by David Hair
‘At least we’re moving,’ Arnulf Rhumberg muttered, and Gurvon didn’t have the heart to tell him they gone further sideways than forward. It was their eighth day on the road, and they were – maybe – halfway to their destination. He was relying on Sordell’s triangulation to guide him to the required place. In theory, he could scout ahead in spirit form at night, but he wasn’t sure he trusted those around him enough to leave his body in their care.
He’d not just brought Rhumberg’s maniple along; he’d also commandeered the Kirkegarde’s weird steeds for the senior officers once he’d realised just how strong and clever they were. The rankers on ordinary horses were slowing them down, and he was tempted to press on, just him with Rhumberg and a few of his men – but no, that felt rash. Perhaps Elena had bandit friends out here?
By the time I find the site, Elena will either be gnawed bones, or long gone … He had almost given up wishing he could find her alive so that he could administer the deathblow. Dead was dead, and he had better things to be doing – better, and more urgent too. I hope you’re being chewed on by jackals, Elena. It’s exactly what you deserve.
The sun was kissing the western peaks and the air was cold and dry. They were still below the summer snowline and the landscape was stark as the face of Luna above, each valley a narrow morass of fallen boulders through which icy streams danced, hurrying onwards as if afraid to linger. At night wolves and jackals bayed, but they never saw them. Once they spied goats, high above, and he found himself wondering what on Urte they found to eat up there.
‘We stop here, boss?’ Rhumberg rumbled, spurring his horse up the slope.
‘It’ll do,’ he replied.
While Rhumberg oversaw the setting of the camp, he climbed to the ridgeline. Nothing but more mountains greeted his eyes, though according to his map the sea was only ten miles further on from where the spectre had caught Elena. He found a high clear place and sat, opening his mind for gnostic contact. It came almost immediately.
Rutt chuckled. He’d been unusually cheery since they’d been reunited, but then, he was a born number two and barely functional when left in charge.
Gurvon looked along the valley ahead: it ran sideways to the way he wanted to go. He sighed.
Gurvon nibbled his lower lip. He wasn’t sure what to make of the Harkun. The nomads were confined to the lower plateau beneath the Rift forts; he was worried they might throw their lot in with the Javonesi.
Gurvon tsked irritably.
Rutt sent a warm glow down the link.
He broke the contact, then sat down with his back to a rock to watch the sun go down, a pristine and beautiful reward for another day of toil. Right now everything felt possible. Elena and others had complicated the game, but he could almost taste victory.
*
Elena and Kazim walked hand in hand into the cavern. They were clad in their heaviest clothes, for it was cold below ground, though the lamiae were immune to the sudden drop in temperature, able to tolerate the depths even after days spent basking in the sun. It felt slightly odd to be dressed again, after the days they’d spent naked – or nearly so – beside the river.
They wore their swords, and no one objected, though the weapons did attract a look from everyone they passed.
The path through the stone was well-lit, and carved as well as any Earth-mage might have managed. Elena had discovered that these beings were all magi, every single one of them: they had shaped the caverns using Earth-gnosis, their most common affinity, and she’d seen some use Water, Fire and Air-gnosis as well. There were about eighty of them, and more were being born every day. The baby lamiae were alarmingly alert, capable and frightening little beings who wriggled and squirmed at an astonishing pace. They were less human, more animal than the adults, and even they had the beginnings of the gnosis, though human magi had to wait until they were twelve or more years before they gained their powers.
The Pallas Animagi made something truly extraordinary when they created these creatures …
‘My love,’ Kazim whispered, ‘are you strong enough for this?’
She squeezed his hand in return. ‘I’ll manage.’ So long as we don’t have to fight our way out. ‘I don’t know why, but I think everything is going to be all right.’ Just being with him made it feel so. He looked so healthy, so normal, with his gnosis restored by the simple magic of pulling from hers, energy she recovered naturally just by rest and sleep. We’re almost one being … She had to admit it frightened her a little, being so dependent on another: what would it be like to be apart from him? What if one of us died?
She put aside such thoughts and concentrated on the moment. The path opened into a wide cavern, where they found the entire adult population of the lamiae clan awaiting them. Most, about two-thirds of the clan, were males. Though there was a heavy sense of suspicion in the way the lamiae looked at them, Elena could also sense a clear willingness to give them a chance; that surprised her. Humans who found a lamia would not be so prepared to listen: Kore’s Blood, we’d burn them as demons without even giving them a chance to speak.
Kekropius awaited them at the centre, with three other Elders: his wife Kessa, a lissom and inhumanly striking being who viewed them with considerable suspicion; Simou, a strongly built, bald-headed creature with a massive belly, and Herotos, a small, timid male with big, alert eyes and a cunning face. As different as humans.
One of the males came forward bearing a large gold goblet filled to the brim with a red fluid: wine, she realised, a little surprised. Perhaps it had been onboard the windship they’d come to Javon aboard? Apparently that vessel was hidden near the coast, its keel powered and ready in case they needed to fly away … she would have loved to see it.
Kekropius lifted the goblet. ‘We of the lamiae gather, to give judgement. May the gods above hear us.’
‘May they hear us!’ the lamiae responded as one.
I wonder which gods they mean?
Kekropius passed the goblet to his wife, Kessa. Her voice was cool and clear. ‘We give thanks that we eldest have been spared thus far, and pledge our wisdom to the clan in gratitude.’ She sipped, savouring the taste on her tongue, then passed the goblet to Simou.
‘We give thanks!’ the whole chamber responded, raising their hands, palms forward.
‘We give thanks to they who birthed us, both our parents and the Makers, though they rejected us an
d hunt us still.’ Simou held the vessel aloft.
‘We give thanks!’
Elena exhaled. The Animagi who made these creatures had apparently given them only a twenty-year lifespan. Though the species had been created only fifty years ago, there had already been several generations. When Kekropius had told her why there were so few visibly old lamiae it had put a lump in her throat, despite their alien nature.
Herotos was last to take the goblet. ‘Finally, we give thanks to our guide, and pray for his safe return.’
The lamiae raised their hands, palms forward. ‘We pray,’ they chorused, ‘for Alaron Mercer.’
Elena almost fell over. Her mouth fell open and a startled yelp escaped it before she could cover it. The cavern fell silent and every eye fixed on her, affronted. She barely noticed.
‘Did you say Alaron Mercer?’ she exclaimed.
*
Twenty days after he left Lybis, with food and patience running low, Gurvon Gyle found a headless corpse and a pile of ash that still had a trace of Air-gnosis about it. Engaging his gnostic senses confirmed that it was the burned hull of a windskiff. The charred corpse found further up the slope was so leathery and desiccated it was barely recognisable, but the crushed skull had traces of Necromantic-gnosis: this was definitely the remains of Etain Tullesque’s eidolon. There was no doubt that this was the last place Elena was known to have been – and there was no sign at all, of her or her pet Noorie.
Who is he? Gurvon wondered for the thousandth time. All the reports were very sketchy. I’m sure we can take him, whoever he is. I’ve got more than two hundred men here. If this burnt-out skiff was Elena’s, they’ll be on foot, so they can’t be far away.
A detailed search took several hours and they began to lose the daylight, but that brought its own rewards: as darkness fell, and his men settled into their latest uncomfortable camp, he climbed up the mountain, and saw a distant prick of orange light.
Kore’s Blood, there’s someone alive out here! And evidently not wary of pursuit. He smiled grimly to himself, wondering if it was Elena. She probably thinks she’s lost us.
The next morning, he gathered his magi: Arnulf Rhumberg; a Brician half-blood named Niklyn Vardel, a Fire-mage with a temper to match; and Hetta Descholt, a Hollenian pure-blood, a noblewoman’s legitimate daughter who’d run away to join the legions. She was no beauty – her snub nose and flat features reminded him of a Brevian bulldog – but he liked her strut. Her affinities were Air-gnosis and sylvan gnosis, specialising in herb-lore, which she utilised in her main skill: archery using poisoned arrows.
‘Last night I saw a light down the valley,’ Gurvon told them, ‘but the footing is too treacherous for the horses for us to move in the dark. We need to get closer – but not too close.’
‘Get me above their camp and I’ll feather them for you,’ Hetta Descholt said confidently.
‘I want Elena alive.’
‘So I’ll shoot her in the legs for you, no problem,’ she replied evenly. Hollenians were not known for harbouring doubts on anything, which was refreshing after years of Rutt’s nerves and Elena’s second-guessing.
Rhumberg scratched his beard. ‘Elena is not the sort to be taken by surprise. I remember her: eyes always open. She might even know we’re here.’
‘We slept with no fires last night,’ Niklyn Vardel whined. ‘She won’t know we’re here, not unless she can see five miles in the dark.’ He looked at Gurvon. ‘Leave the cavalry behind and let us four take her.’
‘That’s a variation on what I’m thinking,’ Gurvon replied. ‘I want three of us to get close and pin her down so she can’t move when the cavalry sweeps down the valley.’
‘Two hundred soldiers to catch two people?’ Hetta wrinkled her little nose. ‘I know you say she’s good, but aren’t we being just a little over-cautious?’
‘We don’t know she’s alone,’ Gurvon replied. ‘If it were me, I’d have gathered others. That Noorie is probably renegade Ordo Costruo, and they might have a whole band with them by now – not necessarily magi, but whoever she recruits will certainly be handy in a fight.’ He looked at Rhumberg. ‘Arnulf, you’ll lead the cavalry; find a place close as you can get to where we saw that fire, but not visible to it. I’ll take you two’ – he looked at Vardel and Hetta – ‘and we’ll pin them in a three-way cross-fire. As soon as the fighting starts, Arnulf will sound the charge. It should be easy, as Niklyn says, but I don’t like to take chances around Elena.’
‘Do we kill her, or take her alive?’ Hetta asked, her button eyes glinting.
‘Alive if possible. Mater-Imperia wants her, for what I hope will be a horrible and lingering death.’
‘Can we make a start on her here?’ Vardel asked. ‘We’re owed some payback for having to tramp all the way out into this Helish wilderness.’
Rhumberg growled his agreement.
Gurvon looked away for a second. He’d been thinking about this very point half the night. It had been one thing to force Rutt’s scarab into her, but could he truly sit back and watch her get carved up for pleasure? Could he hold the knife?
Then he thought of all the suffering her treachery had put him through. ‘Sure,’ he replied airily. ‘Why not?’
*
The approach down the valley was not easy. The khurnes managed to negotiate the steep scree slopes, but the horses slipped frequently, and one broke its hind leg, which forced a delay as Hetta had to use her healing-gnosis on the animal. There were more delays as they got closer as they had to check ahead constantly to ensure that Elena wasn’t sitting on the next ridge with a spyglass and a well-armed welcome party.
Finally they found a staging zone for Rhumberg’s cavalrymen, half a mile from where the light had been spotted. Gurvon and Hetta found an excellent vantage point from where they could actually see the remains of the fire – and, better still, a tent. ‘A large fire for just two people,’ Descholt commented, her face calm, ‘but there are no other tents, just that one next to the river.’
Neither of them could see any movement in the tent.
Gurvon stared at the cliffs above, then he drew Hetta aside. ‘If you could get up there, you’d have them at your mercy.’
‘I’ve already picked my spot, sir, and the best approach.’
‘Thought you might have,’ he replied, approvingly. ‘Take Vardel to the near end of the cliffs, then press on yourself so you’re got two points of fire. I’ll come in from across the river to ensure she’s got nowhere to run to.’
He glanced back to make sure the column was well out of sight, then gave her his I find you interesting look. ‘What does Endus pay for a woman of your talents?’ he asked, and when she told him, he put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Would you like to double it?’
She looked at his hand pointedly, but didn’t object. ‘I’m told your people tend to wind up dead, Magister Gyle. Leaving a larger purse for my daughter is all very well, but I’m better able to support her if I’m alive.’
‘You have a daughter?’
‘Uh huh. I was stupid enough to get knocked up in my first week in the legion. That was three years ago and she’s grown up half-wild in the baggage train. But I love her.’
‘Endus is the father?’
‘Nah, he likes ’em prettier than me – and dark-skinned, mostly. It was just some ranker with a nice smile. He’s dead now.’ Her voice betrayed little regret.
‘You must have plenty of suitors, a pretty, wealthy young woman with mage blood?’
She frowned, clearly a little uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. ‘I’m disinherited – and actually, most people think I’m a bitch. And I poison people who do me wrong, like my daughter’s father. I didn’t kill him, mind, that was some bandits in Verelon. I just made him sick enough to stay away. Most people take a hint from that.’
‘Treble the money?’
She laughed. ‘I’ll think about it.’ She rolled on her side and looked him over appraisingly. ‘This Elena Anborn was you
r women, wasn’t she? Then she screwed you over?’
‘That’s about the size of it.
‘But you didn’t sound all that excited about carving her up when we talked this morning.’
‘I’m not entirely heartless,’ he said, because women preferred men who showed a little sensitivity, and he quite liked this Hollenian. He could use someone with a positive attitude. Who knows, it might rub off on me. ‘But I’m well over her.’
Hetta took that in with a bob of the head. ‘Let’s talk again once this business is done.’ They shared a moment of understanding, then turned back to the distant view of the river valley and the tent.
After a few minutes he saw a distant shape crawl out of the tent and stand. It was too far away for details, but it was clearly a man, stark naked and dark-skinned. A few seconds later a smaller shape with short, sunbleached hair and slightly paler skin joined him. They kissed, then splashed into the river.
He was surprised to note how his temper rose just to see that brief glimpse of affection.
‘No sign of anyone else, Magister,’ Hetta commented.
‘Call me Gurvon, Hetta.’ He scanned the cliffs. One of the men had found a discarded snakeskin during the descent, and the cliffs looked to be riddled with dark spots that might be small cave-mouths. ‘Be careful when you traverse the cliffs. It looks like snake country to me.’
Hetta acknowledged with a relaxed wave of the hand. ‘Look – there are crops growing, far side.’ She pointed beyond the tent. ‘Perhaps she’s been here some time, on and off?’
‘She does know how to live off the land.’ He looked at her and warned, ‘Be careful of Elena, Hetta. She’s one of those rare people with no strong affinities – it means she’s got a wider palette of skills than most. She’s a half-blood, mostly a Water-mage, but a trance-mage too – and the best swordswoman I’ve ever met.’
Hetta tutted. ‘A lot of admiration in that appraisal, Gurvon.’
‘It’s respect, that’s all,’ he replied tersely. ‘How would you take her down, given that assessment?’