by David Hair
Melicho indicated the crushed smear of insect of the floor with an air of vindication.
Hyson smiled grimly, then told Ramon, ‘My men are at your disposal, Capitano.’
‘Call me Ramon. We’re going after Myron. Will you aid us?’
‘Ah.’ Hyson looked out the window at the parade ground, where his men were slowly emerging, blinking at the brightness of the sun and snow. Ramon’s men were bringing out their gear from an armoury. ‘Governor Myron has certainly not done well by Norostein during his reign as governor.’
Despite the urgency of the situation – even now Myron could be boarding his treasure-laden windships – Ramon gave the Guard Captain time, for this was no small decision. Rhys Myron was, after all, the imperially appointed governor of Noros, which gave him full legal authority to act as he pleased. Even though he was failing to defend his province and undermining those who were, acting against him was an act of treason that could bring down brutal reprisals from Pallas.
‘We are the Royal Guard,’ Hyson mused aloud, ‘but our king is dead and there is no heir. The governor had the legal right to disband us.’
‘But not to lock you up and accuse you of treason,’ Ramon noted.
‘No, not that.’ Hyson flexed his fists thoughtfully. ‘We’re not soldiers, Ramon, we’re burghers of Norostein sworn to serve and protect our fellows. Or we were. Now we’re just . . . I don’t know. Citizens?’
‘Justiciar Detabrey’s counsel is that Governor Myron is failing his province and endangering the people in his charge. We – Justiciar Detabrey, Lord Korion and I – have lodged Terms of impeachment with Empress Lyra. Regardless, this is a war zone and the ranking general has the right to assume command. I’m here with General Korion’s approval.’
‘Does the empress know or care?’ Hyson wondered, then he sighed. ‘Regardless, this isn’t about her, is it? It’s about Noros: the enemy is at our gate, not hers. I’m with you.’
‘Good,’ said Ramon. ‘Let’s get started.’
*
The moment the signal came from the dying mage stationed at the barracks-prison, Governor Rhys Myron knew it was time to run. Fortunately, he was fully prepared for such an exigency.
‘We should’ve beheaded the whole rukking Royal Guard,’ he snarled at Freimark, his aide. ‘It’s time to leave – grab your things.’ He shouldered past the dithering assistant. ‘Now, Freimark,’ he snapped, realising the young man had barely moved. ‘Sound the bells, man!’
Freimark composed himself and pulsed a signal through the aether. In seconds bells were tolling through the Governor’s Mansion. Myron abandoned his office and burst in on servants hefting cases of clothes and jewellery from his personal chambers: the last few bits of plunder from this dank, grey Kore-forsaken ice box.
‘Move!’ he bawled, flinging open the bedroom door to reveal the luscious Lady Whatshername naked on his bed, tangled in sheets. ‘Out, out,’ he roared. ‘Get out, whore!’ He ran for the bed, dropped to his knees and hauled out his strong-box, backhanding her furiously when she tried to take his arm. ‘Get out of the way, slut—’
‘Rhys,’ she wailed, ‘you said you’d take me with you—’
‘You? Rukk off!’ He hit her again, sending her sprawling. She pulled herself shakily to her feet, grabbed the sheet and fled, screaming.
Stupid cow. She’d been an enthusiastic fuck for sure, but there’d be another just like her in the next city. What matters is leaving here with my fortune intact.
He shouted for Neimanson, his bloodman. The pure-blood battle-mage was Hollenian, a mercenary at heart, battle-scarred and vengeful of the merest slight. In truth, Myron feared him, but he felt better having the man at his back.
‘Get us to the windship,’ he ordered, and Neimanson’s men formed up around Myron as he bustled down the stairs, powering through the exploding chaos of imperocrats realising their own games of wealth and power were over too. If they’d had the forethought to secure their own passage on one of the windships, he’d doubtless see them in Bricia.
If not, I’ll read about their hangings in a few weeks.
Someone tried to accost him, but Neimanson hurled the man over the railing; a woman screamed as the body plummeted three flights and splatted on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. Freimark sprinted to catch up just as the governor’s group burst from the main doors. Even through the wildly pealing bells, Myron heard a giant crash from the Ringwald Gatehouse and the cries of the mob, baying for his blood.
Farewell, bumpkins. I hope the Shihad slaughters you all.
The giant square before the Governor’s Mansion was lined with a dozen windships. The crews were frantically hauling up sails and trying to board those who’d purchased passage, at the same time attempting to keep out the hundreds who hadn’t, slamming pike-hafts into the faces of the besieging interlopers. All the while, soldiers were clattering on the double to the perimeters.
Myron’s group headed for the largest ship, with Neimanson’s men cutting brutally through the swarming crowds. Then he felt the sudden concussion of gnostic power nearby and the shouting reached a crescendo. A blast of fire exploded among a detachment of imperial legionaries as men sporting Royal Guard tabards, flanked by a score of maroon-robed magi, burst into the southern end of the plaza.
Sensini’s rukking battle-magi, he thought. The aether throbbed with gnostic blasts, but his most loyal magi had purchased passage out, so no one of merit was fighting to hold the perimeter. Sensini’s men were carving through the flimsy defences at an alarming rate.
‘Get us aboard!’ he roared, and his escort redoubled their efforts to reach his flagship, smashing aside hapless servants and panic-stricken functionaries. Neimanson, a force of nature, continued hacking a bloody path through the press, sweeping Myron along in his wake, and thirty seconds later he was being bundled onto his vessel. Anxious hands started tugging him this way and that, while the windship captain dithered over who else to haul up from the throng below.
‘Rukk them, Captain,’ Myron roared, ‘just get us out of here!’
The captain complied with alacrity. His pilot kindled the Air-gnosis pent up in the keel and without warning the ship shot upwards to the full extent of the mooring ropes. Those left below shrieked in dismay – and then horror as one man in the process of clambering aboard lost his balance and fell, crushing someone below. The crew began cutting the windship free of the ropes, dislodging frantic men and women as the ship wrenched free and shot into the air.
Myron’s fears subsided. There was no way Sensini’s blackguards could reach them now.
‘Those pricks below have already paid me for passage,’ he smirked at Freimark, ‘but it’s not my fault if they miss the flight.’
At the edge of the plaza, Sensini’s mages and the Royal Guards were driving through the imperial soldiers, who bereft of gnostic support, were turning tail as they realised the person they were supposed to be defending was already gone. Other windships were now trying to leave, but most were ensnared, the despairing crowds pulling on the anchor ropes, trying to haul the vessels back down. The sheer weight of bodies was causing most of them to founder – only one other had got airborne . . . No, there’s a third, he thought, watching as the ship rose from the throng at the southern end. It wallowed, then caught the wind and started climbing into the skies in their wake. The rest had been swamped – and two had been set alight.
Not my problem, Myron thought smugly.
‘Get us up above ballista range, then make for Bres,’ he told the captain, before turning back to Freimark. ‘We’ve got to get our report in first, make sure Korion wears the blame. Start drafting and I’ll join you presently.’
Freimark bobbed his head dutifully and scurried off towards the stern cabins, which had already been laid out with a view to Governor Myron’s pleasure. As the aide left, Neimanson stalked to Myron’s side. ‘The main gates to the upper tier of the city have fallen to the mob,’ he reported, glaring down at the receding city, be
fore adding, ‘I’d hoped to cross blades with Sensini. Last night I cast the cards. They told me that I am fated to meet him in battle and take his head.’
‘I’d have liked to have seen that very much,’ Myron replied, ‘but with the Shihad already inside the walls, I expect he’s destined for a Noorie’s axe.’
‘The cards never lie,’ Neimanson said dismissively. ‘It is fated that I shall be his death.’
‘Kore will it so,’ Myron said tolerantly. He could overlook a man’s superstitions when he was as competent a bloodman as Neimanson.
The vessel swung on the breeze, the bow turning towards the northwest. Below, Myron could see the dirty stain of the mob spilling into the upper tier of the city, then he cast his vision wider to take in Copperleaf, the second tier still held by Korion’s men; and then to the burned-out expanse of Lowertown, where the unholy Noories swarmed like an infestation of rats in the charred wreckage and snows.
They’ll take decades to rebuild this pigsty, he thought dismissively. I’m glad to be out of it.
Neimanson looked behind at the two vessels in their wake and frowned. Myron followed his gaze and saw immediately what had perturbed his bloodman. The third vessel, a swift sloop, was drawing up alongside the second windship. It was flying too close, fouling their air.
‘What’re they—’ Neimanson began, but stopped when gnostic energy blazed and without warning, fire and lightning slammed into the stern. The pilot-mage must’ve been killed or at least injured, because the merchantman immediately veered aside, then foundered and started drifting downwards – but the sloop was now trimming its sails and surging in Myron’s wake.
Neimanson grunted in satisfaction. ‘Looks like I’ll get that chance at Sensini after all.’
Myron felt the colour drain from his face. He strode to the captain, shouting, ‘Get this damned ship moving—’ Spraying spittle, he added, ‘You’ve got the better craft – outrun them!’
‘It’s the bigger ship, but not the faster,’ the captain replied, wiping his face. ‘Run out the stern ballista,’ he bellowed at his crew. ‘Shield the pilot – archers to stations!’
‘Get us out of this, captain, and you’ll be a peer of the realm,’ Myron told him, not meaning a word of it. ‘Send them crashing down and I’ll marry your fucking daughter.’
The captain threw him a doubtful look, but self-preservation was evidently all the motivation he needed, for he strode off bawling orders, while Neimanson, licking his lips in anticipation, loosed his sword in his scabbard and conjured shields.
This is the bigger ship, Myron reminded himself. They might catch us, but they can’t best us.
With the crewmen dispersed to action stations, the ship lost some of its momentum and the sloop gained swiftly. It was filled with maroon-clad battle-magi and blue-clad Royal Guard. Myron recognised Era Hyson and cursed himself for not having throttled the wretch in his cell. Then he saw a lean, dark-haired mage: Ramon Sensini himself.
‘You’ve stuck your neck out too far this time,’ Myron told the distant figure.
The half-breed mercenary capitano didn’t worry him, but there were a lot of magi on that sloop, and on this vessel too. That much power in one place could bring us all down. With that in mind, Myron scuttled to the cabin doors, unwilling to be a target for Sensini’s marksmen.
Perhaps there’s a safe place below?
*
Norostein was a mile astern and fast receding. The air was frigid and the winds bitter, the terrain below nothing but rocks and ice: the foothills of the Alps. The initial exhilaration of the chase had given way to grim pursuit.
Ramon watched Era Hyson array his guardsmen for battle as the sloop came into range. Their captain had quickly changed sides, the sort of moral agility Ramon appreciated; when he’d told the panicked crew that they were going to drag Myron back in chains, they’d cheered and set their backs willingly to help them get underway. But words were easier than deeds and now the cold reality was setting in.
None of my lads are used to airborne warfare, Ramon admitted, and that’s an Imperial warbird we’re chasing – plus, we’re thousands of feet above jagged rocks. This could end very, very badly.
He’d more than half a mind to let the governor be: he’d long ago given up on concepts like divine justice balancing things out, having seen too many bad men reap the rewards of crime unscathed.
So what if Myron gets away? He’s gone, that’s the important thing. But the thought rankled, so he kept promising himself, Just a few minutes more, and we’ll see how it goes . . .
*
The air below-decks stank, Myron found as he clambered down the ladder and strode to his cabin. Some bastard had clearly been dreading the approaching fight, because they’d already shat themselves. He wrinkled his nose and hurried on past Freimark’s little bunkroom, from whence the stench was emanating.
Cowardly prick, Myron thought, pushing open his own cabin and slipping inside, turning and locking it . . .
. . . as the tip of a blade touched his throat, right above the jugular.
‘Shush, Governor,’ a woman’s accented voice whispered gleefully.
A Rimoni . . . one of Sensini’s . . . Myron froze as the steel edge stung his skin. His captor used another blade in her free hand to slice his belt and his trousers and sword-belt fell to the floor. She kicked them under the bed, then shoved him face-first onto the mattress. He groaned as his knees hit the floor painfully hard, but a second later something jabbed his right buttock. His captor behind him had her own knees pressed to his back, one blade still against his neck.
‘You’re a bad man, Governor,’ she tittered. ‘Should I spank you?’
‘I . . . uh—’
He wondered if he could get a spell away before she had time to react, but she pricked his neck again, almost as if she’d read his thoughts. ‘Just keep it quiet, si?’
He managed to twist his head enough to get a glimpse of her: a narrow-faced woman with coppery skin and black ringlets, bizarrely clad in a nun’s habit.
‘You’re on the wrong side,’ he told her. ‘I could make it worth your while to let me go.’
She pulled a faux vexed face. ‘No, you couldn’t, sorry. Wouldn’t dream of pissing the boss off.’
‘So gold means nothing to you?’ Myron asked slyly.
‘’course it does,’ she sing-songed. ‘I’m as corruptible as all Hel. Just not around the boss.’
‘Then why are we even talking?’ Myron reasoned aloud. ‘If you meant to kill me, you’d have done it by now.’
The Rimoni woman chuckled darkly in his ear. ‘Who says I haven’t?’
At first Myron didn’t understand, then he was suddenly stricken with a debilitating, numbing sensation, like acid and opium running in his veins, spreading from his right buttock, up his spine and down his legs. He tried to scream for Freimark – then he realised that Freimark must be dead already – and in any case, his throat wouldn’t work any more, for his tongue had seized up and his bowels were turning to liquid, gushing out to ruin his under-breeches as his muscles went flaccid.
‘Pooh,’ the woman sniffed. ‘Wish they’d give me a poison that didn’t give folk the runs.’ Then she shoved his face into the mattress again and said, ‘Goodbye, Governor.’
He tried to plead, but darkness rushed in as his vision collapsed . . .
*
Ramon pushed through to the captain’s side. ‘Captain Arkham, right? Can you get us close without that damned ballista wrecking our day?’
The magnificently whiskered windshipman shook his head. ‘Not unless they’re the worst shots in Koredom.’
Ramon tsked. ‘Right then, this has gone far enough. The mission’s done, close enough, and who cares if—’
He broke off as a hatch in the stern of the governor’s vessel opened and flames licked around a figure in black and white clambering out. Whoever it was waved at Ramon’s sloop, then launched into the air, arms spread like a giant magpie, and swooped towards him
.
He caught Arkham’s arm. ‘Cancel all that, Captain. Get that nun aboard, will you? She’s just saved us a lot of trouble.’
Ramon hurried to the prow as Vania di Aelno landed, striking an artistic pose just as smoke and red tongues billowed from the portals of the governor’s warbird. They heard cries of alarm and saw the crewmen dropping their weapons and go racing for axes, buckets and blankets.
Her fellow battle-magi engulfed Vania, backslapping and crowing, but Ramon was still watching the stricken warbird as it dipped and wallowed. He saw a rugged-looking mage stalk to the stern and give him a hard stare, the only calm man amid chaos.
the man sent.
Ramon sent him back a quizzical,
Behind Neimanson, the warbird’s crew were rushing hither and thither as the pilot hurled negation spells into the keel, desperately trying to de-power it before the flames reached it and it exploded. The captain was on his knees, pleading to Kore.
‘Shitting himself, in a posthumous kind of way,’ she replied merrily. ‘What a glorious day! Does anyone wanna get drunk with me?’ She laughed at the chorus of offers and blew a kiss at Ramon. ‘What about it, boss-man?’
Ramon pulled a face. ‘It’d just undermine my authority, such as it is,’ he told her.
He turned to the captain, about to tell him to shadow the warbird down, as there was likely plunder to be had – but a blinding flash erupted from its hull and the whole craft came apart in a burst of fire and jagged splinters that ripped passengers and crew to shreds.
Neimanson fell amid the wreckage, already in pieces.
Cards, eh? What next – tea leaves?
*
Seth Korion strode into the governor’s suite, followed by Vann Mercer. After his magi had checked the place for gnostic traps, the soldiers had been through seeking fugitives. All clear on both counts, he’d been told.