by David Hair
Please let us find her soon. The rushing air was chilling her already dangerously cold body and she worried that she couldn’t endure much more of it.
They swooped through the fog hanging over the river and out the other side, heading northeast, and as she flew, Lyra called into the dwyma, Coramore, I’m coming . . .
Whether the girl heard or not, she had no idea.
*
Basia de Sirou glared down at the fog in utter frustration, wrestling with calculations of air-speed and probability. How far could Lyra have got? Was she somewhere still ahead, or had she overshot while Lyra and Pearl had taken shelter? Was she even still alive?
She’d flown all night and seen no sign of them, but she’d seen hundreds of barges on the river and every moment heightened the risk of being spotted by Dupeni patrols. Exilium’s men, on the slower venators, were still miles west of her, but she and Vasingex were both exhausted despite her drawing on the gnosis for endurance.
I’ll try a sweep north. She slapped the wyvern’s left shoulder and Vasingex banked and arched round, just as Dirk’s terse voice crackled into her mind.
She felt Dirklan hesitate, then give a tired mental shrug.
The contact broke, leaving her wincing at the gnostic exertion. She’d been burning through her energy to keep Vasingex warm and exhaustion was setting in. And the rolled-up cloak was utterly insufficient: she felt like she’d never be able to sit comfortably on anything, ever again. I should’ve kept this ugly brute saddled . . .
Then moving shadows caught her eye and she looked down to see three dark spots following the river-fog upstream, just above the swirling mists. She was too far away to identify them, but all her comrades were west of her, so she watched them warily – and when they suddenly banked and shot away to the north, she caught her breath.
It wasn’t anything like a clue, but maybe these were enemy and they had news of Lyra?
Bereft of other ideas, she brought Vasingex around and telling Exilium what she was doing, she set off in pursuit, thousands of feet above and behind.
Dupenium
Ostevan Pontifex sat bolt upright on his throne, staring into the shimmering image of a florid, thickset Sister of Kore in a deep blue habit fringed in white, hanging in the air before him. ‘What?’ he demanded.
The Abbess repeated her greeting, her voice crackling from aetheric distortions, ‘Holiness, we’ve found a lost girl and we think it’s Princess Coramore. At least, that’s who she says she is. We found her in a grove at the edge of our gardens, asleep and almost frozen. I can’t get any sense out of her; she’s delirious.’
‘And you’re who again?’ he snapped. ‘And where?
‘Abbess Lyfrasia, of Sancta Pontelia Abbey,’ she repeated forthrightly. ‘We’re about twenty miles west of Fauvion, on the Bruin.’
Why are rural abbesses always such formidable women? Ostevan wondered, then, If it is her, the girl managed to float past the entire fleet unseen. Or maybe she was ahead of it . . . ‘Are you sure it’s her?’
‘Almost certain, Holiness,’ Abbess Lyfrasia said. ‘I’ve seen the girl from a distance in Fauvion, and she’s wearing a signet bearing the Sacrecour seal.’
This is perfect, Ostevan mused. Anyone but clergy would have gone directly to Garod.
‘You’ve done well to contact me directly, Abbess Lyfrasia. The girl is indeed missing and we’ve been most anxious. There’s a rich bounty,’ he added slyly. ‘Keep this silent until I can reclaim her and I will ensure the rightful reward goes entirely to your abbey.’
The abbess’ fleshy face took on a glow of satisfaction. ‘That would be most appreciated, Holiness. It’s not easy in the borderlands between the Corani and the Dupeni.’
He sent a pulse of thanks and gratitude, warned her again to tell no one else, then broke the connection and sat back, thinking hard. Find the little bitch and kill her, the daemon inside him growled, but he blocked Abraxas’s awareness to his deeper thoughts and pondered, chin in hand. This had to be handled right or he risked losing access to the girl. It had to be his people who collected her, but knowing what the dwyma could do to a possessed man made the matter delicate.
No, I need unpossessed men. Lyfrasia is a mage and I doubt she’s a fool. He tapped the table feverishly. He had plenty of unpossessed men, including mage-knights, who’d follow his orders loyally, thanks to his rank, and some of those had the necessary discretion. But I need that girl in my hands as soon as possible . . . Lyra could start hurling blizzards at Garod’s army at any moment . . .
Best I do this myself.
He dredged up names and faces, settled on one and sent his orders, then rose and striding from his chamber, started snapping orders to his servants. ‘Ready a flight of venators,’ he told the commander of his personal guard. ‘I want a steed for me and a dozen of your best, ready to fly in twenty minutes.’
Sancta Pontelia Abbey, Bruin River Valley
Coramore woke with a start to find two faces looming over her. She stifled a squeal as the newcomers resolved into a pair of young nuns, Sisters of Kore in white-trimmed blue robes. Her peripheral vision told her she was in a small room, the only ornament a Dagger of Corineus on the wall. Distantly, she heard the sound of female singing, a hymn to Kore.
A nunnery . . . She had jumbled recollections of people fussing over her, of warm water and bare skin, of hot gruel and bread . . . and a blur of words.
What have I told them?
‘Uh, who—?’ she said timidly, while she tried to think. Have I been recognised? Have I – Kore forfend – even told them who I am? And where am I?
Fortunately, this guileless pair told her everything she needed to know, blurting ‘Majesty’ and ‘Highness’ in awestruck voices. I blabbed, rukk it! But who have they told?
Then a thickset woman in finer robes with a periapt around her neck waddled in and curtly ordered the two nuns to, ‘Be about your duties, Sisters.’ She stared down at Coramore like a cat at a bowl of cream. ‘Princess, it’s good to see you awake,’ she purred. ‘I’m Abbess Lyfrasia. I imagine your guardians must be worried sick.’
There was no sense in denying her identity – but where did this woman stand on the question of Ostevan?
‘It was probably foolish, but I ran away,’ Coramore said, watching the abbess closely.
‘It’s not unheard of for children to do so,’ Lyfrasia observed. ‘We take in strays more frequently than you can imagine. We’ll have you back with your family in no time.’
‘Don’t you want to know why I ran?’
‘Your reasons are your own, Highness. My duty is to return you to their protection.’
‘My family don’t protect me,’ Coramore said plaintively. ‘Not from that sort of . . . abuse.’ She dropped her eyes and made her lower lip quiver, hoping she wasn’t overacting.
The abbess’ body tensed. Her voice softer, she asked, ‘What do you mea
n, child?’
She’s genuinely concerned – she might look like a greedy hog, but she does have a heart. But Coramore knew not to get her hopes up. She can’t protect me, not from someone like Ostevan.
‘There’s a man,’ Coramore started, the horrible memories she’d experienced under Abraxas’ thrall giving her too much inspiration. ‘He comes into my room when everyone’s asleep . . .’
Lyfrasia gasped and made the sign of the Dagger over her heart. ‘Kore forfend – not your uncle?’
‘No,’ Coramore said. She put every ounce of conviction she could manage into her next words. ‘It’s Ostevan.’
The abbess blanched, clutching at her ample breast in anguish. ‘Dear Kore – I spoke to him myself only an hour ago.’
Coramore felt the blood drain from her face. ‘What did you tell him . . .’
Before the abbess could answer, the door opened and one of the young nuns burst in, excited and anxious. ‘Holy Mother, there are men on dragons circling above us!’
Coramore gripped her sheet, her skin ice-cold. She looked up at the abbess pleadingly. ‘Holy Mother, you have to save me – they’ve come to take me back to that dreadful man . . .’
*
Basia took Vasingex in lower as the three venators she was trailing dipped towards an old grey stone building set amid a white patchwork of fields and gardens: a monastery or an abbey, she guessed. When she closed in she saw the riders wore black and white tabards: Kirkegarde.
An overwhelming sense of aching loss seized her suddenly. At first she didn’t understand – then she remembered a similar scene, six years ago, descending upon just such a place, flying alongside Ril and the Joyce brothers, with Kirkegarde foes below. Ril had rescued a young woman from imminent death – Lyra Vereinen.
In that moment I lost Ril, before I even knew I wanted him, and everything we’re suffering now was set in motion . . .
The enormity of it stole her breath, the sense that Fate was a real thing – and that it was laughing at her. How ironic it would be, to die here.
Then she saw the three Kirkegarde were trailing someone else: a white pegasus with a blonde-haired figure in a purple cloak clinging to the winged horse’s back as it tore down towards the abbey’s courtyard.
Rukka mio, it’s Lyra!
Fear for Lyra overcome all other thought. She sent Vasingex into a dive, lining up her shadow with the hindmost Kirkegarde so that if he looked back, she’d be nothing a blur in the sun. As the ponderous venators closed in on Lyra and the abbey, her lighter, faster mount brought her above and behind. With their attention firmly fixed on the pegasus below, her prey never saw her coming . . .
When they were within ten yards of the rearmost man, Basia commanded,
Vasingex drew back his head, then lashed forward, spewing a torrent of flames – wyverns might not breathe fire in the mythologies, but constructs were subject only to the skills of the animagi breeders and in Vasingex’s case, they’d achieved a very great deal.
The Kirkegarde knight had been concentrating on flying, not even bothering with shields: he never knew the danger until too late. The flames burst over him, fiery phlegm clinging to man and venator alike. Thrashing in agony, they screamed as one and nosedived.
Basia and Vasingex flashed onwards. The two flyers below her had seen her and split up; one went left, the other right. She blazed mage-bolts at both, wishing she was lashed to a saddle and had a lance. Her foes shielded strongly and though her bolts turned the translucent pale blue cocoons crimson, the enemy emerged unscathed. She followed the one angling left. It was too soon for Vasingex to breathe fire again, but she had to maintain the initiative.
Below them, her first victim hit the ground at a frightening velocity and sprawled brokenly on the frosty ground. Her two foes roared out defiant threats as they sought to catch her in a pincer, but Vasingex spiralled out of the trap and climbed.
Basia craned to check on Lyra, but she was safe, for now, at least: she and Pearl had landed safely in the abbey courtyard. Basia remembered the nuns six years ago who had tried to kill Lyra to keep her out of Corani hands; if history repeated, Lyra was on her own.
Her job was to keep these Kirkegarde rukkers away. Pulsing mage-bolts left and right, she tried to keep both men occupied – and one bolt got lucky, punching through frayed defences and striking the venator’s head. Suddenly blinded, it dropped dramatically and careened into the outer wall of the abbey, breaking its neck – but the rider had already severed his saddle-straps, leaped and hit the ground running.
Then the remaining airborne venator came straight at her, swerving into her path with jaws gaping. Shouting in alarm, she took Vasingex into a sudden climb, but her foe, a Kirkegarde grandmaster from his plumes, came after her – and he did have a lance. Their flight paths intersected and she managed to haul Vasingex aside barely in time to batter away the lance with her sword. The two reptiles got close enough to rake each other with their claws; Vasingex emitted a throaty yelp and she glanced back to see bloody furrows along the side of his belly, below the wing joints. Pain started bleeding into her brain from his.
Kore’s Balls, Lyra, what are you doing here? Is it worth our lives?
*
Pearl tried to land gently, but at their speed they slammed in hard, the legs of the pegasus jarring and almost buckling, and even with her arms wrapped around Pearl’s neck, Lyra was still thrown free. This time when she hit the ground she rolled away from the steel-shod hooves that smashed down beside her, and came to a halt, a little winded.
Spitting out snow and gasping for breath, she muttered, ‘Rukking landings – I hate them.’
But she had to move. She pulled herself upright and staggered towards the nearest building. Female voices were squealing in alarm as blue-clad nuns flapped about like startled birds.
‘Cor . . . ah . . .’ she choked out, as they stared at her with frightened eyes.
‘Cora—’ she tried again. ‘Cora . . .’
‘Lady?’ one of the nuns squeaked.
If I tell them who I am, they’ll think I’m here to kill her . . .
‘Must . . . protect . . . Cora,’ she panted, looking for the right door. Like legion camps, Kore abbeys tended to have identical layouts. She spotted what she was looking for and tried to run on wobbling legs.
Then Pearl neighed a warning and everyone looked up. Her heart punched the inside of her ribs as she recognised Vasingex, wheeling above with two venators.
Dear Kore, it’s Basia—
‘Those men mean her ill,’ Lyra shouted, and in a moment of inspiration, added, ‘They are not true Kirkegarde.’
The nuns looked aghast, but no one moved until a stout abbess appeared, shouting, ‘Lady, the princess is here – come with me, please.’
Lyra had no choice but to trust the woman. She gathered her skirts and the nuns parted to let her through. The abbess had a periapt on her ample bosom, and shrewd eyes.
‘Lady, do you come from the duke?’ Her eyes flashed over Lyra’s clothing, seeing the imperial emblems embroidered on her clothing.
Lyra hesitated, not sure how to answer, but a girlish voice interrupted, calling, ‘L . . . uh . . . Lena?’ Coramore came hurtling down the stairs with arms spread. ‘You’ve found me!’
Any doubt must have evaporated, because the abbess stood aside and even managed a smile, watching Lyra sweep the skinny little girl into her arms.
‘Cora, Cora, it’s all right, we have you—’ Dear Kore, she’s nothing but skin and bone. Lyra looked heavenwards, praying Basia was holding her own above.
Then she turned to the abbess. ‘We have to get her ou—’
Someone screamed, and they all turned back to the courtyard to see a dark shadow crunching into the abbey’s outer wall, just thirty yards away
. It was a venator and it flopped to the ground, obviously dead – but a Kirkegarde knight had landed beside it and the moment he spotted the women milling about, he raised his hands and blazed mage-bolts at the sisters. Two women were struck; they crashed to the ground with blackened holes in their chests.
As the rest froze like deer before the hunter, he fixed his eyes on Lyra and shouted, ‘Seize her – she’s the empress!’
For a moment, Lyra’s limbs locked as well, then the abbess gestured with a chopping motion like a butcher hacking into meat and the man was bludgeoned backwards.
‘Get inside,’ she shouted, backing up and shielding as Lyra and Coramore and the terrified sisters fled for the chapel doors. She was last in, then she slammed the doors with kinesis and light bloomed as wards locked into place.
‘Is there somewhere safe?’ Lyra asked.
The abbess looked at her curiously, perhaps noting her lack of gnostic shields, but all she said was, ‘This is no fortress, Lady, but a sanctuary.’ She looked at Coramore, who was still clinging fervently to Lyra, which seemed to reassure her. ‘I am the abbess, Lyfrasia, and I will protect you both.’
Then something battered into the door with a crunching, splintering sound and the sisters shrieked, then they all dropped to their knees to pray. Lyra almost copied them, her childhood as a novice overwhelming her, but she thrust those memories aside and instead, gripped Coramore’s hand and reached for the dwyma as the door was battered again . . .
*
Basia gave Vasingex free rein, letting the wyvern pick his path through the storm of mage-bolts unleashed by the Kirkegarde grandmaster. Her shields were holding and thanks to her mount’s speed and erratic weaving, she was being struck only by glancing blows.
But we’re one square hit from disaster and I can’t get close to the bastard . . .
All her strength was going into shielding while she clung to the wyvern’s back, but from the pulses of gnostic energy echoing below, the knight who’d crashed into the abbey was still alive, which meant Lyra was facing dangers she couldn’t survive alone – and who knew whose side those nuns were on? Somehow, she had to find a way to strike back.