Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. I’m not a strong mystic: I just got glimpses – emotions mostly, and a few big memories. Huriya wanted to rip you limb from limb for that little trick.’

  Cym smiled at that.

  ‘Girl, she is our Seeress. She has the power of an Ascendant, and Sabele still dwells inside her, she who was present when Corineus died.’

  That wiped the smile from her face. No wonder the little bitch thinks she owns the world. ‘Why do you resist her?’ she asked Zaqri snarkily. ‘Shouldn’t you be honoured that she wants to rukk you?’

  ‘I still grieve for my wife,’ he replied flatly. ‘I loved her, whatever you think of animals like us.’ He pointed southwards across the sea. ‘That way.’

  She willed the carpet to turn and it did so. It was taxing, and not as efficient as a windskiff, being neither aerodynamic nor assisted by sails, but she set her jaw and powered on, aware that she was burning through energy fast. The wind whipped at her face and made a banner of her hair, but the worst of the headwind was deflected by unseen shields. She glanced over her shoulder to see a stream of gulls following, shrieking angrily. She wondered which was Huriya. Probably the smallest, with the best plumage …

  ‘Are all Dokken beast-magi?’ she wondered.

  Zaqri’s eyes narrowed at her tone. ‘We call ourselves Brethren, or Kindred. And no, we have a mix of skills, but we tend to clan together according to our major affinities. My pack are, as you can see, mostly animagi. You can judge us for our rough manner if you must, but remember that we must live on the fringes because the most powerful beings on Urte have pledged our annihilation.’

  ‘I’m Rimoni – they pledged ours too,’ she retorted, though she couldn’t deny his words had struck a chord in her. ‘They destroyed our cities and turned us into wandering beggars. If you’re really one of us you’ll know that.’

  ‘I know my heritage, girl. I was born on the Metian border and Rimoni was my first tongue. But my father was Brethren, and he took me into the pack. Our forebears were at the Ascension of Corineus. The Blessed Three Hundred ascended, but they didn’t, and for that crime they named us apostates.’ He glanced at the nearest gull, a dark-hued bird with red eyes. Hessaz, Cym guessed. ‘The Brethren found Ahmedhassa before even the Ordo Costruo.’

  Cym noted that he said ‘Ahmedhassa’ – the local word for the eastern continent, not the Yurosian ‘Antiopia’. ‘Did most of you come here?’

  ‘Those who could. It took morphic-gnosis, animagery, Air-gnosis or Water-gnosis. Most of those who couldn’t use those affinities stayed in Yuros. The Ordo Costruo were no friends to us, nor us to them: we preyed on them to gain more souls and awaken the gnosis in our children. It was war.’

  Cym imagined untaught Dokken against Arcanum-trained magi. ‘You lost.’

  ‘We lost. We had to go into hiding, even here in Ahmedhassa. The locals believed us to be Afreet – the demons of their legends. We could not live or train openly, so we could master only the simplest gnosis: elemental magic and body-magic. Only a rare few, like Sabele, can do more.’

  His words echoed the plight of her own people too closely. She willed away her empathy. ‘So you really were Rimoni.’

  ‘My mother was. My father was Brician … and Brethren. He’s long dead. I am older than I look.’

  She studied him, his timeless eyes and weathered, ruggedly handsome face. He had the commanding manner of someone who knew himself, had come to terms with what he was, but there was a haunted aspect to his eyes that suggested it had been a long battle. ‘How many people have you killed?’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘I don’t know. I lost count long ago.’

  How revolting, she thought, surprised she had felt any pity for him. That angered her. ‘I guess being a packleader justifies everything,’ she jeered. ‘You killed my mother. Does that make you as strong as she was now?’

  His face was grave but unrepentant. ‘It does: purer blood strengthens our own gnosis. I gained her strength, though not her skill.’

  ‘Quite a coup for you,’ she said harshly. ‘Murderer.’

  ‘We were in combat, and she fell. What was I to do?’

  ‘Grant her passage to the afterlife! Let her die! Don’t pretend you have a conscience, you piece of dung. If you did you’d hang yourself.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. I want to live as much as you do. I want to be able to walk free without being hunted down for the nature I was born with – born with, not chose. Sol made me what I am; he had to have a reason.’

  ‘You should have been drowned at birth.’

  ‘I go on as I must, for my kindred. Sabele has prophesied that we will find a way to cure ourselves; we will become equals with the magi.’

  ‘The magi don’t want any equals,’ she retorted.

  ‘I know. We are not fools, but we have to hope. Until then I guard the humanity I still have.’

  It felt harsh to mock such a dream when her own people harboured much the same aspirations, but he had ripped her mother’s throat out and drunk her soul. There is no way to forgive that. ‘Why are you protecting me?’

  ‘Cymbellea,’ he said in his rough-smooth voice, ‘I’m not a murderer, whatever you think. When my gnosis was awakened I didn’t even know what was being done to me. I’ve tried to kill only enemies in battle, or someone who is dying already. Your mother’s last thoughts were of you: she begged me to protect you. I swore to do so, to the last remnants of her soul. I hold that oath sacred.’

  ‘How dare you try to make killing her sound so rukking noble. Go away: I don’t want to talk to you.’

  He didn’t go, though. They fell silent as the air rushed by. Below, the sea churned, menacing even at this height. There was still no sign of the coast and she was beginning to feel her strength flagging. She was going to have to ask his help soon, and that gnawed at her pride.

  In the end she didn’t need to ask. Almost as soon as she began to falter he reached out, plucked the gemstone from her throat and sent his own gnosis powering into the carpet. At once it gained speed. She looked away, unsure how to convey gratitude and hating this ambivalence she felt when things needed to be clear between them. But she was so tired, so drained from the grief and exertion and the stress of hating, that she just rolled into a bundle and closed her eyes. If he can’t reach the coast, let us drown instead.

  *

  She awoke to find herself covered with a thin blanket. She was still lying on the carpet which was spread on the sands beneath vast open skies. A vivid sunrise pierced the gaps in the mountain ranges on the eastern horizon. She blinked uncertainly and sat up.

  Beneath a spindly tree a few yards away, a lion rumbled, its amber eyes on her. Zaqri. Not far off, a black panther prowled, watching her with hooded eyes, and beyond that menacing shape, many more, perhaps a hundred, far more than had left the Isle of Glass. Some were in human form, others still in beast shape, jackals mostly. In their midst was Huriya, wrapped in a shawl and hunched over a luminous bowl of water, scrying.

  The Keshi girl sensed her gaze. ‘Ah, you’re awake.’ A pulse of energy stirred about her and the pack came awake as one, leaping onto their feet or paws, shaking and grunting and snuffling their way to alertness. So many eyes, hemming her in as Huriya called to her, ‘Clever girl. Do you have any other surprises for us?’

  Cym clambered stiffly to her feet. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

  ‘Such pretty defiance. You know, I could almost come to like you, girl. But you’re magi.’ The blanket fell from one shoulder as Huriya stalked forward, swaying hypnotically, a cobra in girl shape. ‘That makes you more useful to us dead.’

  Cym glanced uncertainly at Zaqri. ‘He said—’

  ‘Zaqri is packleader. I am Seeress of the Western Reaches. Our authorities are different. But Brethren laws say that a mage must die, to strengthen us. The only thing preserving you is Zaqri’s whim.’ She flashed from ten yards away to one in an eye-blink without apparent effort, and the Rimoni girl recoiled
in shock. ‘I’m feeling quite whimsical myself.’

  Zaqri stood and flowed into man-form. ‘Lady Huriya, I—’

  ‘Hush, dear Zaqri. I’m not going to kill her just yet. I merely have some questions for the prisoner.’ Huriya’s gnosis pierced Cym’s brain like a lance.

  She couldn’t fight. It was like trying to hold back an avalanche with a blade of grass. She was dimly aware of falling to her knees, and someone big with warm hands holding her up. She tried to scream as all she’d gone through in the past six months or more was ripped from her mind with brutal, overwhelming power: from the discovery of the Scytale, her flight across Yuros, her capture by the barbarian Sfera tribesmen and rescue by Alaron, to the terrifying fight at the Isle of Glass. It felt like Huriya had taken a giant claw and reached inside her head to pull out whatever she wanted. Time and again the Keshi seeress came back to Alaron, searching for some kind of recent contact, but there was nothing to find.

  When her vision cleared, she found herself in a small rocky dell, away from the pack: just her, and Huriya and Zaqri. Huriya had moved her and she’d not even been aware. Her skull throbbed from the intrusion, filling her with nausea. She rubbed her temples.

  Huriya tsked in annoyance. ‘She doesn’t know where this Al’Rhon Mercer has gone.’

  ‘Please, Seeress,’ Zaqri said, his voice as low. ‘We need her memories to find him. This is an opportunity beyond dreams, and we must move carefully. The Inquisition also hunt this prize.’

  Huriya’s face turned cunning. ‘Indeed. For now it must remain our secret.’

  ‘We should tell Wornu,’ Zaqri argued.

  ‘No. No others, not yet.’ Huriya turned and snapped at Cym, ‘Girl, I do not like being made a fool of.’ She eyed her speculatively, then looked back at Zaqri. ‘I would like to ensure her loyalty: by giving her Nasette’s choice.’

  Zaqri pulled Cym behind him. ‘No. She can and will aid us without that. I take full responsibility.’

  Cym wondered what they were talking about. It didn’t sound good, not if Zaqri was so adamantly against it. She felt a real surge of relief when Huriya pouted, but backed down.

  ‘I will hold you to that, packleader. She may keep her carpet for now, but she is your responsibility.’

  *

  Adamus Crozier used relay-staves to summon aid, but it was still a week until another windship pulled up alongside their drifting hulk and allowed the remaining Inquisitors of Dranid’s Fist to resume the chase. They didn’t bother with repairs, just set the abandoned craft on fire. As they sailed away it plummeted like a comet into the sea.

  Malevorn joined his fellow survivors for the formal introduction to their rescuers. They were all in full dress uniform: over their armour their black and white tunics bore the Sacred Heart, and they carried dragon-helms under their arms. He knew the new Commandant’s name at least; Fronck Quintius’ clan was prominent in Pallas.

  Another name was also familiar: a young Acolyte with distinctive duelling scars slashed across his right cheek. Malevorn himself had put them there when Artus Leblanc was fourteen. He’d been twelve.

  Commandant Quintius continued the introductions. ‘Acolyte Artus Leblanc,’ he announced.

  ‘Brother Artus,’ Malevorn chorused with the others, staring into his eyes and seeing that he hadn’t been forgotten. Artus Leblanc glared balefully and stepped back into line. I guess he hasn’t forgiven me either.

  Duels between magi were illegal in Pallas, and doubly so amongst children, but Artus Leblanc’s persistent malice had become unbearable and in the end they’d gone at each other behind the stables, their carving knives hot with gnosis. The magic-burns had made the scars doubly bad; even with gnostic healing, Leblanc’s face had been marred for life.

  After the introductions, Adamus Crozier went below with Quintius, leaving the Acolytes free to mingle. Artus made straight for Malevorn. ‘Andevarion. We meet again.’

  ‘What a treat,’ Malevorn drawled.

  ‘I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you. I thought you’d have given up and slit your wrists by now. Just like Daddy.’ Malevorn felt Raine’s warning hand on his forearm. Artus took in the gesture and ran his eyes over her. ‘Remind me, what’s this troll’s name again?’

  Raine answered for herself, her voice calm.

  Artus Leblanc curled his lip. ‘Caladryn? I don’t believe I know your family.’

  ‘And I don’t know yours,’ she retorted.

  Artus snorted. Everyone knew the Leblancs. ‘I think you’re possibly the ugliest quim I’ve ever seen in uniform, Raine Caladryn. Are you of pig-farming stock? Did your mother climb into the pen one night?’

  Malevorn grasped Leblanc’s collar and yanked him close. ‘You’ll retract that.’

  Artus didn’t blink. ‘I can say what I like: “No brother or sister may raise a hand against another. Any insult must be borne.” So say the Scriptures. So you can go fuck yourself and your hog-faced whore too, Brother.’

  Malevorn glared, knowing he was right: while politeness was expected, it certainly wasn’t enforced, but violence against a fellow Inquisitor was expressly forbidden. He shoved Leblanc away, pushing the edges of those rules. ‘See you in training, Artus. Perhaps we’ll use knives?’

  Hands went to sword hilts, but Elath Dranid appeared and the Acolytes, eyeing each other warily, moved apart. Dranid was a legend in battle and still had rank, even in the depleted Eighteenth Fist. ‘Step away, Andevarion,’ he ordered.

  Artus Leblanc went to talk to his colleagues at the far end of the windship. Malevorn stayed by Dranid, seething. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked eventually, once he was certain his voice would be steady.

  ‘Back to that cursed island. If the shifters are still there, we’ll destroy them. If not, we’ll seek clues.’ Dranid was ill at ease: though he’d been recently promoted to Fist Commandant of the Eighteenth, it obviously weighed uncomfortably on him. He hadn’t tried to deal as an equal with Quintius, Malevorn thought. He would have asserted himself, but Dranid was out of his depth in matters that couldn’t be dealt with using a blade.

  It took another day to find the Isle of Glass, and when they arrived everything of value had been stolen, destroyed or thrown into the sea. Adamus was visibly disappointed, though unsurprised. He ordered the Acolytes to search for any bits of Dokken fur or feathers so they could resume the search; Brother Geoffram, the new Farseer from Quintius’ Fist, thought he could use Dokken traces to guide the pursuit. It was the only viable option they had left right now.

  Hopefully they will lead us to Mercer and the Scytale. But I’ll be damned before I let Artus Leblanc lay hands on it, Malevorn thought.

  3

  Desire

  The Morals of the Ordo Costruo

  The Ordo Costruo have long made a practice of seizing the moral high ground in debates, their high-handedness nowhere more evident than their criticisms of the slave trade. The truth is that the Ordo Costruo have been exploiting their status as the only magi in Antiopia to subtly subjugate all Antiopia. The number of mixed-race half-blooded magi in their order speaks eloquently of their own moral degeneracy.

  ARCH-PRELATE DOMINIUS WURTHER, CORINEUS DAY ADDRESS, PALLAS, 899

  Northern Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

  Zulhijja (Decore) 928 to Moharram (Janune ) 929

  6th and 7th months of the Moontide

  Kazim fell asleep some time after midnight as Elena piloted the Greyhawk over a featureless plain somewhere northwest of their old lair. His last conscious sight was of mountains to his right, plains on the left. When the rising sun blazed through his eyelids, he woke to find himself surrounded by red rocks, carved by millennia of sun and wind and rain into strange shapes, like clay moulded by a blind sculptor. He stared at them for a few bleary seconds until he realised that they weren’t moving, that they had landed. He glanced back at her, his mouth forming the question.

  �
�Yes, we’ve arrived,’ Elena told him cheerily, baring her teeth and crinkling up her eyes. Her hair was tied against the wind. It was gleaming blonde from days in the sun practising combat and gnosis together in the monastery. It had felt like an idle pursuit then, training for the sake of excellence or personal enlightenment, like the original Zain monastics who’d built the place. Now they were going to war for real.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked blearily, looking around. They were in a little hollow, sheltering below a rock wall that had been split aeons ago by a dried-up river. A goat-path jinked away out of sight above the banks. The air was cool and hazy. ‘Is this the place we discussed?’

  ‘It is. We hit the northern road from Brochena to Hytel during the night, and I’ve been following it until an hour ago.’

  ‘I don’t know Javon at all,’ he confessed.

  ‘I’ll draw you a map. I’ve brought a little parchment and ink.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘Are you ready for this, Kazim? We’re going to war.’

  ‘You know I can fight,’ he said soberly.

  ‘Of course! You’re the best young swordsman I’ve ever seen. But this won’t feel like fighting. We’ll be killing with the gnosis – most of those we face won’t stand a chance.’

  He flinched at that. Using the gnosis against ordinary men felt somehow wrong, unsporting. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking like that but he couldn’t help himself. He’d played too many kalikiti games in Aruna Nagar; fairness mattered.

  ‘I can kill,’ he said quietly. He’d proven that too. ‘I can do what you require.’ Because it is you who requires it. ‘This is the holy war,’ he added.

  ‘War is never holy.’ She looked away, exhaled heavily. ‘Come, we need to hide the skiff and get settled in before dark.’ She gestured towards the crack in the rock face. ‘Through there. Sorry, it’s not as nice as the monastery.’

  They dragged the skiff up the dried riverbed and draped it in its dun-coloured sails before throwing sand over the top so that it would be invisible from the air. Then they hefted their packs and entered the narrow defile. It twisted and turned for a hundred yards, until they reached a flat area with a little three-sided mudbrick building, barely twelve paces square, at the centre. It looked deserted.