by David Hair
This had been his greatest gamble, sending Rashid to Pallas to try and reach accommodation with the emperor over Duke Echor. The idea had been proposed by a Rondian spy who offered the deadly deal: take on Echor’s army under advantageous circumstances to win a victory that both Rondians and Keshi would celebrate. And it had worked, exactly as planned.
But now came the aftermath: the news of this unprecedented victory would spread and people would rise up against the Rondian garrisons. Some might even be successful, where they massively outnumbered the Rondians. But Kaltus Korion was still in the north, and his far more powerful army was well-entrenched, with strong supply-lines.
The victory at Shaliyah marked the end of the arrangement with the Rondians, leaving him free to go after Korion. But did he dare? Kaltus Korion had destroyed Ahmed hassan armies before. Was it better to wait out the Crusade and then rebuild as usual, this time with the glory of Shaliyah to immortalise his fame?
Salim knew how others saw him; he had cultivated his public persona as carefully as a farmer cultivates his crops. He was a tall man, still only in his mid-twenties, and extremely well-educated. Women sighed over him, but they were not a passion for him: they were for breeding and little else. His was a male world, and he’d grown up learning to read the men around him, assessing their relative threat. His courtiers feared him, something he had deliberately promoted with little acts of dominance as he became confident in his authority. His soldiers loved him. He had been trained to rule with sword and intellect, and thanks to magi-training he could mask his thoughts. He knew how to balance risk with reward, and how to pursue a goal without remorse.
But the decisions to come would be like trying to negotiate a maze filled with cobras. And the first of those decisions concerned the Souldrinkers.
He turned to the small shaven-haired secretary on his left, and whispered, ‘Have Rashid and Arkanus join me in the royal suite immediately this parade is over.’
*
‘What is left of Echor’s army?’ Salim asked, speaking Rondian for the sake of the Souldrinkers. Both were of Yuros ancestry and still favoured the common tongue of the empire. The suite was illuminated by lattice-patterns of orange-pink light from the falling sun. Precious carpets covered the floors; the walls and low tables held trophies and ornaments. Mute servants stood like statues holding trays of iced drink. ‘Did any escape?’
Rashid Mubarak pursed his lips. He too spoke Rondian easily. ‘Our storm came across the front from north to south, with our men and war-elephants shielded within. We crushed all of the enemy except those on their southern flank, who fled into the hills.’
‘Echor’s forces were rabble,’ Alyssa Dulayne purred, stroking a blonde tress from her brow. ‘Just as I said.’ She and Hecatta, Arkanus’ woman, exchanged a look. Two beauties of very different types: one the embodiment of the courtly lady, the other filled with primitive sensuality. They pretended friendship, but Salim could see the rivalry clearly.
Arkanus rolled his powerful shoulders. ‘The survivors have gone south,’ he grunted. ‘No more than ten thousand, my scouts say. Only the deluge following the dust-storm prevented a complete massacre.’
‘The laxity of your watchers allowed their escape,’ Rashid said coolly.
‘Visibility was less than ten yards at the worse of it,’ Arkanus rumbled. ‘Your magi didn’t see them either. Anyway, they can’t have gone far.’
‘They’re heading south,’ Rashid reiterated. ‘Towards Khotri. That is a problem.’
‘Let them,’ Hecatta said in her deep cat-purr. ‘Why should we care?’ She picked up a handful of nuts with her left hand – the social gaffe made Salim wince – and stuffed them into her mouth. These Souldrinkers had apparently dwelt secretly in Ahmedhassa for years, but their manners were barbarous. ‘We can follow wherever they go.’
Salim tapped the table, silencing them all, though the deference from Arkanus and Hecatta seemed grudging. ‘The Emir of Khotriawal has an army permanently stationed across the Efratis River, camped outside the town of Ardijah. Khotri refused to heed the shihad, and they will not tolerate any incursion. If they cross into Khotri, we cannot follow without provoking the emir.’
‘We cannot afford war with Khotri at this time,’ Rashid said.
‘My people acknowledge no borders,’ Arkanus sniffed.
Rashid raised his voice. ‘We must move the bulk of our army north to confront Kaltus Korion, but this matter must be resolved before these blundering Rondians trigger a border war with Khotri.’
Hecatta whispered something in Arkanus’ ear. The Souldrinker warleader nodded thoughtfully. ‘My mate reminds me that our agreement to aid you ended with this great victory, Sultan. My people have done our share, and we have harvested well. We lost many, but gained far more. Dozens more of our youth now have the gnosis. If you wish our service for longer, we will require additional concessions.’
Rashid frowned. ‘Do you indeed? Fighting for Ahm’s holy shihad is not enough for you?’
‘It is of great comfort.’ The corner of Arkanus’ mouth twitched with sarcasm. ‘However, our lineage and ways are traced to Yuros and the Ascension of Corineus, so it does not pull our heart-strings quite so strongly as yours. We have been persecuted here as well. We are your “Afreet” in the flesh.’
‘What is it you want, war-leader?’ Salim asked.
‘Land of our own.’
Salim glanced at Rashid, who’d gone still. To give these beings land to rule could create a monster for future generations: a new enemy with the gnosis, and the need to constantly consume souls to sustain that power. It was such a deal as Shaitan himself might offer.
And what about you, Rashid? What do you think on this? The emir gave no sign either way. Arkanus and Hecatta waited, their eyes predatory.
Alyssa Dulayne stroked Rashid’s arm and shared a look with him. No doubt they were communicating silently in the way of the magi. Salim envied that, but he would fear a mage wife, and that his thoughts were not his truly own. A ruler had to rule his own bed first. He wondered if either Arkanus or Rashid could truly claim that.
‘I hear you, Arkanus, my friend,’ he said eventually. ‘I value all you have done and all you could do for the shihad, but what you ask is a great deal. I will need to consider it.’ He drew himself upright, looked about him meaningfully. ‘Alone.’
Arkanus looked at Rashid, then at Hecatta. Something passed between them, then both men nodded simultaneously. Rashid had once said that the Souldrinker warleaders spent so much time in each other’s minds that it was hard to know where one began and the other ended. All the Souldrinkers Salim had observed were like that: more dog-pack than human group. But it had been Rashid who’d come to him with the Souldrinkers’ offer to aid the shihad, almost seven years ago. It had cost a lot of gold, and now it looked likely to cost land as well.
And perhaps damn my soul in the eyes of Ahm for ever …
A few minutes later, Rashid slipped back into the room. He bowed low to his sultan before saying, ‘Appear reluctant, but give them what they want. We still need them.’
Salim looked through the lattice-work of the shutters towards the sunset. ‘My friend,’ he started, musing aloud, ‘I am wondering who is worse: these afreet, or the Rondians? These Souldrinkers feel no remorse at killing the innocent to replenish themselves. My captains are uneasy about our current arrangement. Many of them saw the strings of half-starved slaves who were led into battle by the Souldrinkers for one reason only – to provide more “fuel” when their powers burned low. At the end they were still chained together, and all dead. What sort of monsters are we allied with?’
‘I have been creating monsters for decades, Great Sultan,’ Rashid said. ‘I have kidnapped female magi and sent them to breed until their bodies gave out. I have had male magi chained to pallets and sent fertile human women to them, again and again, and I have forged their gnosis-wielding offspring into killers. That is what having magi for enemies has done to us.’
‘Indeed.’ Rashid walked over to the mounds of exotic fruit, plucked a grape from the bunch and swallowed it, a liberty none but he would dare in the presence of the sultan. ‘Dangle a prize before Arkanus and it will blind him to his peril. Offer him …’ He paused, then smiled wolfishly. ‘Offer him Khotri.’
‘Khotri is not mine to offer.’
‘All the better. You won’t miss it.’ Rashid chose another grape. ‘We must march north to confront Kaltus Korion. He will raze Halli’kut if I leave him unchecked.’
Kaltus Korion. Salim had never met the fabled Rondian commander, but he had seen sketches. The man looked like a hawk. ‘What of the soldiers who escaped the battle? If Arkanus is right, there may be at least two Rondian legions out there somewhere.’
Rashid considered. ‘Conventional wisdom says the only way to defeat the Rondians is by strength – we must outnumber them five to one – but now we have magi of our own. I would keep thirty thousand men here, local men by preference, with magi support from Arkanus’ people. Make him divide his power.’
‘And if the Rondians flee into Khotri territory?’
‘Then let Arkanus follow them. We need to start thinking as the Rondians do, Great Sultan. We have our own magi now, enough to destroy the Khotri if they don’t bend the knee to you. It is high time we demonstrated our new power to the Emir of Khotriawal. It will be a message to his kinsman the Mughal of Lakh as well. Let us not forget that during the last Crusade, the Lakh raided our lands behind our backs. Vengeance is still owed on that account.’
Salim considered his words, then gave his assent. ‘Let it be so. But as the situation may become delicate I believe it will be best if I stay here in the south, to ensure that Arkanus does not attempt to take more than is offered.’
Rashid bowed. ‘You can trust me to act always in your interests in the north, Great Sultan.’
‘Yes, my friend, I can,’ he said. ‘Take the bulk of the army north – after Shaliyah, I believe many more will rally to our banner. Here in the south, I will ensure that the remainder of the Rondians are crushed, and that Arkanus deals with Khotriawal.’ He picked up his goblet. ‘And what price does the Emir of Halli’kut wish? Do you also desire your own kingdom?’
Rashid shook his head. ‘The Rondian magi rule through terror – that is the only way they can rule at all. I do not desire such a kingdom. My magi will be tolerated by ordinary people only if we are aligned to them in service of Ahm and of you, Great Sultan. And once we have ensured that the Rondians have been driven from Ahmedhassa for the last time, we will watch as Arkanus’ kingdom collapses about him, and then we will finish off him and his entire misbegotten brood for good.’
Salim noted the burning hate behind the emir’s words and asked mildly, ‘It took much for your people to fight alongside these creatures?’
‘Great Sultan, the Souldrinkers are a foulness that must be expunged. They are as much the enemy as the Rondians, and one day it will give me great pleasure to exterminate them. But right now, they are a necessary evil.’
‘Then we have made a bargain with Shaitan?’
‘We have indeed, Great Sultan,’ Rashid said quietly. ‘We have indeed.’
6
Retreat
Mage-Children
The offspring of a mage usually gains the gnosis as they enter puberty, the most turbulent period of change in both body and psyche. Until then a mage-child is like any other, though of course their special destiny elevates them above other children. It is common practice to segregate them from lesser children, though I do sometimes wonder if this is entirely beneficial.
MARTHA YUNE, ARCANUM TUTOR, BRES 877
Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia
Safar (Febreux) 929
8th month of the Moontide
Alaron stared morosely at Seeker’s battered hull, and in particular at the sheared-off stumps of the landing struts. Examining the damaged windskiff was a good distraction from looking at the Lakh girl lying moaning on the blanket and clutching her belly.
Brilliant. I’ve probably put her into labour. He groaned and buried his head in his hands, but that didn’t help.
He had no idea where he was, only that it was Lokistan, a place he knew nothing about. The few maps he’d seen at Turm Zauberin had the considerable swathes of blank space filled in with lots of jaggedly artistic mountains and pictures of winged serpents. He was really hoping that was just artistic license and that the cartographer had had no real idea either.
The gales that had swept them southwards across the Rakasarphal had then hurled them against the rearing walls of stone on the south side of the huge inlet; it had taken an almost superhuman effort to gain enough altitude to avoid Seeker being dashed to pieces against the coastal range. But though they’d won a brief reprieve, it wasn’t long before they were enduring a harrowing ride through sheer-sided ravines that had been hacked into the mountain range as if by the cleavers of murderous giants. They’d skimmed cliffs and narrowly dodged treacherous overhangs, only to explode out into this valley, coming in too fast and too low.
The result of their precipitous landing was spread out before him: the skiff had skidded into the rocky slope, shearing off struts and cracking the hull; now it lay there quietly amidst the vermilion poppies that covered the scree and danced in the late afternoon wind. He could see the darkness rushing towards them: the sun was already lost in the clouds that swirled about the peaks looming above them.
‘Al’Rhon,’ Ramita gasped weakly, her eyes clenched shut, her hands groping for him blindly, ‘help me!’
He hurried over to her and clasped her small hand. They were the hardest hands he’d ever touched, rough and callused from a life of manual labour. She was less than half his size, even with the pregnancy, but there was something solid about her, something earthy and tenacious. Her skin was slick with sweat and her eyes were clenched shut as she forced herself to breathe through the contractions.
‘I’m here,’ he whispered, dropping to his knees beside her. He felt helpless and useless as he wiped the sweat from her brow with his sleeve. ‘What do you need?’
She didn’t answer but clutched at his arm. She was breathing fast, her whole form quivering. A stream of words in her own tongue tumbled from her mouth as she exhaled like a bellows, then she sagged against him as this latest wave of pain let go.
‘Hurts,’ she whispered in Rondian, shivering.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he told her. ‘Can you use gnosis to dull the pain?’
‘I’m trying,’ she replied. ‘It’s so cold.’
Cold – she’s cold. Now she mentioned it, he too could feel the wind biting at his flesh. High overhead he caught flashes of the stark white of fresh snow. She needs heat. ‘I’ll light a fire,’ he said, then thought, What the Hel can I burn?
He wrapped her in their blankets as she prepared for the next onslaught, then he scurried about looking for wood, but they were so high up he could find nothing but grass and rock. In desperation, he gathered up the broken stumps of the landing struts and lit them with Fire-gnosis. The orange blossom was stark against the darkness, the swirling winds making the flames dance chaotically.
Ramita leaned towards the heat, beads of perspiration running into her eyes and blending with tears as she fought another great wave of agony. She finished the last of their water and moaned, ‘Thirsty.’
Thirsty. Great Kore, what do I do now? There had been a stream running down the ravine they’d flown up. He muttered words of reassurance as he held her through the next bout, then disentangled himself. She was increasingly detached, almost delirious, and didn’t appear even to hear him as he prised himself loose. ‘I’ll get more water,’ he promised.
He headed down to the darkening cleft below, sure he could hear water rushing amidst the groaning wind. Using the gnosis for light, he found an icy stream trickling do
wn the narrow valley and filled their water-bottles. When he returned, Ramita drank greedily. ‘It’s passing,’ she whispered, shaking. She let go of his hand and looked at him with a brave little smile.
‘Is the baby coming?’
‘Not tonight – no waters yet. But soon.’ She reached out and flicked his fringe from his forehead. ‘Shukriya, Al’Rhon. You are a good man.’
He squirmed. He didn’t feel like a man at all – and for all her adult manner and earthy pragmatism, she was younger than he was, and about to face the greatest killer of her gender. There were female magi – the Sisters of Assarla – who dedicated their lives to childbirth in Yuros. He remembered his mother telling him that without such healer-midwives, as many as one in three women died giving birth. That was worse than going to war. He wished there was an Assarlian sister here, right now. He’d have kissed her hem in gratitude. ‘Are you hungry?’
She shook her head and closed her eyes. ‘Husband,’ she whispered, pressed against her side, ‘I will make you proud.’
He frowned, then realised she wasn’t talking to him. That her children were the progeny of Antonin Meiros redoubled his anxiety. But her breathing was becoming more regular, and at last she fell asleep.
There was no real way to get comfortable. The ground was hard and rocks jabbed through the blankets. Ramita’s head fell into his lap and the stale, damp smell of her sweating body wafted past his nose. Neither of them had washed in days, but he was getting used to the ripe smells and the itching of soiled skin. He draped an arm across her and without thinking, he bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll look after you,’ he promised.
Time dragged as a crescent of light climbed over the eastern peaks, sharp as a scimitar: Luna, rising over this desolate place. No one will ever find our bones if we die here. He wondered where his father was. Vann Mercer – Da – was indestructible … but what if Inquisitors found him? Would they care that he knew nothing of the Scytale? And what about Anise? Or Cym? Had the Souldrinkers killed her? And where was Ramon?