Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  Cym felt a faint rush of nausea, despite her loathing of the little Keshi girl. ‘Does Huriya know?’

  Zaqri shrugged. ‘I doubt it, or she would not be so sure of herself.’ There was little sympathy in his voice.

  Cym had none either. ‘So, when she talked about Nasette, she was suggesting turning me into one of you.’

  ‘She still believes it would enforce your loyalty to our Brethren.’

  Cym had seen enough of the half-beast lives of these Dokken to know she never, ever, wanted to be one. And to have to kill for the gnosis? Never! ‘She can’t be serious.’

  ‘She is – but I won’t let it happen, Cymbellea.’

  She studied his face, trying to understand what she felt for him. Her gnostic sight showed her the wrongness in his aura, the strange tendrils and bruise-like discolouration. She’d noticed it got worse when he was low on energy.

  ‘Why?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Because you are perfect as you are.’

  She spat disgustedly. ‘Go rukk yourself, Dokken.’

  He snorted mildly, though she could sense his temper rising. She knew she was trying his patience and that wasn’t wise. Nor did it make her proud: she’d been raised to give respect, to keep her dignity, even among enemies.

  Damn him for his honour – and everything else about him that I can’t ignore.

  ‘You can be as nice as you like to me,’ she told him, ‘I’m still going to kill you. Or your mother.’

  ‘My mother is long dead, and my father too. I have no kin other than this pack.’

  ‘They don’t count. It will have to be you, then.’

  He didn’t react. He never did.

  She and Zaqri travelled separately from the pack, using the carpet so she didn’t slow him down, though even with the energy crystal she was permanently exhausted. They flew mostly under moonlight, sleeping during the day, and that had its own tensions, for she knew he wanted her; she could feel it. That he was able to contain his desires was something she respected and was grateful for, but it made her uncomfortable too, especially when she found herself lusting for him: lithe, muscular, handsome, regal, everything she’d ever dreamed of. But the oath of vendetta had the stronger claim.

  Days and weeks passed and still there was no sign of Alaron or Ramita. The pack had spread out, sweeping the land on a wide perimeter as they moved south. Zaqri occasionally left her alone to hunt in lion form; she noted that animals did not replenish his gnosis. It had to be a human spirit, so when his gnosis ran low, he would haunt some village and return with his aura brighter. It still nauseated her, and clearly he too hated the burden of having to kill to replenish himself; she struggled not to pity him for that.

  The pack mustered again in southern Dhassa, beneath the shadow of the coastal range. The rendezvous was a watering hole beneath a rocky outcropping in a landscape strewn with massive piles of shattered and eroded stone. The whole of Zaqri’s pack had gathered, and Cym counted eighty-odd adult Dokken in all manner of shapes, and dozens of children. Huriya was there too, bathing naked in the pool, flirting blatantly with the men, but as Cym and Zaqri landed the carpet, all eyes turned to them.

  The sensation hit her like a blow: This is Pack.

  She had spent so much time with Zaqri that she could sense it now. It was something in the nature of the Dokken and the way they lived in such close intimacy: they were gnostically bonded, aware of each other in ways humans could never be. It made them almost one organism, especially when they were gathered like this. They had no concepts of privacy or even individuality; they were able to feed off each other, sharing the gnosis. She could see the links clearly when she engaged her gnostic sight: tendrils of aura stretching from being to being, drawing them into the greater whole. There were no secrets here, no respite from each other. She felt violated just being aware of it and threw up her shields as she looked at Zaqri fearfully.

 

  He flowed into human form and spoke aloud. ‘This is Cymbellea, and she is my mine. She is not to be harmed.’

  The rest of the pack took human form too, except for a black panther, which snarled as it stepped towards her. Hessaz. Cym froze as the great cat prowled forward, not daring to move. It sniffed at her crotch, then blurred into human form. Hessaz’ skin was almost as black as her panther fur, but she was fractionally shorter than Cym, which seemed to anger her.

  ‘They have not mated,’ she announced, her harsh voice echoing about the water.

  Thanks, tell the world, Cym thought sourly. The woman’s manner irked her. ‘He still doesn’t want you, Kitty,’ she snapped, the words coming out without thought.

  Hessaz growled as if still in beast form, and raised a hand to slap her, but Cym moved more quickly, catching her wrist and holding on, trembling at the sudden trial of strength. The Lokistani woman was stronger, just, but she gripped her hard and snapped defiantly, ‘You haven’t got what it takes to fight me.’ A Rimoni doesn’t back down.

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Hessaz glowered at her until a low rumble from Zaqri’s throat made her go still. She wrenched her hand out of Cym’s grip and backed away. ‘She will never be one of us,’ she said to Zaqri in a low voice. ‘She can never replace my sister. Ghila was your mate for nine years. She wed you the same day I wed Perno. You pledged that day to care for me if Perno fell, as he pledged to care for Ghila. You promised to love me as a sister. Where is that love now?’

  ‘It is still here, sister,’ he said, touching his left breast.

  Hessaz looked at him with baleful eyes. ‘Then why do I not feel its heat?’

  ‘You are still my sister.’

  ‘I don’t want to be your sister,’ she shouted, her voice cracking. ‘I want more!’

  Zaqri shook his head. ‘Nevertheless.’

  For an instant Cym thought the Lokistani woman might sprout teeth and claws and fly at him, but instead she threw her head and wailed, then she spun round and ran out into the sands.

  Huriya whispered in the ear of a man at her side, and he trotted after Hessaz.

  she asked Zaqri, studying him. He was big, older than Zaqri, and heavily scarred. He looked very strong, though less agile than the lion-man. The bleached pallor of his hair hinted at northern Yuros, though his skin was burned dark.

  His eyes went to Huriya.

 

  His eyes glinted teasingly.

 

  Zaqri said seriously.

 

  His eyes followed Wornu until he was out of sight.

  She put her hands on her hips.

  *

  The next morning, Wornu was wed to Hessaz. The ceremony was a simple and barbaric thing: Wornu simply laid claim to her, then they mated before the pack. Their heaving, sweaty coupling replayed in Cym’s mind for days after, stirring complex emotions. Hessaz was not pacified by her new mate though: whenever she looked at Cym, her eyes were full of hatred.

  Zaqri spent the next few days among his people, renewing old bonds. Cym realised that her presence had weakened his standing, and she was afraid to be far from him, though so far no one had violated Zaqri’s protection edict. It wasn’t just the ancient enmity between magi and Dokken; Zaqri told her that hundreds of potential Dokken went their whole lives without ever awakening the gnosis for want of a mage to kill – no wonder they all wanted to destroy her, especially those with unawakened children.

  The growing tension between Wornu and Zaqri came to a head the next evening as the pack gathered
around the central cooking fires.

  ‘We must find these damned magi!’ Wornu shouted angrily. ‘How has this boy from Yuros eluded us? I’ll tell you why: it’s because you will not plunder the knowledge inside her head!’ He stabbed his finger at Cym. ‘She knows where the boy is and you’re protecting her, packleader! Why?’

  Cym felt her breath shorten as a chorus of derision rose. Clearly some of the pack had been primed for this confrontation.

  ‘Zaqri pants after the gypsy!’

  ‘She’s stolen the balls from his sack.’

  ‘An unmated packleader is no leader at all.’

  ‘Kill the gypsy and use her knowledge!’

  Cym looked around for Huriya and found her at the back, a satisfied look on her face. She’s put Wornu up to this.

  Zaqri leapt atop the closest rock and shouted above the hubbub. ‘I know all that the Rimoni girl knows! It is not for lack of her information that we have not found the boy!’

  ‘We were promised blood – I have children to avenge!’ a woman called.

  ‘If I were leader we would not run from the Inquisitors!’ Wornu cried. ‘We would fight!’

  Zaqri’s nostrils flared. ‘If you were leader – but you’re not, Wornu, and nor do you have the support for a challenge!’

  ‘Not got the support?’ Wornu shouted back, spreading his arms theatrically. ‘Do I not?’

  As if primed, an alarming number of voices rose, shouting, ‘WORNU! WORNU!’

  Cym saw Zaqri’s surprise and was shocked he’d not seen it coming. He’s politically naïve, she realised, too noble and honest for his own good. Her eyes went to Huriya, the Seeress. I bet she foresaw everything …

  The clamour grew louder and Dokken started calling, ‘A challenge! A challenge!’

  Zaqri drew himself to his full height and shouted for silence. It took several tries, but finally they settled enough to hear him out. ‘Listen to me! I swear to you, Cymbellea knows nothing she has not shared, willingly or by force. A challenge would achieve nothing but the further weakening of the pack!’

  ‘It is you who weakens the pack!’ Wornu snarled. ‘If you wish to strengthen us, share the essence of your Rimoni whore!’

  ‘Aye,’ Hessaz echoed, ‘kill the gypsy slut! Who here has a child ready to have their gnosis awakened?’

  A chorus of hands went up and the noise rose further. Zaqri looked down at Cym and she could read his concern. Any illusion of safety was collapsing around them. He looked around at Huriya and read her smug expression and it finally sank in: Wornu was deadly serious, and Hessaz was willing to kill a man she’d once wanted as mate.

  He’s my protection …

  With a sinking heart she watched the inevitable play out in rituals of bravado. Wornu confronted Zaqri, bringing in his head so their foreheads were touching, and snorting like a bull, shouted, ‘I will find those we hunt! I’ll rip the knowledge from the gypsy’s mind!’

  ‘I don’t know where they are, pezzi di merda!’ Cym shouted furiously, unable to stay silent.

  Hessaz stalked towards her and shoved her in the chest. ‘Shut it, whore!’

  Cym staggered, caught herself and cried, ‘Tie your bitch back up, Wornu!’

  Hessaz slapped her and she slapped back with a resounding great crack. All round her the pack whooped and shouted encouragement. She fed gnosis into her nails, bent her fingers into claws.

  Hessaz’s whole head shifted to panther shape and she roared in Cym’s face.

  Rukka!

  ‘Call her off, Wornu!’ she warned, backing up, fighting to keep her voice firm.

  ‘Do it yourself, whore,’ Wornu sneered, still facing Zaqri nose to nose.

  Cym’s temper flared. ‘I’m no one’s whore, you oversized bullock.’

  Wornu’s face turned ugly. ‘Bullock? Zaqri’s the one who’s been gelded!’

  Zaqri shoved, Wornu shoved back, and Cym was confronted by an advancing Hessaz, her panther head full of teeth. She backed up, ready to fight there and then, when an old man stepped between them. Tomacz, a pack elder. To her relief, Hessaz stopped and her head returned to something mostly human. That didn’t prevent violence breaking out between supporters of the two contenders behind them, and Cym noted with alarm that Wornu appeared to have at least as many behind him as Zaqri did.

  ‘Peace!’ shouted Huriya. She strode between the two men and with a double-handed gesture threw them apart. ‘Enough, I say! A leadership challenge is one thing, but a brawl is intolerable!’ She looked at Wornu, taking the stance of disinterested outsider. ‘You must make your challenge or withdraw your words, Wornu.’

  ‘A challenge! A challenge!’ the call went out again.

  Hessaz pointed at Cym. ‘This creature has bent your horn,’ she rasped at Zaqri. ‘Give her to us and we will withdraw the challenge.’

  A growl rose about her and Cym could feel the raw hostility all around her: she was a mage, she was an outsider, she was a threat to pack unity. There were no friendly eyes, no sympathy anywhere. Even Zaqri, beloved as he was by many, could not change centuries of hatred.

  He’ll have to sacrifice me or face death …

  Sensing the mood, Wornu spoke again, his booming voice filling the dell. ‘Feed her to a deserving recipient, to strengthen the pack!’

  Zaqri snarled. ‘She’s my—’

  ‘Yes? She’s your what, exactly?’ Hessaz enquired. ‘You won’t kill her and you won’t fuck her. So what is she?’

  ‘She is my ward,’ Zaqri maintained, but his posture was defensive now. ‘She does not come between me and my duties as packleader.’

  ‘Does she not?’ rumbled Wornu. ‘Yet here you are, a packleader without a mate, and she is your constant companion. Your chaste companion. Tell me she has not emasculated you, Brother.’

  Zaqri’s chest swelled and his chin rose. His eyes blazed. ‘Refusal to rape a prisoner is not a sign of weakness, Brother.’ His eyes flickered to Hessaz. ‘Perhaps a man who is being led by the balls is the one who is emasculated.’

  Wornu bared his teeth. ‘I am my own man, and my woman gives me strength. She does not undermine me as your woman does.’

  ‘Cymbellea is not my woman. I have no woman.’

  ‘No, you do not.’ Wornu sighed as if filled with regret. ‘A packleader with no woman is half a man.’ He spat on the ground at Zaqri’s feet. ‘Emasculated.’

  Zaqri stared at the blob of spittle as the rest of the pack sucked in their breath and backed away. ‘Do you challenge me, Brother?’

  ‘You are my brother no longer,’ Wornu said in his deepest bass. ‘I do challenge. My mate and I, Hessaz of Gorsh, give formal challenge.’

  Zaqri’s face fell and he said sadly, ‘Wornu, you and I have fought shoulder to shoulder for decades. This is not worthy of you.’

  Wornu wrinkled his nose as if from a bad smell. ‘Are you afraid? It is not fitting for a pack leader to seek to avoid a challenge.’

  Zaqri growled. ‘I’m not afraid of you, Wornu.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool.’ Wornu tapped Zaqri in the middle of the chest. ‘Let us resolve this, Brother. Step into the Noose and we will make a swift end.’

  The pack inhaled as one, eyes flickering from one man to the other. Then Hessaz stepped behind Wornu and gripped his shoulder. ‘I stand with my mate in the Noose and stake my life,’ she cried.

  ‘My mate and I against you and yours,’ Wornu said to Zaqri.

  Hessaz sneered. ‘Except he has none. Or so he says.’

  What’s a Noose? Cym wondered as she looked from man to man. Wornu was bulkier, heavier, and more thickly muscled, but Zaqri was taller and faster. But there was also Hessaz, probably as dangerous as Wornu in her own way. Two against one.

  And if Zaqri dies, I’m next.

  Cym swallowed then, as if in slow motion, she reached out and gripped Zaqri’s thick bicep in her right hand, mirroring Hessaz’s posture. ‘I stand with Zaqri in the Noose,’ she said as loudly and firmly as she could. ‘I stake my life.�
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  11

  A Tightening Noose

  Social Organisation Among the Dokken

  There is little information to work with, but it appears that the Dokken live largely solitary lives, except those with an affinity to animagery, who gather in large clans in the wild. These seem to share some bond, as herd beasts do.

  ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS 761

  Southern Dhassa, on the continent of Antiopia

  Awwal (Martrois) 929

  9th month of the Moontide

  Whatever reaction Cym might have expected from her sudden pronouncement, derisive laughter wasn’t it. Even as Zaqri threw a startled look over his shoulder at her, Huriya’s harsh cackle filled the circle of close-pressed Souldrinkers.

  ‘No, girl.’ Huriya swayed into the space between the combatants, her sheer presence enough to make even Wornu and Zaqri take a step back. ‘The word is mate: to us this means married in the eyes of the pack. There has been no such ceremony. Even mated at all would be a start, but you’ve not even done that.’ A malicious titter ran through the gathered pack.

  Zaqri looked at her, fully aware of what she was doing.

  She read in his face that he knew this too. she pleaded silently.

  Zaqri looked at her in silence, then away. Finally he looked around until he spotted the nearest elder. ‘Tomacz,’ he said, ‘a couple have the right to wed at any time, is that not so, Eldest?’

  Tomacz frowned, his eyes flickering from Zaqri to Wornu to Huriya. ‘It is so,’ he admitted.

  ‘Pah!’ Wornu exclaimed. ‘This weakling desperately seeks a woman to die with him. Craven bastard, seeking skirts to hide behind! To think we ever supported you!’

  The pack hissed in agreement, and Cym felt the antipathy of the pack towards them rise to new levels. She could feel it: Zaqri’s reign was over, whether he defeated Wornu’s challenge or not. He’d lost their respect, because of her.