Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  The charge faltered.

  Someone above shouted, and a dozen arrows flew. Most struck Bull-Head, in his chest and belly and shoulders, and one went right through his left eye. Hammered by blow after blow, he toppled backwards, and the two behind him went down as well, yowling in disbelief. The fourth, a bat-headed man, roared in fury even as his throat changed and his enraged cry instead came out as a plaintive and very human, ‘Argh!’

  But still they came on, mostly men, and all naked and changing, carried by momentum into the fray. This second wave held blades and axes, boiling through the smashed door and slamming into the line of six spearmen.

  But one of the Dokken came straight for Alaron: a man his own height, yowling as his flesh and bones warped and ran like melted wax. A horrific visage like a burn victim tried to reform into something more human even as he swung a curved sword at Alaron’s neck. Alaron blocked with the kon-staff, then launched into the sort of counter-attack he and Yash had practised so often: low with the left and dashing the other’s blade aside, then up at the right, slamming the iron-shod heel of the staff at the bewildered Dokken’s temple.

  He struck flesh and bone and felt it cave in as the man toppled. More arrows flew, though now the spearmen were engaged, the archers had fewer clear targets. The doorway continued to disgorge Dokken, all reeling in pain at the changes wrought upon them and gradually becoming human again, even as death rained down.

  ‘Alaron!’ Ramita shouted in his ear. She was shielding the wailing twins with her body. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Further in,’ he shouted back, pointing to the double doors through which the mughal had entered. The ruler of Lakh was backing towards them even now, with the Godspeaker, and the shaven-headed bodyguard was shielding them both. ‘That way!’

  Another Dokken came at him, a wiry man with a sword; he battered the man’s blade aside almost effortlessly, then slammed the staff into his nose. Bone and cartilage crunched, and blood erupted in an arc as the man went over backwards. He didn’t get up. Alaron saw two spearmen impale another Dokken, but then one of them was overborne and had his head smashed in with a hatchet. Kindu the bodyguard hacked at the back of the victorious Dokken’s neck, almost decapitating him. More arrows whistled around them, shaving his cheek and slicing a gash in his shoulder.

  Alaron turned to warn Ramita …

  … as blue light flashed around her and an arrow broke on her wards.

  ‘The gnosis?’ He reached inside, but he could still feel nothing.

  ‘I can reach it!’ Ramita shouted. ‘Just a little!’

  He suddenly had hope again.

  A tall shape entered the fray behind the Dokken: the Keshi mercenary he’d glimpsed at Hanook’s mansion – but then he looked again, and almost dropped his staff.

  Malevorn Andevarion.

  He felt a choked cry leave his lips as his Arcanum nemesis darted sideways to avoid the arrows from above, then launched himself at a spearman.

  Ramita pulled at Alaron’s sleeve, dragging him with her, and he let her. She had to be his first concern. They were beneath one balcony, their backs to the wall so the archers above their heads could not see them, but the ones opposite were now beginning to concentrate their fire on Ramita, as if her wards drew their hatred. She was coping, but the strain of reaching her gnosis in this place was clearly showing.

  Then another girl stepped into the maelstrom, a tiny keshi, with a curvaceous body and a seductive face that was contorted with blood lust. He recognised her from the Isle of Glass, and from Ramita’s stories: Huriya Makani, her lifelong friend, her blood-sister – and now her bitterest enemy. The air about the Keshi girl was alive with glimmering light and distorted air. She can reach the gnosis too …

  With a look of utter disdain, Huriya raised both her hands and made a vicious cutting gesture. Coruscating light blazed in every colour, like twin rainbows being born in her hands, and ignited over the balconies with dazzling light. The archers opposite Alaron’s position threw up their hands as their retinas were all but burned out.

  Huriya’s eyes swivelled and found Ramita. ‘Blood-sister! Stay right there!’

  *

  Malevorn ploughed into the mêlée, leaping at a spearman who’d just skewered one of the pack. With his spear jammed in the Souldrinker’s body, the guardsman was helpless and Malevorn severed his hand, then whipped the blade across his neck, splitting the leather throat protector and laying his jugular open. Blood gushed, and the man went down.

  Even as he did this, Malevorn could feel something strange inside, like a bubble bursting. It felt like an enchantment failing, but the only enchantment on him was Huriya’s Chain-rune, and when he tried to reach the gnosis there was nothing there. There was no time to explore this mystery; two spearmen had just gutted another Souldrinker and were turning on him.

  The pair thrust simultaneously, trying to leave him no room to parry or dodge, but they were ponderous movers and he was already gone, swaying to one side then leaping in as they tried to adjust to his position. He blinded one with a slash across the eyes, kicking him aside even as he caught the other’s spear-shaft with his left hand. The man failed to react quickly enough, presenting an easy thrust to the throat. Three down in three heartbeats. The Dokken had slain another and now the remaining two spearmen blanched and gave ground, stumbling through the tangle of dead and dying. Blood was running everywhere, making the tiles slick and treacherous. The pack were almost all slain, shot down from above, mostly, only a handful still able to fight. Another went down to the shaven-headed man’s massive sword. Behind him, the richly dressed boy – the mughal, he presumed, with a grim-faced man who must be a Godspeaker – reached the doors.

  He heard screams from above and guessed Huriya had dealt with the archers. No further bowstrings thrummed. The combat was thinning out, allowing him to look left, then right, at—

  Alaron Mercer!

  He shouted a war-cry and raised his sword as Mercer lifted a staff of all things to block him. But the Lakh bint behind Mercer moved faster, and an unseen blow to the chest cracked his ribs and sent him skidding across the room, air belching from his lungs. He thudded into the far wall, gasping for breath.

  Holy Kore!

  Now he remembered: at the island, this girl had skewered a fully shielded Inquisitor with a thrown mast. Counting himself lucky to still be alive, he staggered to his feet. Mercer was across the room now, and holding off a Dokken who’d snatched up one of the guardsmen’s spears. The boy-mughal had reached the doors leading deeper into the palace, but the Godspeaker was already gone, leaving his ruler behind. Bells were clamouring from within.

  Huriya gestured, and the doors slammed shut in the young mughal’s face, making him wail in terror, then she launched some kind of illusion and mesmerism attack at the Lakh girl – Ramita, that was her name. The Lakh girl was struggling too, half her mage-bolts going astray as if she were befuddled. But those which did strike home were bizarrely strong, making Huriya’s wards crackle red at the stress. Malevorn would have happily seen either or both go down.

  He lurched to his feet, still struggling to breathe, and looked up. The archers were obviously blinded and out of the game – in fact, so was almost everyone in the room. The remaining spearman went down under three Dokken, who all had weapons now. One of the shapeshifters went for the mughal, but was cut almost in half by the giant bodyguard. The hammering on the inner doors suggested reinforcements were imminent. Mercer was still on his feet, warding off a Dokken warrior with surprising skill using just a wooden staff, but he wasn’t using the gnosis, so something was definitely happening here; there was some reason why all the Dokken were fighting in human shape …

  But before he’d fully grasped the thought it was swept away as his eyes fell upon the satchel Mercer was wearing: a leather bag, from which poked the top of a scroll-case.

  The Scytale? It must be!

  He gripped his scimitar anew and charged.

  38

  A Child’s
Life

  The Value of Life

  There is no greater glory than to hold your child close to you, basking in the unconditional love the child feels for you, and to return that a thousandfold. How could I deny myself such a moment in my life?

  SISTER MYRETTA OF DELPH, DISGRACED KORE NUN, 872

  The price of a life? Why, the same as the value of anything else: whatever you can get for it on the day!

  KANN BENTYK, VERELONI SLAVE-TRADER, 911

  Teshwallabad, Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia

  Rami (Septinon) 929

  15th month of the Moontide

 

  Huriya’s contempt echoed inside Ramita’s head as she staggered backwards, barely able to focus on the blinding lights and mesmeric words that were freezing her brain. She felt her will to fight, to resist at all, wavering as Huriya drove her backwards towards Tariq, who was huddling beside the big doors.

  Then the screaming of her children made her focus: they were right behind her, flailing about blindly. She tried to counter again, throwing another bolt of energy, the best she could muster, but Huriya’s mental attacks pounded into her head, disorienting her, and she missed again. Terrified one of her wayward blasts would strike Alaron by accident, she abruptly stopped firing and instead concentrated on her defences.

  Her vision cleared: Alaron was fighting in the centre of the room, using the staff like a Zain monk, a blur of movement and balletic poise she’d never have thought him capable of. He hammered another blow into the midriff of his attacker, leaving the Dokken dazed. But Huriya was edging closer to her, webs of light in her hand.

 

  Ramita suspected that only the inhibited gnostic use in the chamber had kept her alive. It wasn’t that Huriya was stronger than her – she wasn’t – but she had found herself unable to strike wholeheartedly at her Bloodsister. Some part of her still wanted to believe that they were, deep down, still the some girls who had grown up together and had sworn everlasting friendship. Then her heel struck one of the twins and she realised there was nowhere else to go.

  She played her last trick. As she stepped from beneath the end of the balcony she blazed Earth-gnosis into the balcony above Huriya’s head and with a great crack, the stone gave way and rained down upon her head, along with half the blinded archers, who came smashing down in a roar of stone and dust, sending shards of stone blasting through the chamber.

  *

  Alaron’s staff cracked against the temple of another Dokken who’d clearly never had his mettle honed by Yash. He stepped back and almost fell against the young mughal, who was hammering impotently against the doors. Someone was striking from the other side as well, but he could see blue sparks crackling around the frame, binding it in place.

  The big bald bodyguard swung his head and glared sternly at Alaron, but he’d evidently noted they were both fighting the same people, for he did no more than tap his own chest. ‘Kindu.’

  A greeting? His name? ‘Alaron,’ he said, tapping his own chest, then looked at the remaining four Dokken and swallowed heavily. He’d never fought more than one man at a time without the gnosis, and he doubted he had the skill. He stepped carefully out of the swing-space of Kindu’s massive two-handed scimitar and looked for Malevorn. He spotted him moving towards Kindu’s flank.

  Huriya was advancing on Ramita when amber light flashed and the balcony collapsed. Ramita stepped out of the reach of the falling stone and with a gesture sent the twins spinning across the floor behind her. For a few seconds the Keshi girl vanished, but she staggered out into the centre of the room just a couple of seconds later, bleeding from a gashed forehead and covered in dust. She shrieked a furious command and the remaining four Dokken threw themselves at him and Kindu while behind him, the ruler of Lakh wailed fearfully.

  Only one Souldrinker came at Alaron; a middle-aged man wielding a Brician longsword. He attacked cautiously, crabbing forward and lunging, then darting away, forcing Alaron to fight defensively, and though he blocked and parried furiously, he couldn’t do much more than jab at his foe, coming up short each time.

  The other three had gone for Kindu, the more obvious threat, who responded with a roar of his own and swung his huge cleaver in a massive arc that went straight through the wooden haft of a stolen spear and almost cut its wielder in two. But the blow had left Kindu exposed and the other two Dokken lunged in.

  Kindu ducked under one thrust, produced a dagger from somewhere and buried it into the throat of the attacker, but he took the third one’s sword in the side. He bellowed painfully, his limbs convulsed and he fell to one knee. His attacker rashly lunged in to finish him: Kindu caught the man’s wrist and wrenched, the weapon clattered on the tiles and the pair fell into a bloody wrestling match, each holding knives, fighting to keep the other’s blade at bay. Alaron tried to intervene, but his own foe lunged in again, overextending in his anxiety to protect his fellow; Alaron cracked him across the temple and dropped him – but it was at the cost of a slash to his ribcage. Blood began to soak his shirt as he turned, but too late: Malevorn reared up from behind the mughal’s empty throne and thrust his blade straight-armed into Kindu’s throat, even as the bodyguard plunged his own knife into his foe’s chest. The guard roared, the mughal screamed and Malevorn stepped away, his face a mask of calm composure.

  ‘I guess it’s just you and me now, Mercer. Just like college. Remember?’

  Alaron remembered all too well: so many beatings he could not count them; so much pain, and in all that time he’d barely landed a blow.

  His legs were shaking, but he raised his staff and prepared for another round. The last one.

  Malevorn came at him hard, his sword a blur as it flashed left, then right, forcing him to parry, then moving too fast to riposte – then the scimitar stabbed low inside his guard and pain knifed through his right thigh and he staggered back, hit the doors beside Ramita and almost slid down them. Red blood began to pump from his thigh, staining his leggings, while the wound in his chest seemed to be tearing wider.

  Malevorn drew off, his eyes intent. Behind him, the Dokken Alaron had stunned slowly rose to his feet. In a few seconds it would be two on one. He swallowed and sought some way to live through this, some way to win.

  During the breif flurry of blows, Huriya had renewed her assault on Ramita. Though her brow was cut and bleeding, she was obviously gaining the upper hand. Ramita’s lack of recent training time was telling: she’d not been able to fully integrate the new configuration of her gnosis the way Alaron had and now she was huddled before her children, encased in shields that were turning scarlet and flickering. Her face was lined with strain and fear.

  Then Huriya slammed Ramita aside with a casual flick of her wrist, sending her careering into Tariq, and they both fell in a heap. Alaron cried out in fear for her as the Keshi girl stepped forward, snatched up Nasatya and put a knife to the child’s chest. She spoke in Rondian, presumably for Malevorn’s benefit. ‘Stop now! Everyone, stop!’

  Ramita wailed and began to move, then froze as the knife scoured the child’s chest. Alaron felt his guts churn. Malevorn stepped across and grabbed Dasra. Behind him the last of the Dokken men groaned and looked about for his weapon. Tariq whimpered and hid his face.

  Kore on High! Alaron stepped in front of Ramita and raised his staff protectively, his heart thudding. ‘Back off,’ he warned.

  Huriya gestured again, but Ramita was swift enough to lay a hand on his shoulder and held him in place, beating off Huriya’s gnosis with surprising firmness. Ramita’s face, after the initial panic, had gone coldly furious. ‘Give me back my children,’ she told the Keshi girl in a voice like stones grating together.

  Huriya slowly shook her head, clasping Nasatya to her chest.

  Malevorn spat a bloody wad of phlegm through his split lips. ‘Mercer, the Scytale. Throw it to me.’

  The door into
the palace thudded suddenly, the timbers bulging and cracking, and Tariq shouted in desperate hope. Huriya scowled and reinforced her warding, but Alaron saw the blue lights of the door-wards flash through violet to red as they began to wear down. She too was almost exhausted. A minute, maybe two, before the soldiers get in.

  Huriya had made the same calculation. She looked at Ramita menacingly, spat a curse and raised the blade. ‘Five seconds, or this one dies and we take the artefact off you anyway.’

  Alaron looked at Ramita. They could not communicate mentally, only by eyes, but they had been together for so long now that he could almost read her thoughts anyway. They were her children, flesh of her flesh.

  Nothing is so important to her as them.

  ‘Five.’

  But the Scytale is the treasure above all treasures …

  ‘Four.’

  The door hammered again, harder. A battering ram. The timbers cracked and almost broke.

  ‘Three,’ Huriya went on.

  Alaron tore his eyes away, then back to Ramita. She was pleading with him to do … something.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘All right! Okay! You can have it!’ He reached down, grasped the cylinder containing the Scytale. ‘You can have it. Just release the children.’

  Ramita sagged with relief.

  Malevorn showed him Dasra. ‘All right, Mercer. Here’s how we do it. I’m going to put the child down here. You can come forward, put down the Scytale and I’ll take it. Then we give you the second child.’ His voice was cold and hard as he placed the infant down just out of Alaron’s reach.

  ‘No. Both at once.’

  Huriya snarled, ‘I’ll kill this one now, and then we’ll see about the other! Hand over the Scytale!’