Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  Xoredh stared across the frozen plains from the front of his pavilion to the walls of Norostein. This was where Rashid had pitched his tent a month ago. Lowertown was flooded; the water still pouring in from the broken aqueduct had overflowed the lake inside the walls and turned the streets to thick mud. He’d left men in there to ensure it wasn’t reoccupied by the defenders, but he had no intention of staying in that swampy sea of ruin himself.

  With Cadearvo dead, it was truly his army now, although he was at something of a loss as to how to proceed and awaiting the Master’s next contact with considerable trepidation.

  But the hour had come. He let out his breath and returned to the pavilion, where he set out his scrying bowl and the specially enchanted brazier. He darkened the lamps and conjured the link, homing in on the Master’s secret sigil.

  Naxius’ face appeared in the brazier’s smoke in his youthful guise, with copper-red hair and an implacable stare. Thankfully, he looked calm, the rage he’d unleashed the day Cadearvo died back under control.

  ‘Ironhelm, report,’ he said, his voice crackling from the distance.

  ‘The enemy are coexisting without open violence,’ Xoredh admitted. ‘The walls of Copperleaf are intact and well-manned. I’m not sure of our ability to get inside.’

  ‘It matters not. We have a higher mission.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Master.’ Xoredh was wondering what secret purpose they’d all been serving. Did he ever care about this sacred war at all?

  ‘The game has moved on,’ Naxius said carelessly. ‘The purpose of the war has been fulfilled: it has drawn my real enemies into the open, just as I desired. I have always had a deeper intention, Ironhelm. This conflict has been amusing enough and I’m sure everyone’s thoroughly enjoyed the chance to spill heathen blood and settle scores, but it was only ever about revealing the dwymancers and bringing them into my grasp. I now have one of them – your kinswoman Jehana. She’s what I needed all along.’

  Jehana? Xoredh frowned. ‘But I could have taken her any time before the war—’

  ‘Indeed.’ Naxius chuckled. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? When I thought her of no value, she was easily in our reach – but by the time I realised her importance, she’d vanished, and so millions have died. Life is pure comedy at times.’

  The Shihad was for more than your amusement, Xoredh thought coldly. It was right and just. But he knew better than to reveal his disquiet. ‘What is our goal, Master?’

  ‘The same as it’s always been: making the world our own. But just as Jehana is my key to victory, the other dwymancers who could have offered me the opportunity I sought are also our greatest threat. Now that I have Jehana, the rest must be eliminated, lest they interfere. Your own task is to kill Prince Waqar.’

  ‘Ai, Lord. Thy will be done.’

  The contact was broken and Xoredh sat alone, head bowed uneasily. Of the eight original Masks, only I survive. They’d all thought to rule the world; now they were daemon-fodder. So who will be hunting the other dwymancers he’s spoken of?

  He felt a strange weariness, but sleep brought nightmares of his own demise, so horrific that he shunned rest. However, brooding must now be put aside: his task had been made clear.

  And I can’t afford to fail again.

  22

  Angel of War

  Macharo

  The Last Days begin with the rise of Macharo, the Angel of War. Before his dread gaze, the armies of the Unrighteous shall wilt and his daemons shall destroy all defences, laying Urte bare for conquest.

  BOOK OF KORE

  Pallas, Rondelmar

  Martrois 936

  The Place d’Accord – the name was from old Frandian, meaning ‘Forum of Union’ – was the historic site of the founding of the Rondian Empire. Today it was thronged with people, just as it had been when the Sacrecour emperors hosted grandiose parades to display their might, lavishing spectacles on the masses.

  Such extravagances had always been beyond Lyra’s regime – but this gathering wasn’t about impressing the Pallacian burghers; they’d not been lured by promises of drink, food and entertainments. Instead, heralds had been going through streets daily, distributing leaflets and proclaiming in their booming voices: ‘Come to the Place d’Accord on the first day of the new moon, the first of Martrois, when Empress Lyra will address her beloved people concerning the future of her kingdom. All are welcome, all are summoned.’

  Lyra had feared a poor attendance, that the people wouldn’t trust her enough to come – but she needn’t have worried. The Pallas Mob poured in like a sea, all sporting embroidered red roses on their breasts to signify their support for Ari Frankel’s res publica. Men and women of all ages brayed slogans and sang new songs of rebellion and freedom. Kensiders chanted insults at Tockers; docklanders shrieked derision at Esdale soldier families, and they all roared their disapproval of the middle-class families of Gravenhurst and the northern slopes. It was Pallas at its most visceral and raw, a seething stew of influences and interests, like the empire in miniature.

  Smoke hung heavy in the air like the threat of open violence. She’d lost control of half the city and still refused to let Oryn Levis send in his men. ‘Minds aren’t won by battering heads,’ she told him, but the Knight-Commander was at the end of his tether – and quite possibly at the point of mutiny. She suspected that if this went badly, he’d be opening the gates for Takwyth himself when he arrived.

  Which is only days away . . .

  Lyra entered the Place d’Accord wearing a white gown with a gold brocade cloak and ermine collar. The crown was weighing heavily on the coils of blonde hair which had been carefully back-combed and pinned into place to make her look regal and imposing.

  Exilium and Basia, flanking her, were somewhat recovered, their bruises concealed by paints and powders, much to the young Estellan’s disgust. ‘What warrior ever went out made up like a woman?’ he grumbled.

  ‘I do, every day,’ Basia had twinkled, tweaking his nose and telling him he looked pretty as a peach.

  Behind them were Dirklan, Calan, Dominius and Lumpy, there to lend their weight to her address. All of them looked grim, for this was her last throw of the dice. If it failed, she’d likely have to flee.

  Ranks of battle-magi and soldiers guarded her passage from the gates to the podium overlooking the square. Towering over them all was the one-hundred-foot-tall statue of Corineus; the dagger was glowing in the Sacred Heart. Some had jumped onto his stone feet, seeking a vantage, and the noise was a physical thing, a cacophony she had to wade through, amid screams for her to ‘Go hang yourself, heretic—’ or ‘Rukk off back “oop narf”’, Corani bitch.’ And some, insidiously, started chanting, ‘Takwyth, Takwyth . . .’

  That made her shiver, but she climbed the steps to the podium, none the worse for the harsh words or the occasional pieces of rotten fruit spattering harmlessly over the gnostic shields surrounding her. She felt like she was perched on a precipice above a seething lake of faces and hands all punching the air as they shrieked in derision – but there was support, too: she spotted a core of green-clad Corani to her right, stoically singing, ‘The Green Hills of Coraine’ at the top of their voices.

  She took a deep breath, trembling at the enormity of what she meant to do here at the heart of the empire, the nexus of all that was good and ill in Rondelmar, the corrupt and the well-meaning, the splendour and the squalor. She raised a hand to quieten them and began to speak, her voice amplified by a gnosis-wielding herald standing nearby. Two hundred thousand souls could squeeze into this place, she’d been told, more than the population of all but a few Yurosi cities. Not all fell silent, but her voice carried clearly over the vast crowd.

  ‘People of Pallas, people of Rondelmar,’ she began, her voice echoing around the plaza. ‘The following speech is now being read in every imperial city. It has been written by me, Queen Lyra Vereinen, in my name and in the name of Prince Rildan, my son and heir.’

  As she paused for breath, the cha
nts and slogans rose again, but less vociferously, for somehow, people began to sense the importance of what was happening. Craning their necks to see, they began to shush noisier neighbours.

  ‘I have heard your voices,’ she went on, ‘your demands for greater freedoms and for your own voices to take part in governance. I have heard Master Frankel speak of suffragium and the res publica. His words resonate with me.’

  At Ari’s name they cheered, and she wondered where he was; she’d not seen him since their meeting. But most just stared upwards, wondering where this was going.

  ‘But I have also seen houses burn and good people suffering,’ she told them. ‘Fear has ruled the streets of my home, spread by criminals in the guise of freedom fighters. I have watched peaceful protests turn to bloodshed and death.’ She swept her pointing hand across the square, encompassing them all. ‘I see a people divided: the unstoppable desire for freedom in collision with the immovable walls of empire. One must fail, but both are suffering from the impact.’

  That took some unpacking, but the crowd were now murmuring as they worked it out.

  ‘The world is always changing, but institutions like the Crown or the Church resist change. Pressures grow, until they are released violently.’ She raised her voice. ‘We must resolve this. Immovable objects must move and unstoppable forces must come to rest. I will not have my realm burn.’

  She removed her cloak – to reveal a red rose embroidered on the left breast of her gown. Those who could see gasped, and a confused cheer gusted through a crowd who couldn’t quite believe their eyes. Behind her, a new banner was unfurled: her personal ensign, the Winter Tree against Corani green, but with a huge red rose emblazoned above it.

  ‘People of Rondelmar, I, your Queen, sanction your res publica! As ongoing Head of State, I give you the right to appoint the Royal Council and to take executive leadership: your people, chosen your way. Suffragium, just as Master Frankel has espoused. Your Res Publica, your nation.’

  They’d fallen almost silent, but this time when she paused, there was an incredible shriek of joy and the suffragium chants resounded as Pallacians started jumping up and down, whooping and cheering themselves hoarse. She saw open mouths, bewildered and joyous faces, heard raucous cheering that blew away the threat of violence in a wave of exultation.

  But she also saw consternation and dread on the faces of her Corani.

  She raised her arms again. This time it was several minutes before she could be heard again. ‘My people, we are aboard a ship adrift on the tides of history and her name is Rondelmar. I have been her tillerman, but we all sail on her. If some of us row while others burn the sails, we all go down – but if we pull together, if we fill those sails, we will prevail against the storms.’ She turned her palms out, in an offering gesture. ‘I give you this gift, my people: my promise of change. Let your representatives come forth and join me in steering this ship.’

  Then she stabbed her right hand to the north and then the east – towards Takwyth and Coraine, and Duke Garod in Dupenium. ‘Because make no mistake: the storms are blowing in, marching on us even now – and you may believe me when I tell you, they will grant you no such rights: for they are Empire men, every one of them, and they want to rule.’

  ‘So do you,’ a sceptical voice shouted. ‘You’re just like them—’

  ‘Me?’ Lyra laughed. ‘I’m just a mother, one who longs to leave the daily business of empire to those better qualified,’ she replied. ‘I told you I have been a tillerman, but I would much sooner be the figurehead on a more seaworthy ship.’

  ‘No one gives up power,’ that same voice railed, and she could see people turning to look at the dissenter.

  ‘I do,’ she retorted. ‘I choose to step aside – but I’m not leaving this ship, and nor are the magi close to me.’ Her voice was now deliberately defiant. ‘I am giving you this res publica, but I will be its first defender and any who try to topple it, any who try to pervert it into tyranny, will have to come through me . . . and through the Volsai and the Church and the Royal Guard. Do not squander this gift.’

  That quieted the heckler and sent a ripple of intrigue through the crowd.

  Take that, Makelli, and your sophisticated brutality.

  She pointed to the rose on her breast. ‘I pledge my life to serving the Res Publica of Rondelmar. Who here will do the same?’

  That engendered another roar and suddenly the mood was all excitement again, a positive energy based not on resistance and violence, but on the notion of serving something bigger than oneself.

  She raised her hand once more and the cheers started dying away. ‘I am speaking now to the people of Argundy, of Brevis, of Hollenia and Andressea, those who wish to secede from our union. I grant you that secession, uncontested. People of Midrea, of Noros, of Bricia and Estellayne, of Mollachia and Rimoni, Silacia and Lantris and all the kingdoms of Yuros: hear me. Your lands are your own.’

  For a moment it felt as if the air had been sucked from the giant plaza – then voices rushed in, uncertain now. Rondians were proud of their empire – surely this threatened their status in the world? Lyra didn’t care overly about that, but she didn’t dismiss their fears.

  ‘To our Rondian kindred in Coraine, Dupenium and Aquillea, we remind you that you are our blood, our kith and kin, part of the greatest nation in Yuros, the keystone of the West. You might hear my words and believe it best you go alone, but remember this: in numbers lie strength, wealth and prosperity. Together we are strong – alone, you are vulnerable.’

  Think on that, all you Dukes. Will you stand alone and small, or be part of something that can still be dominant, even if it’s no longer an empire?

  ‘LONG LIVE RONDELMAR – LONG LIVE QUEEN LYRA,’ came the shout, right on cue, from Dirklan’s Volsai, seeded among the crowd. The chants spread quickly through the Place d’Accord as the crowd regained the fever of a victory won, the hope of something new and better for themselves.

  They still see themselves as the greatest nation on Urte. If that helps them accept this moment, so be it.

  She waved to all sides then stepped back as the crowd began chanting, ‘FRANKEL, FRANKEL—’

  A few moments later the rabble-rouser himself was pushed forward to the lower steps of her podium. He looked up at her and touched his heart.

  Yes, I kept my promise to you, she thought, proud of that.

  Then he turned to face the people, his face alight with joy and excitement, and began to speak, his unamplified words cracking with the strain of being heard. Lyra didn’t listen, too exhausted by the emotional effort.

  I’ve just ended the Rondian Empire. I’ve just relinquished executive power. I’ve taken away my son’s birthright – quite possibly, I’ve sanctioned a bloodbath . . . But perhaps I’ve saved us all.

  The next few days would show whether this was her greatest triumph or her worst mistake. And right now, all her enemies would be reacting to her pronouncements and getting reports from the mage-spies who were doubtless hidden among this vast throng.

  Are Solon and Garod laughing at me now, or are they beginning to doubt?

  She left almost unnoticed, surrounded by her counsellors, as waves of sound buffeted Ari Frankel. Dirklan gave her a measured, approving look. This had been his compromise: a constitutional monarchy, he called it: not quite the full res publica that Frankel had wanted, but something he could agree to and sell to his adherents.

  Dominius looked far more at ease than she’d expected – but then he probably saw this as a victory in the centuries-old struggle between Church and State. He’s reuniting the Church, while the Crown is fragmenting – of course he’s happy.

  Calan had been the hardest man to sell it to: all he foresaw was lost tax revenue, new borders for tariffs and tolls to destroy trade – and amateurs trying to meddle in his Treasury. But if the alternative was mobs of ravening burghers rampaging through his offices with torches and knives, he was prepared to let it play out.

  Oryn Levis w
as the one who worried her. Military men didn’t debate, they issued orders. Generals were like emperors and kings, and they didn’t deal in compromise unless cornered. So far, the big, placid Knight-Commander appeared to be acceding to her requests, but Solon wasn’t at their gates yet . . .

  Her father had been adamant. ‘If Oryn wavers, he goes.’ He didn’t mean into exile, either.

  She took Dirklan’s arm gratefully, her legs suddenly wobbly as the enormity of her actions hit her like a blow. She barely noticed the weeping servants, bowing and curtseying as she hurried past them.

  ‘I need to hold my son,’ she told her counsellors. ‘I must pray for his forgiveness.’

  *

  An hour later, she could still hear the triumph reverberating through the city, despite the high Bastion walls. Rildan was asleep on her lap while Dirklan relayed reports from his agents spread across Yuros.

  ‘Duke Kurt Borodium has proclaimed a Kingdom of Argundy,’ he said, brandishing the relay-stave. ‘Our imperial legions in Delph have left the capital for Aquillea: they report no trouble yet, but desertions are rife as non-Rondians are electing to return to their own countries. The general mood is triumphant – although privately, the Borodiums are furious at being blindsided. Safe to say you won’t get to marry Andreas.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Lyra said drily. ‘What of Aquillea?’

  Dirklan smiled. ‘The Duke has told his people they stand with Rondelmar.’

  Yes, Lyra thought, clasping her hands before her. Thank you, Kore – and Duke Salinas.

  ‘And Garod?’ she asked, taking strength from the good tidings to deal with the bad.

  ‘As expected, he’s denounced you as mad and a traitor to the empire – he’s vowed to place your head on a spike when he restores his nephew Cordan to the Imperial Throne, and to order a Crusade to bring every nation back under the Imperial yoke.’ He smiled. ‘His pronouncements were apparently received rapturously in Dupenium and in Fauvion. The Sacrecours have never permitted men like Frankel to speak in their lands. The average Dupeni believes concepts like freedom and equality emanate from the Lord of Hel.’