Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  Ramita choked back a sob. Alaron raised his hand. ‘Okay.’ He stepped forward, scooped up Dasra and handed the child to Ramita, who made a sobbing sound and squeezed the boy to her chest. He put down the Scytale and watched mutely as Malevorn picked up the case and examined the Scytale inside. Alaron didn’t expect Malevorn knew much about it, but his old antagonist sounded confident when he said to Huriya, ‘This is it.’

  Huriya gave a low, throaty laugh, stood and backed away, Nasatya still cradled in her arms.

  Ramita stepped towards her. ‘Give him to me, Sister! Please!’

  The Keshi girl snickered and kept retreating, her blade still pressed to the child’s chest. ‘I think not, Blood-sister. I don’t want you coming after me, so here’s what I’ll do. I’ll keep hold of this one until I decide that you deserve his return.’

  ‘Huriya, please!’ Ramita fell to her knees. ‘I am begging you!’

  ‘That’s all you’re fit to do: grovel and beg.’ Huriya’s face filled with contempt. ‘Beggar-girl.’

  ‘I don’t understand! I loved you, Sister! There was nothing I wouldn’t have shared with you.’

  Huriya smiled condescendingly. ‘I was never who you thought, ’Mita. Sabele visited me hundreds of times through spirit-sendings, telling me all the things I could be – things so far beyond your dreams. Silly Kazim just wanted an ordinary life with you, but Sabele promised me so much more! And look, it’s all coming true: I’m going to be queen of the whole world.’ She kissed Nasatya’s forehead. ‘Don’t follow me, Sister, if you ever want to see this one alive again.’

  Ramita sagged, her eyes streaming. ‘Mercy …’

  With the Scytale in his hand, Malevorn brandished his blade and backed away towards the door. Huriya followed, her eyes flickering from Ramita to Alaron to the mughal.

  ‘Exalted One,’ she said to Tariq, her voice heavy with irony. ‘So good to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Who … who are you?’ the young man asked in a frightened voice.

  Huriya laughed. ‘Your next queen.’ Her eyes went to Ramita. ‘Don’t come after us, Ramita.’

  She stepped through the doorway and was gone. The half-stunned Dokken went after her, clutching at the doorway as he exited, followed by Malevorn. The young Inquisitor gave an ironic salute. ‘Until next time, Mercer. If there is one.’ Then he too was gone.

  Tariq screamed for aid, and the inner door broke open in a crash of timber.

  *

  As he stepped through the broken door into the tunnel it took Malevorn Andevarion two seconds to realise that somehow, some way, the Chain-rune that had bound his powers was gone.

  So that was what I felt when I first entered the chamber …

  All his gnostic perceptions returned in a flood, plus another set of senses that ignited in his head: his gnosis was now finite, like a Dokken’s, and it made him desperately hungry, ravenous in a way that food could never fill. He had just the tiniest reserve, the barest residue, and that for now was crucial. He ran gnosis-fire down his blade and plunged it into the back of the sole surviving Dokken. The man stiffened, groaned, and fell on his face.

  Malevorn saw smoke billowing from the dead one’s mouth and he bent, as he’d seen the Souldrinkers do, and inhaled it. The energy coursed straight into him and he felt that sense of hunger fade, even as he dealt with a sudden rush of images from the man’s life. He blanked them, stood and twirled the Scytale. Suddenly he felt magnificent, better than at any time in his life despite the cracked ribs and cuts from the fight. He had all his old strength as a pure-blood, fully charged and brimming with vigour. He conjured wards and shields, felt his gnostic aura blaze into life around him.

  Huriya had gone ahead. Now she looked back at him, her face lit by the oil lamp, and suddenly more than a little tentative. She saw. She knew.

  You won’t be kicking me around again, you Noorie slut …

  She clutched the child to her, her pupils dilating.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s time to renegotiate our relationship?’

  ‘In what way?’

  I’ve got the gnosis back, but I’m now a creature of anathema. I need this Scytale, to become my old self … No, better – an Ascendant. He recalled what Adamus Crozier had said about the Scytale of Corineus: that the artefact was not an instant answer. It required understanding and knowledge he didn’t have. And he was a Souldrinker now, and the Inquisitors would kill him on sight. He needed allies …

  Why not her?

  ‘A new deal,’ he said, looking her in the face. Her gorgeous, hedonistic face. ‘Equals,’ he said, laughing internally at the very word. I have no equals, girl, but I’m prepared to pretend.

  ‘Equals?’ she sneered. ‘I have the—’

  ‘Powers of an Ascendant. I know. But you don’t know how to use them and you don’t know how to fight. However, you do know this land, and you know your Dokken secrets. We need each other, Huriya.’ He tapped his chest. ‘You’ve made me one of your kind, and that has perforce altered my loyalties. I won’t pretend I don’t resent it, but it’s done. We move on. You are the Alpha Female of your kind. I’m going to be the Alpha Male. You need a partner, and so do I.’

  There were noises coming from behind him, wary footsteps. Pretty soon they were both going to have to run or fight. He didn’t care which – he felt strong enough to take down a legion – but it would be wasted energy. He wiped his bloody mouth and applied a little healing-gnosis, just enough to cleanse and close the wound; it wouldn’t prevent a scar as he’d never been a terribly good healer. Then he tapped the Scytale impatiently against his thigh.

  Huriya stroked the stolen baby’s head and licked her lips. ‘You and me? You despise me, slugskin. You always will. And it’s mutual.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I’d have done exactly what you did to me, in your place. We think alike, Huriya. We’re practical and ruthless. I even admire you a little. We could work well together.’

  ‘How could I ever trust you?’ she demanded. ‘You think it beneath you to have any dealings with me.’

  ‘Maybe, but there’s nothing I won’t do to win.’ He tapped the Scytale impatiently again. ‘Come on, Huriya: decide. Do you want my partnership, or do you want to fight me, right now?’

  She glowered, then, narrowed her eyes. ‘Throw me the Scytale first. Then he’ll see. Partner.’

  He considered, then casually tossed the artefact to her. He walked cautiously towards her. ‘You asked if there is some way that we can trust each other. I know one.’ He lifted a hand and kindled gold light on it. ‘Touch my hand.’

  She frowned warily. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it. I swear, all you need to do if you don’t like what I have to say is to let go.’

  She looked at him curiously. From somewhere above and behind her, Hessaz called out, ‘Seeress? Is that you?’

  ‘We’re coming,’ she called over her shoulder, without taking her eyes off Malevorn. Then slowly she lifted her hand and placed it against his palm.

  The golden light in his hand coursed through them both and he felt his heart jolt and thud. He gasped despite himself, and she did the same. He met her eyes as the gnosis continued to hum through them both, coiling around each other’s hearts. ‘Feel that?’

  Her eyes were huge in the pale light. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m aligning our hearts – it’s a tricky little spell involving healing and mysticism – neither of which are strengths but I can just about reach them. It takes about twenty seconds and at the end of that, our hearts will, quite literally, beat in time. Linked. That means we’re bound together: if one of us dies, the other will too, about six seconds later, and there is nothing the survivor can do to stop that.’

  She stiffened in fear. ‘You are serious?’

  ‘Deadly. This spell is almost never used, because most consider what is gained not worth it, but I don’t think there is any other way we’ll ever trust each other.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Can you feel it?’


  She nodded fearfully. ‘But why—?’

  ‘You want to be able to trust me? You’ll have that, in another fifteen seconds. If you want it to stop, just pull your hand away.’ He met her eyes. ‘Then I’ll have to kill you.’

  She swallowed. ‘You’d do this? With a “mudskin”?’

  ‘Oh, you have your charms, Huriya. And so do I, for a slugskin.’

  She swallowed, and so did he, because he hadn’t really been sure she would go through with this, or if he even wanted her to. But otherwise it would be a fight to the death and she had Ascendant-level gnosis, though he had the training. He had no idea who’d win, and that made the risk too great.

  ‘Time’s running out. Are you going to go through with this?’ He thought about Raine Caladryn, the brief dreams they’d harboured. Strangely, though she’d been as ruthless as he was, he’d felt a better person when he was with her. He’d never feel the same for this Keshi harlot; life with her would be a form of torture. But if he was to get what he wanted, this was the required price.

  She looked away, no doubt filled with her own misgivings. Then she looked back at him, closed her eyes and kissed him as the spell bonded. Her lips were full and soft and her tongue deliberately teased his raw lip, making him wince. ‘Done.’ She stroked the Scytale. ‘I like a man who gives me something long and hard,’ she purred, then stepped away. She thrust the whimpering baby at him. ‘Let’s go then, “Heart of my Heart”.’

  *

  One of the mughal’s soldiers went after the intruders, but Ramita doubted he’d tried very hard to catch up with the dreaded ‘afreet’. In the meantime, she and Alaron waited, holding Dasra, as the chamber filled up with Tariq’s soldiers, who stationed themselves in front of them: a fearful wall of steel. A tongue of fire was dancing on Ramita’s palm and that was holding them at bay.

  Beside her Alaron gripped his staff wearily and tried to look like he could do the same. She appreciated the gesture, but she knew he was on his last legs. Hand-to-hand fighting was incredibly draining, and he’d been fighting for his life.

  Please, she thought, just let us go.

  Godspeaker Vahraz had returned and was earnestly berating Tariq, who was visibly wavering. She picked up a few words: Rakas. Afreet. Sacred Duty. To her it sounded like they were building up the nerve to order the soldiers to attack.

  She didn’t know if she had the strength or skill to kill them all, but she knew she had the will. Whether they deserved to die didn’t matter: she had to live if she was ever to get Nasatya back.

  Tariq edged through the soldiers, right to the front of the line, barely four yards away from her. His manner was changed: fear still lingered, but there was a new respect for her. He’d seen what she could do, but he had also seen that she had protected him. That was reflected in the new deference in his voice.

  ‘Lady Ramita, what is happening? Why did you come here?’ Tariq was anxious, and she could understand why: the Godspeakers were listening with avid ears for evidence of heresy and evil, and she did not doubt that they could bring down even a mughal if he uttered a misjudged word here.

  She glanced at Alaron, who didn’t understand Lakh. There was not time to confer. ‘Exalted Lord, my intention here was honest, and as stated by the vizier. But he is now dead, with nothing resolved.’

  There, I’ve given you a way out. You clearly want one.

  Tariq seemed to understand. ‘I would never have agreed to what was proposed by the vizier,’ he said slowly, ensuring that Vahraz heard him clearly.

  ‘Nor I,’ she could not resist saying, although right now he was doing far more to raise himself in her eyes than he would ever know. ‘And now it is impossible.’

  Tariq nodded slowly, aware of the faint insult – but he’d seen what she could do and he was afraid. ‘You will leave now?’ It was framed as a question, but she knew it was a command.

  We saved your life, boy. But she didn’t truly feel angry, only dread for Nasatya, and the urgent need to be gone. We brought the danger here, she acknowledged silently. And you’ve been stripped of the best advisor and protector you could ever have had. ‘We will leave immediately, Exalted Lord.’

  The only exit they were offered was the tunnel; they had to hope Huriya was long gone. She looked up at Alaron: exhausted, sweat-stained and bloodied, but steadfast. He gave up the prize of prizes for the sake of my child. Her heart quavered at the thought.

  She lifted her head, faced Tariq, ignoring the Godspeakers and soldiers who made evil eye signs and either glared or squirmed under her gaze. ‘Farewell. We depart in peace. Please do not follow us.’

  *

  On the street above, Alaron lifted his cowl and peered about. The Souldrinkers were gone, and he was deeply thankful, because he was exhausted. Ramita asked one of the crowd of milling people where they had gone, and those who responded pointed up into the skies. A line of rubble ran half a mile back to the vizier’s mansion. The mughal’s archers surrounded them, uncertain and afraid.

  Ramita whispered to Alaron, ‘In our folklore, mortal weapons cannot harm an afreet, and that is what these soldiers think they face.’

  He nodded, then said, ‘We need to get back to the skiff.’ He spotted a mounted officer and began to walk towards him, lighting his shields. The crowd fell back, and when he kindled light in his hands, everyone ran, except the horse, because he had gripped its mind with animagery. The officer panicked, leapt from the saddle and fled, but the horse stayed.

  He turned to Ramita. ‘We’ll have to share.’

  ‘Shukriya, bhaiya.’ She levitated calmly to the horse’s back and sat side-saddle, the ruined sari draped around her. She had nothing else, just her child. She hugged Dasra to her while Alaron scanned for danger, terribly aware of the thousands of eyes on them. He stowed his satchel in one of the saddlebags; it still held his notes. But not the Scytale. The loss throbbed inside his brain. We lost the Scytale. Kore forgive us!

  He slid his kon-staff beneath a strap and secured it, then climbed up behind Ramita and slid his feet into the stirrups. He had to put both arms around her to grasp the reins, which felt unavoidably inappropriate, but what else could he do?

  He clicked his tongue and nudged the horse into motion. ‘Where do we go?’

  ‘To get my son back,’ she whispered. ‘The Scytale too.’ She looked up at him. Their noses and mouths were almost touching; he could feel her breath on his face. Her eyes held so much intensity he couldn’t look away. ‘Will you come with me, bhaiya?’

  ‘Of course. You don’t have to ask.’ Ever again.

  EPILOGUE

  Burned Bridges

  A Meditation on Dawn

  Night follows day, and day follows night. No season is eternal, all things pass. But the sight of the sun rising, the shafts of pure light breaking through the wall of darkness, is our most potent and ancient symbol of hope. Who, witnessing dawn, can deny its power to lift our spirits, no matter how dire the day to come may seem?

  ANTONIN MEIROS, HEBUSALIM, 854

  Teshwallabad, Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia

  Rami (Septinon) 929

  15th month of the Moontide

  Ramita Ankesharan walked down to the ghats where the River Imuna flowed by the monastery. It was here that Yash had come after delivering them to the vizier, and the Zain monks had opened their doors to the fugitives when they came knocking. Holy Imuna, which sprang from the eternal Nimtaya Mountains and joined Teshwallabad, Baranasi and the north with the distant south, was the artery that flowed through the heart of Lakh. The tide was high, lapping at the stonework hungrily, and it wasn’t safe to bathe, so Ramita just sat and watched the waters flow past.

  Yash and Alaron were in the shade not far away, playing a game with little Dasra that involved a lot of face-pulling. The baby boy was giggling and chortling, but she knew he would cry again soon, when he remembered that the other half of his heart was gone.

  Nasatya, where are you?

  Her eyes went back to Alaro
n. He looked so grown-up, so different to the youth who’d flown into the Isle of Glass that night nine months ago. He was broader, taller, more assured. The puppy fat had been chiselled from his face, leaving a pleasing, honest visage. And the way he looked to her gnostic sight sent a thrill of recognition through her: four arms holding the elemental forces; many faces crowding behind his own, and a lion pelt across his shoulders. To her Lakh eyes, it was clear: Sivraman is with him.

  This is Destiny. Even the theft of my son … all these things are fated and so I will not fear.

  Oh, but it was dreadfully hard not to be scared when she thought of tiny Nas, caught up in Huriya’s hands. Or when she remembered that sneering, hateful Inquisitor, the darkness to Alaron’s light. Malevorn … an ugly name for an ugly soul! And he’s got the Scytale … If Al’Rhon and I don’t stop them, they’ll wake Shaitan himself …

  She sighed heavily, and climbed to her feet. She had only one other solace: that the Gods might hear her prayers. There was nothing else to hope for. ‘Al’Rhon,’ she called softly, ‘I’ll be in the temple. Just for a while.’

  He looked up, holding Dasra on two wobbly legs, showing him how to be upright, and nodded.

  The Zains had been keeping their presence here a secret but that wouldn’t last long, and they’d promised the Master that they’d be gone by dawn. Alaron said he had an idea, a place they could go, and that was enough for her, for now.

  There was a small Omali temple inside the monastery – the Zains were not Omali, of course, but they kept a shrine here, as at Mandira Khojana in the mountains. She rang the bell over the arch, entered the temple and fell to her knees. No one else was here and she was grateful to be alone. She didn’t want others here, not when her grief was so fresh. She lost herself in prayer, taking comfort in the rote words and the benevolent gaze of the statuary that crowded about her. ‘Vishnarayan-ji, Protector of Man, hear me! Aid me! Darikha-ji, hear me! Help me, Queen of Heaven! Hear me, Dar-kana-ji, Demon-Slayer! Come to my aid! Makheera-ji, Goddess of Destiny, alter your weaving to save my son!’