by David Hair
Constant Sacrecour was caught up in a reverie of glory when the first bolt of light seared the skies. All round him, the courtiers oohed and ahhed uncertainly, then he looked at his mother for guidance.
Mater-Imperia Lucia Fasterius-Sacrecour, Living Saint, was standing apart, watching the tower avidly. Her face was lit with light, her aura bleeding through until she shone. An illusion, of course: Mother always tried to look like a divinity in public. But when that lightning flashed upwards, her expression became sickly.
‘Er, what was that?’ a fop from Pallas asked the silence.
‘Oh, it’s just a back-flash . . .’ one of the prelates said knowledgeably. ‘Happens often when . . . um—’
A second bolt tore sideways through the fleet and blasted a warbird apart. Someone squealed, then all the women and half the men were screaming. Constant leapt to his feet. ‘Mother! Do something!’
But for once his mother couldn’t seem to react; she just stood there as her light faded, leaving just an overdressed woman with a vacant face. She looked back at him, paralysed, her lips moving helplessly, and that scared him more than anything else could have.
‘Mother!’ Constant lit his gnosis. ‘We’ve to got shield!’ He shrieked spittle into the face of an old knight. ‘SHIELDS!!’
At first no one reacted as more blasts tore craft after craft from the sky all around them. A few courtiers mewled and milled, then someone yelled, ‘To the skiffs!’ and they all flooded for the lower decks. Constant cast about for Gurvon Gyle, but he was already gone.
His eyes went back to the tower as the Royal Barge’s crew tried to raise sails. A giant figure was superimposed over Midpoint, something sculpted of smoke and sea-spray, a pagan thing with multiple arms and a blazing face. One arm stabbed upwards: at his barge.
He turned back to his mother. ‘MOTHER!’
Lucia jerked her eyes from the tower to him, and she seemed to rally. Her face lit with renewed determination and he took heart and stumbled towards her, opening his mouth to ask her what to do.
Then light and searing pain engulfed them both, and in a blaze of agony, everything vanished.
*
Seth Korion stared skywards as burning timbers began to drop from the skies. The beacon atop the tower blazed again, ripping another swathe through the windfleet, scything through shields as if they didn’t exist, and skiffs and warbirds and frigates alike became balls of flame. The windships were scattering, calling the winds, and the skies became a whirl of craft seeking altitude and safety. The skiffs fared best, darting away in all directions, but the heavier craft were being systematically blasted apart as they rose, sluggish as drugged pheasants.
‘Well fuck me,’ Bowe breathed. ‘I wanna worship whatever god done that.’
‘Join the queue,’ Vidran said in a stunned voice.
Lightning crackled as one or two of the warbirds tried to fight back, pelting the tower with gnosis, but they might as well have been throwing stones. Counter-blasts pulsed out, ripping through the fleet anew, concentrating on the fighting craft. Timber was raining down on them and Seth found his voice, amplifying his voice to all along the span, crying, ‘Take cover, damn you! Protect yourselves!’
The men belatedly sought protection beneath wagons or raised shields. Seth tried to anticipate the worst of the debris and swat it aside, and the other magi did the same, but his eyes constantly went back to the tower, where the smoke was gathering into some giant form. For a moment it wore Alaron Mercer’s face, then Mercer’s wife’s; and then it flew apart as lightning blazed upwards again and the last of the warbirds were blasted apart.
*
Enough.
The word hung in the air. Alaron wasn’t sure if he said it, or Ramita, or whether at the moment it was spoken there was a difference.
We have to leave enough energy in the Bridge so that it can sustain immersion.
He looked upwards at the scattering windfleet. Riding the power of the Bridge, he could scry anywhere. The emperor and his mother are dead, just vapour and ash. So is half the court and upper clergy. He felt sickened by the destruction they’d wrought.
It’s a good thing that we humans have human limitations. A god’s wrath is too terrible . . .
Below, Seth’s army looked more or less intact. They were safe. He sent them acknowledgment, and saw Seth Korion look up in wonder and wave.
He and Ramita slowly disentangled their gnosis and withdrew into themselves, back into their bodies . . .
He opened his eyes and found himself on the Southpoint nexus-throne, with Ramita tucked beneath his arm. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, the vestiges of what they’d seen clinging to her expression. He could still feel her inside his heart and mind; he suspected he always would.
It felt like a blessing.
*
As the skiff tore across the skies, Gurvon Gyle’s eyes remained fixed on the chaos above Midpoint Tower. Each time the destructive fire belched forth, he was convinced it would take him, that he too would cease to exist in an eye-blink. But he couldn’t take his eyes from it. In the foredeck, Ramon Sensini and Vann Mercer were similarly entranced, but the skiff-pilot behind him knew her business and was concentrating on flying them out of it.
Gurvon turned to her to finally ask her name.
And froze.
She held a small crossbow one-handed, aimed at his chest. As she pulled her hood back, her face changed.
‘Elena . . .’
Her voice was dry and laconic. ‘Alaron told me to stay in Brochena . . . but he’s only my bloody nephew. Thinks ‘cos he’s an Ascendant now that he can tell me what to do . . .’
He could only stare. Behind him, in the foredeck, he heard Sensini and Mercer go still as they noticed. Then he began to fumble for words. ‘Elena, there’s so much we need to talk about! I’ve got your gold, so much more gold you’ll be stunned. Just name your price and it’s yours!’
If I shield I could jump and—
But before he could move, the bonds he’d wrapped round Ramon Sensini tore open, along with the Chain-rune that had supposedly been holding him. That wasn’t possible – they’d been cast by a pure-blood. He didn’t stop to wonder, though, instead readying himself to leap. Elena tried to fire and his shields caught the bolt and shattered it, then he was in motion, lunging towards the side, Air-gnosis flaring.
Then the air itself congealed around him and he was pinned in place by an impossibly strong grip. He felt his shields unpeel around him while Elena patiently reloaded her crossbow.
Elena’s finger twitched, and the crossbow jolted. The bolt slammed into the middle of his chest, driving the air from his lungs and filling his throat with blood. He tried to cry out, but only gurgled. ‘Ella—!’
‘Goodbye, Gurvon,’ Elena said in a hollow voice.
He tried to marshal his thoughts through the pain, because there had to be an angle he could work . . . but the light was draining from the world and all he could do was stare at her and remember better days . . .
She’s the only woman who ever mattered . . .
He tried to speak, to tell her that . . .
44
After the Storm
Crusades and Shihads
There have been two attacks launched by the Rondian Empire on Ahmedhassa, and a third is promised. The emperor calls them ‘Crusades’ – holy wars – to proselytise the Kore faith, as if this can only be done by force. A shihad – an Amteh holy war – is promised in retaliation. But war is not holy. Its nature is quintessentially unholy, and those who claim otherwise are themselves the most reprehensible of all. A plague on all their shrines.
ANTONIN MEIROS, HEBUSALIM, 925
The Leviathan Bridge
Junesse (Akhira) 930
24th and last month of the Moontide
Seth
Korion nudged his horse along as he listened to Ramon Sensini’s story. They’d found him – and Vann Mercer, of all people – waiting for them a mile along the Bridge. That was two weeks ago. The Lost Legions, scarcely believing they still lived, had been marching at full pace towards Yuros. The Bridge went on, straight as an arrow and apparently as solid as ever, towards Northpoint Tower. The tower beacon smouldered dully, pale blue against the afternoon sky. It was early summer, and for once the winds were still and the waves merely giant ridges and troughs, not massive monsters seeking to engulf them. The marker stone on the parapet read: Northpoint, two miles. They were so close to Yuros he could practically smell the mud.
‘So,’ Ramon said, continuing his story, ‘Alaron’s Aunty Elena shoots Gyle and watches him die, then she bursts into tears and I don’t know what to think, except that no one’s flying and we’re in danger of tipping over in those insane winds. So I get her attention, she looks up, says, “We’re flying a bit heavy, aren’t we?”. Then, cold as you like, she flips Gyle’s corpse into the sea. The guy she’s been crying over – whack and gone – and she forgets him, just like that. She sets us down on the Bridge – where you found us – and flies off without a backwards look.’
‘Does she know what happened at the Tower?’ Seth asked.
‘Si: she said that Alaron had been in contact with her right after it happened. He and Ramita gained control of the towers and redirected the energy. She says half the Pallas Court were up there – Constant, Lucia: they’re all dead.’ He touched his heart in a Sollan blessing, then smirked. ‘We’ll miss them.’
‘The whole world has changed,’ Seth noted.
‘Si, obviously! And you’re marching an army back to Pontus, when all others have failed,’ Ramon pointed out. ‘I’m just saying, you know. You’re a piece on the tabula board of power now, Seth Korion. If you choose to be.’
Seth thought about that. His father would have seized such a moment; he had possibly intended to. But he wasn’t his father. I’d settle for safety and peace. ‘Do we know what’s waiting for us at Northpoint? Is your scout back?’
‘Coll? No, but then, if I was him I’d be in a tavern, bouncing a young cichita on my lap and swigging warm beer.’
Seth winced at the thought. ‘But you’ve scryed ahead?’
‘Of course. There are a few soldiers, and many traders, setting up stalls. The Ordo Costruo are already in the tower, restoring it. All seems well.’ Ramon cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘You did it, General.’
‘Me? We all did it. Especially you. We wouldn’t have even got out of Shaliyah without you.’
‘Si, si, you’re right,’ Ramon chuckled. ‘But we’ve all done our part.’
Seth could only agree. The army felt like a brotherhood, and while he knew that no one wanted anything more than to get home, it was sad to think of them disbanding. Though they still had to cross half of Yuros, of course.
‘Who’s left?’ he mused. ‘You and me. Kippenegger, of all people. And Lanna. That’s all the Thirteenth’s magi, and we got off better than anyone. For the rest: Hel’s Bells! Gerdhart’s alive, and Carmina . . . Jelaska’s only survived by some Necromancy spell that’s probably illegal; and that’s it . . . Dear Kore!’
‘But we’re here,’ Ramon reminded him. ‘We’re alive, we’ll reach Northpoint in an hour or so, and it’s a beautiful day.’ He indicated the columns of men behind them, bursting into cheers and songs as the land came into view through the coastal mists. ‘Try telling them otherwise!’
Seth found himself smiling despite his worries. ‘So, you’re sure we can just march up the ramp without a fight?’
‘Absolutely. In fact, I believe a party is planned.’
*
Ramon rode in behind his general, cradling Julietta and showing her the sea of cheering faces, though she was too young to appreciate it, much less remember. There were musicians and choirs bellowing hymns and folk songs as they rode through the crowds. Most of those who’d come to greet them were traders hoping against hope for something to buy and sell on, and local whores desperate for fresh pockets to empty. The Second Army marched in proudly, then just as proudly broke ranks and proceeded to get rotten drunk and dance until they fell over.
It was Darkmoon. When the next moon rose, it would herald the official end of the Moontide, though the Bridge was, according to reports, already almost engulfed when the tide was high.
It’s over, Ramon thought, happy-sad. Sol et Lune, it’s over.
At times during the night he glimpsed Kip, carousing among his Minaus worshippers, his Dhassan woman at his feet as he drank enough ale to float a Tigrates riverboat; and Gerdhart, preaching and giving thanks. He slipped into Jelaska’s tent but she was sleeping, so he kissed her brow and left.
He went looking for the healers’ tent, opened the flap, then stopped, smiling softly.
Seth Korion was asleep, cradling Carmina in his arms. The Brician woman signed at Ramon to go away. He winked at her, lowered the flap and slipped away.
He found Lanna Jureigh on a bench outside a doorway to a rented room, sipping brandy from a clay bottle and staring up at the stars. The doorway was packed with flowers and gifts of all sorts.
‘Oh,’ she said as he sat beside her. ‘It’s you.’
‘You were expecting someone else?’
‘Are you kidding?’ She waved a hand at the piles of flowers and gifts. ‘I’ve had serious marriage proposals from every man I nursed in the past two years.’
Julietta gurgled at the flowers, so Ramon put her down and let her crawl clumsily towards them. The healer watched the girl with wistful eyes. He kissed Lanna’s cheek and neck. She smelled musky and sweet. ‘Did you accept any of the proposals?’
‘Of course not,’ she laughed throatily. ‘I have a higher calling. The army.’
‘Would you accept a gift from me?’
She turned to face him. ‘That depends what it is,’ she replied, her voice non-committal.
He picked up Julietta and placed the girl in her lap. ‘This is your daughter, Julietta.’
Lanna stared. ‘That’s not funny, Ramon.’
‘It’s not a joke. I’m not meant for fatherhood. I’ve got too much to do in Silacia. A mother and a half-sister to free. Vengeance to harvest. I don’t have the time or energy to be a parent . . . or even the heart for it. She deserves better: she deserves you.’
Lanna shook her head. ‘I can’t.’ But she wrapped her arms around the little girl tightly, trembling.
‘Of course you can.’ He kissed the little girl’s forehead, then Lanna’s. ‘You’ll be perfect for each other.’
He left before she could find him a reason not to accept. It was like ripping himself in half.
Out in the night, Silvio and Tomasi were waiting with a dozen men, fresh horses and the expectation of gold beyond their dreams. It was almost two thousand miles to Silacia.
*
Seth Korion woke with the sun, staring at the back of Carmina Phyl’s shoulder. Her hair was tickling his nose and cheeks, and the air inside the tent was close and stale.
Well, that wasn’t what I thought it would be.
Love poetry spoke of sweet honey and wine, of stars that exploded and dreams that came to life; of love forged eternal on the fires of passion. But it had been rather sweaty and fumbling and he doubted that she’d really been as enraptured as she pretended. He’d gone to sleep faintly disappointed, unsure what had been so important about spilling his seed inside this woman, or any woman, actually. It all seemed rather low, like something peasants and farmers might do but better-bred people should eschew.
‘Better-bred’. Ha!
He must have snorted softly, because she was suddenly aware of him, casting a sleepy look back over her shoulder. ‘Oh, you’re still here.’
He wasn’t sure what to make of that. ‘Should I have gone?’
‘No, no. It’s just . . . I understood men like to leave while the woman sleeps. At least, that’s what I’ve h
eard.’ She rolled over to face him. ‘You can stay if you wish,’ she offered.
‘No. I need to be up. This is still an army, and we’ve a long way to go.’
She feigned protest, but not too hard. He dressed, kissed her mouth – sour from sleep – and left feeling little different to how he had going in. Perhaps it will all feel more significant later.
‘Good morning, General!’ Lanna Jureigh called. She was outside her the healing tent dandling a baby on her knee – Julietta Sensini, by the look.
‘Good morning,’ he called ‘Is Ramon in there?’
‘No,’ she replied, with an odd timbre in her voice. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
She smiled, wet-eyed but happy. ‘Gone away. He said he had things to attend to in Silacia. But he left me with this little bundle.’ She hugged Julietta to her chest, beaming and crying.
Seth swallowed, then blinked, saluted and walked away. For a few minutes he felt lost, wondering how on Urte he’d work out what to do without Sensini. Then the tyranny of logistics took over, all the obvious things that needed doing but wouldn’t happen until he told someone so, and before long it was just another day of routes and supplies and equipment.
He cast Ramon from his mind, and Carmina too, and became a Korion again.
Hebusalim, Dhassa, on the continent of Antiopia
Rajab (Julsep) 930
One month after the end of the Moontide
Sultan Salim of Kesh knelt in the vast expanse of the Bekira-Dome, the greatest Amteh shrine of them all. The whole edifice had been emptied so that the Sultan could be alone to contemplate the wonders of Ahm. The inlaid marble shone in the brilliant sun, glistening words of the Kalistham rising from within the stone – a magic of the Ordo Costruo who’d built it, though they were largely Kore-worshippers or unbelievers.
Strange how much wealth we pour into such places, while the poor go without.
He’d been there for about an hour and it was about time he returned to the madness outside. He could hear the chanting masses gathered for a glimpse of him. He’d ridden into Hebusalim as a victor, exalted by the destruction of the Crusade. But there was so much that needed doing now; he had to repair the lives of his people.