only her husband, the god Sivraman, can calm her, a curious inversion of the legend of the berserk god Minaus, whose destructive lust is slaked only by the kiss of his celestial lover, Fryffa.
LEONARDO DI KESTRIA, LETTER FROM LAKH, 926
The Leviathan Bridge
Junesse (Akhira) 930
24th and last month of the Moontide
Alaron did the only thing he could think of. He dropped his staff and walked, unarmed and slowly, towards the Lakh giantess as she poured her fury into the burning dome. She saw him coming and roared warningly, swiped at him though he was still out of reach.
‘Ramita, it’s me.’
But she was too far gone, lost in the persona of her Lakh goddess, overwhelmed by emotions loosened in the fight. He could recognise that anger, because it was the fury that she unleashed whenever she fought, the place she found in battle. But she was lost in it, when she needed to be doing something – anything – else. The world was falling apart and she was like a child smashing a toy that no longer worked.
‘Ramita!’
But it was no good. He couldn’t reach her. She wasn’t even Ramita any more . . . just a channel for primaeval fury, unable to break from the prison of her own emotions, lost in the role she used to make sense of conflict.
So he followed her example . . .
Kindling his own gnosis, though exhausted and faint, he reached for the aura configuration Puravai had taught him: the image of Sivraman, holding tokens of the gnosis. He let it clothe him, made it visible, the image of the Lakh god clad in lion-skins, holding the elements like weapons.
‘Ramita!’ he called again, stepping right in front of her and reaching two hands for hers, her real ones, not those of the goddess.
She struck him with one of the goddess’ clawed hands, and he staggered. Her tiger claws left four deep bloody furrows down his face and chest. He gasped at the pain. Then he reached again.
She raised another hand. She roared, beyond words, beyond reason, foetid meaty breath washing over him. Her eyes were bloody and her teeth jagged.
But this time she didn’t strike. Her eyes finally saw him. ‘Sivraman?’
He took her hands. ‘No, Ramita. It’s me: Alaron.’
*
Ramita waded waist-deep in blood and fire, swiping at phantoms that flittered in the scarlet fog. They shouted her name, praising her to the heavens above: ‘Dar-Kana! Dar-Kana!’ The sound coursed through her, fed her anger.
‘Ramita!’ someone said.
A man tried to grasp her and she lashed out. But he came back, kept returning, and he was speaking to someone, someone she remembered, and she knew him, from somewhere . . .
‘Sivraman?’ she asked uncertainly . . .
All at once, she saw him, truly and wholly. He was standing before her, four bloody wounds running parallel down his face and chest, right to left, his hands open, unthreatening, and a small voice in her head said, This isn’t your enemy.
‘No, Ramita,’ he said. ‘It’s me: Alaron.’
‘I am Dar-Kana!’ she snarled, but with less conviction now. Someone else was surfacing, memories of sitting on her haunches in a packed square, surrounded by all the produce of the world, bartering for coppers, caught up in the cacophony and the life, with family around her. Then she was holding two boys to her chest, and then an old man was holding her, and then a younger man . . .
. . . this man.
‘Al-Rhon?’
The gnosis-image fell from her hands, from her body, and she was just her and he was just him. She blanched at the wounds, but he healed them with a gesture, then pulled her to him. ‘My love,’ he murmured, ‘you’re back.’
She looked up. The dome was a swirl of light and the links to the other towers were gone. She heard again the final words Naxius had sent before the links went dead: ‘It is done! The Bridge’s energies are freed and directed. You’re too late, Lady Ramita! The Bridge will fall!’
She stifled a sob of despair. I’ve failed. Her late husband’s great creation was doomed. The scattered bodies lying about the chamber were just a foretaste of what was to come. All Dhassa and Pontus were going to be shaken and torn apart. She looked at the throne, wondering . . . I don’t know what to do, but I have to try . . .
He knew what she was thinking, knew all of her. And his friend’s army was on the Bridge. He led her to the throne. ‘It looks big enough for two,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this together.’
Her heart lifted. They had joined their gnosis before, in much smaller ways. They’d found how to work together, and be stronger. Perhaps . . . She squeezed his hand and they clambered onto the seat, just wide enough to admit them both, clasped hands and auras and became something that was both of them, a single being of the gnosis, an Ardhanari statue, the type that combined the male and the female, wrought from their powers.
She knew the forces contained in Southpoint Tower now, and led Alaron through the initial shock, then took hold of the remaining energies in the dome above. As she contemplated the destruction to come, her anger rose again, but he brought detachment and calmness, so that this time she remained clear-headed as she took up the reins. The path to Midpoint remained shut, but she could still feel the residue of the threads that led to the corpses on the thrones at Sunset and Sunrise isles. She sent energy into both . . .
Necromancy: they woke the dead Keepers on their thrones, Raneulf Fasterius and Delfinne de Tressot, woke them and clothed the
m in energy and awareness. All at once she was seeing through their eyes as well. Then she sent power back, strengthening the links, and brought in the dead man in Northpoint Tower also, Lens Nauvoine, lying amidst the corpses of his adherents while the dome above him blazed darkly.
We have to hurry, Alaron whispered.
Ramita knew, but still everything unfolded like a dream. Northpoint, Sunrise and Sunset Towers were all linked still to Midpoint and still feeding it with energy. She followed the channels of power into the nexus at Midpoint, she and Alaron together, moving as one.
Midpoint Tower opened to them, its energies swirling towards a climactic blast, directed downwards into the island itself. The nexus-throne Naxius had abandoned awaited, empty, and their spiratus form manifested in the chamber. They took the seat, feeling super-aware, conscious of all the lives around them: above, where hundreds of windcraft circled to witness the end of an epoch, and below, where fifteen thousand men and women were saluting a banner and waiting to die.
The dome pulsed, the air shrieked and the channel opened to send the gathered might of the solarus crystals downwards, into the earth. This was what Kazim had warned of, and it was going to happen . . .
. . . right now . . .
Together they reached, wrenched, and tore the river of energy free, the instant before it lanced fire into the earth below. Then sent it elsewhere, because it had to go somewhere, and it was too much for them to contain.
*
As the windskiff bore Ramon and Vann Mercer and Gurvon Gyle away, a bolt of lightning burst from the pinnacle of Midpoint Tower, not down into the earth but upwards, into the skies, tearing a hole in the cluster of Rondian windships above. Ramon blinked at the blinding line carved across his retinas, unsure what he’d just seen. Beside him, Vann swore, and Gyle simply gaped, lost for words.
Then lightning flashed again, blasting another warbird into burning splinters.
‘HOLY KORE!’ Gyle shouted. He whirled on the pilot behind him. ‘GET US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!’
*