Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  Which was when Ril, fighting for his own life, had plummeted down beside her. Somehow, badly injured and trapped below ground, they’d hung on for days, until Setallius’ people had found them.

  We survived: we were broken and maimed, but we got out and I’ve longed for vengeance ever since. She drew her longsword and kissed the hilt. Thank you, Kore, for giving me this chance . . .

  ‘Get out of here,’ she told her charge. ‘Your Majesty, get out—’ She glared at the other guards until they grabbed the reins of the white horse and hauled her away, then she nudged her own mount into motion and, sword extended, rode to meet Brylion and his thugs. She recognised most of them; they’d all been there that night . . .

  From somewhere on her left, horns were echoing in the hills, but whatever was happening, it didn’t matter, for the man she most hated in the entire world was here in front of her.

  With a feral scream, she went hammering down the slope to meet him.

  *

  The clarion call of the horns floating out over the foothills north of the battlefield at Finostarre came rolling over the smoky battlefield. The sun was bright but the air was cold. The distant roar of the battle was music to his ears.

  Solon Takwyth drew his broadsword and rode along the front line, using the gnosis to make his voice carry to the furthest ranks.

  ‘I have asked you to remember always that you are Corani,’ he roared. ‘Down there is a Corani army: one led by a misguided queen in the thrall of traitors – but they are still Corani. Are we to stand aside while our brothers fight?’

  ‘No!’ the soldiers roared to a man.

  They’d marched all day and night, taking back roads past the farms and estates of the rural nobility, spurning the chance to seize Pallas almost unopposed to reach this place in time. He was pretty sure they’d given the watching scouts the slip; they’d left behind a single legion, pretending to be an army.

  No one knows we’re here . . .

  He stabbed the skies with his blade. ‘Will we rescue the queen and destroy the Sacrecour tyrants for ever?’

  ‘Aye – aye!’

  ‘Then advance, my brothers, advance to conquer: for the Corani, and for the empire—’

  The horns shrilled again, this time signalling the advance, and from the foothills overlooking the fields of Finostarre, Solon’s men came swarming down to hit the exposed right flank of Garod’s army.

  *

  Brylion grinned savagely as he recognised the skinny freak screaming like a burning witch as she came galloping to meet him, longsword extended and eyes blazing. They were through the royal lines, which were disintegrating behind them as the officers tried to close the gaps. The air was a cacophony of horn blasts and battle-cries, the aether crackling with frantic calls, but he barely heard, so filled was his mind with visions of 909 as Abraxas sifted through his memories of that glorious, viscerally bloody night, chortling over the best moments.

  ‘She’s mine,’ Brylion roared, snatching a fresh lance from his squire. ‘You two – with me; the rest of you, take the queen – and don’t let the bitch get away: I want her alive—’

  He jammed his spurs in again and his closest cronies came with him, all three lances aligned on the single rider pelting towards them. With shields flaring and lances tips aglow, thundering up the rise and onto level ground, they hit top speed as Basia de Sirou shrieked towards them.

  He could already picture how this would play out, the freak skewered on three poles, then ripped apart – And then we’ll take our time with the convent girl . . .

  *

  It all happened in a blur of motion that Basia barely comprehended.

  Barely ten yards from impact – a matter of half a second – dark figures rose from the ground ten feet on either side of her and a cord suddenly stretched across the turf, a foot above the ground and right in front of the hooves of the three Sacrecour knights.

  Brylion’s showy warhorse caught its leading leg in the rope and went over in a blurring tumble, the beasts flanking him tripping a moment later and suddenly she faced not levelled lances but a tumbling wall of steel-clad horses and men – but the animals’ heads were striking the ground with sickening crunches, while the riders flew onto the turf, landing with equally bone-crunching force—

  —and Brylion was thrown straight at her, arms splayed, back-arched and weapons askew.

  She barely had time to correct her aim before they collided. Her longsword, blue with gnosis-fire, punched right through his visor and was torn from her grasp as he fell away. The impact snapped her wrist, sending a blaze of numbing agony up her arm – then someone’s horse smashed into hers and she was hurled backwards, head over heels, but calling on well-honed instincts she rolled herself into a ball just an instant before she struck the muddy turf. The broken wrist screamed and just for a second she blacked out.

  A moment later her vision cleared enough to see a bloody-faced Brigeda and a smirking Patcheart sitting astride the prone Sacrecour knights, lifting their chainmail gorgets and methodically opening throats.

  ‘Wha . . . th . . . fuh—’ she managed to gasp.

  ‘Just keepin’ an eye on you, honey,’ Brigeda told her. The burly woman blew her a kiss.

  ‘Queen out here, thought you’d need some back-up,’ Patcheart added smugly.

  Basia looked around dazedly and saw Brylion – who was well and truly dead. His head had been blasted by the energies in her sword, which was still buried in the skull, the hilt sticking out of the visor, the point protruding from the back of his head, puncturing the iron helm.

  Strangely, she didn’t feel a thing. It was as if all her emotions had gone into charging, leaving nothing left for victory.

  She turned away. She didn’t need to see any more.

  At his death, Brylion’s knights broke off their chase and pelted back towards their own lines, allowing the queen’s party to get away.

  Thank Kore, she breathed. Thank you, Life . . .

  Then she became conscious of something else.

  To the north, on the left flank of the queen’s army, newcomers were pouring onto the field in fast-moving columns, rolling up the suddenly beleaguered Sacrecour forces. For a moment even her heart soared as the Corani Badger banner swung in the breeze. Then she cursed.

  Takwyth, she breathed. Rukking Takwyth’s here to steal our victory.

  She climbed dizzily to her feet as the Sacrecour knights and infantry fighting below the hillock were suddenly recalled by blaring trumpets, shrieking out the notes of the retreat. She looked towards Oryn Levis, on the knoll to her right, and saw that the Knight-Commander was calmly dispensing orders, almost as if he’d known this was coming all along.

  And everywhere, she could hear the royal army screaming, ‘TAKWYTH, TAKWYTH—’

  And it wasn’t just Corani men. The Pallacians were joining in.

  The bastard . . .

  She looked around for her horse, but it was dead, big eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky, its neck broken in the collision. Cradling her wrist, still panting, she limped over to Brylion. With her left hand she yanked out her blade, then with a sudden shriek, poured kinesis and raw energy into the sword and severed his neck in one blow.

  ‘Got you!’ she screamed to the ruined skull in the blackened helm, spitting on it, then staggering away.

  ‘Good job,’ Brigeda told her, taking a turn to add a gobbet of her own spittle. ‘Patch and I are going to reel in the queen. We’ve got horses in the copse behind this hill. None for you, sorry.’

  ‘Go on,’ she told them. ‘I’ll catch up somehow.’

  Basia was still looking around for a riderless horse when she saw a white-clad knight, spattered in blood, emerge from the fray, horseless and limping – and one of Oryn Levis’ aides riding up to the young Estellan and saying something . . .

  Exilium shook his head – and the aide drew a sword, levelling it at his chest.

  Shit – he’s arresting Exilium . . .

  But the
Estellan was already moving, blurring under the man’s blade and seizing his arm, hurling the aide bodily from the saddle and into the ground. The aide flopped limply and went still. A moment later the Estellan was mounted on the other man’s horse and glaring up the slope at Levis, raising a fist.

  Basia’s eyes swept over the plain: Takwyth was now on the field, being mobbed by men from Lyra’s army, cheered to the hilt: hail the returning conqueror. Garod’s soldiers were running, and his noblemen too. The battle was all but over.

  But the war for control is still very much on.

  Exilium was still staring up at Oryn Levis’ retinue, his face livid. She shouted to him with voice and mind and flung out a hand, pointing towards the queen’s fleeing party – and Briggy and Patch, pelting after them.

  He galloped up and swept her into the saddle behind him. She squirmed into position and grabbed his waist as he turned to follow the queen’s party. ‘We’ve got to get her to safety, Basia shouted in his ear. ‘Rukking Takwyth’s stealing everything . . .’

  Exilium dug in his heels and the horse put on a spurt. As they ate up the turf, she clung to his back, craning her neck so her face was alongside his. Then she realised he was weeping.

  ‘I lost them all,’ he sobbed. ‘I didn’t even see the counter-attack coming . . .’

  Experience, she could have told him. They let you show your hand, then struck. But that was no consolation. Vengeance was owed. ‘Lumpy has betrayed us, the damned toady. He threw you out there when he knew Takky was coming. This is now Volsai business.’

  They pounded onwards, but they were not alone: a detachment of Oryn Levis’ House knights were in hot pursuit – until a trio of venators ridden by mage-knights in Corani colours swooped down on the queen’s escorts. The queen’s horse reared, throwing the rider to the ground – and moments later the venators were rising, leaving behind two corpses and three riderless mounts.

  Exilium threw Basia a shattered glance and reined in. She looked behind to see their pursuers had drawn off, content to let their dangerous quarry go now that the queen was in their hands.

  Basia sagged in the saddle. Everything’s falling apart.

  *

  As the remnants of the Sacrecour army streamed eastwards, flinging aside their weapons so they could run faster, Solon walked the lines, which dissolved into a cheering horde as the two armies came together and became one.

  Solon felt monumentally triumphant. He rode through the ranks, alternately punching a fist aloft or reaching down to shake a soldier’s extended hand. Lyra’s army had fallen apart as surely as the Sacrecour one, the Pallacian legionaries backing off uncertainly in the face of Corani unity.

  Oryn Levis came through the press – Good old Lumpy, you came through – and they clasped hands, a gesture full of symbolism. Yes, this is our triumph, and we outmanoeuvred Setallius’ backstabbing sneaks to do it.

  ‘Well done, my friend,’ Solon boomed, and Oryn’s round face was suffused with pride and pleasure.

  ‘My Lord,’ Lumpy replied loudly.

  Lyra thought she had an army, but I only loaned it to her. He drew close to Oryn and whispered, ‘Where’s the queen?’

  That triggered uncertainty on Lumpy’s guileless face. ‘Uh, we have the prisoner in a pavilion, hidden and—’

  ‘Good,’ Solon told him. ‘We don’t want her making some tragic scene now. Keep everyone out – and make sure she doesn’t pull some dwymancer fuckery. She needs to know what’s what before we parade her in public.’

  Oryn leaned in close. ‘You need to see her now.’ His voice held a very clear warning.

  Solon nodded to show he understood, wondering why the moment was souring. What is it? But he set about milking it anyway, letting everyone know exactly whose victory this was. That suffragium bullshit still had to be crushed, but it did hold one kernel of truth: popularity was a path to power. So he kept pumping hands, leading fresh waves of cheering, letting the relief of victory wash over him.

  ‘His scars have faded,’ someone remarked. ‘It’s a sign of divine favour.’

  Yes, let them think that.

  It was some time before he could win free. Dismounting before Oryn’s pavilion, he waved one last time at the hordes of happy soldiers and strode into the tent. Oryn was already there, together with Lord Rolven Sulpeter, who’d flown in by windship, along with a clutch of House Corani peers. They were all standing silently in a ragged circle around the pale-faced, weeping blonde woman, the only person seated. Outside, the cheers still rang out, but in here there was perfect silence. Even Oryn wouldn’t meet his eye.

  Solon pushed through and lifted the queen’s chin.

  You bitch, he told the absent Lyra Vereinen. You snivelling, cowardly bitch.

  Somehow his self-control held, although he was trembling in rage. ‘Nita, isn’t it?’

  The queen’s maid looked up, plainly terrified, with damned good reason. ‘Uh,’ she squeaked.

  ‘Where’s Lyra?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nita whispered, tears starting from her eyes again.

  ‘How long has she been gone?’

  ‘Nearly a week.’

  Nearly a rukking week? Kore’s Blood . . .

  Something inside him snapped – the suppressed tension of the past months, or the never-resolved fury at what Lyra had done to him, rage at being thwarted yet again, when victory had appeared his. As if by its own volition, his hand rose, kinesis boiled over and he slapped his open palm across the girl’s upturned face – no – too hard – and with an audible crack that reverberated through the pavilion, her neck broke and she was hurled to the ground, flopping like a ragged doll.

  He stared at his hand print, scarlet on her left cheek, as her eyes emptied and his fury disintegrated into appalled shame.

  Dear Kore . . . I killed her . . . I murdered her . . .

  He dropped to his knees, shouting, ‘Healer – healer—’ People crowded around her, while people shouted contradictory orders. Oryn pulled him away.

  ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’ he began.

  Roland de Farenbrette shouldered his way over and grabbing his shoulders, shouted into his face, ‘It’s not your fault, Solon, understand? Lyra did this, she abandoned her cause and left the stupid trollop in her place – it’s not you, man, it’s her – all her—’

  Is it? Was it? I didn’t mean to . . .

  Nestor and Oryn were ashen-faced, the other knights wide-eyed, open-mouthed, silent.

  Roland gripped his head and screamed, ‘This is Lyra Vereinen’s fault, Solon: that girl’s blood is on her hands, not yours—’

  ‘Aye,’ someone said, and others took it up, stronger. ‘Be it on the queen’s head,’ another added, and the pavilion filed with denials and platitudes.

  ‘What man could contain his wrath at such cowardice? It’s Lyra’s fault.’

  Yes, he thought, still stunned at himself, yes, what man could restrain his anger?

  Somehow, composure returned. ‘Aye,’ he snarled, ‘this is on Lyra’s head.’

  Nestor laid a cloak over the corpse of the broken-necked maid while Solon scanned the tent, seeking hints that any here weren’t still his, heart and soul. ‘A man cannot be blamed for a woman’s perfidy,’ he growled. ‘This – this does not leave here. It never happened. Bury the girl in the woods, and . . .’ He floundered, but then inspiration struck. ‘Bring my personal carriage, now.’

  They looked puzzled, until he shouted, ‘Now—’ and everyone leaped into action.

  Solon gave Roland a thankful nod. ‘Well done, Blacksmith,’ he murmured. Roland always hammers a problem into shape.

  A few minutes later, his carriage rolled up and Brunelda was bundled into the tent, pale and frightened. When she saw him, she flew to his arms, weeping with relief. She didn’t notice the way the knights all gasped in shock – no one had ever seen her properly before; they’d no idea how closely she resembled the queen, especially dressed as she was now in a green velvet dress with a coronet on her p
erfectly coifed wig.

  ‘On your knees,’ he growled at them over Brunelda’s shoulder.

  ‘You survived,’ she was whispering. ‘Thank Kore thank Kore thank Kore . . .’

  ‘Hush,’ he hissed softly, then turned her, murmuring, ‘Take their homage, my Queen.’

  She looked up at him, at first not understanding . . .

  To her credit, she reacted with admirable poise, straightening and giving him that look – the one she’d been schooled in, the ‘Lyra’ look of tremulous but defiant determination – then turned to face the men.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ was all she said, as Lyra did.

  Most surely knew it wasn’t Lyra, but their eyes widened, flashing from her to him and back again, and then they knelt as one. ‘Hail, Queen Lyra,’ they chorused.

  ‘Well done,’ Solon told them all. ‘Now, lads, get out there and take control: we have two armies that must become one.’

  When they were gone, Brunelda collapsed against him, choking back sobs, but he had no time for womanly weakness. ‘Wipe your eyes,’ he told her as Nestor and Roland went to the dead maid and wrapped her more securely in the cloak someone had flung over her. Nestor took her head, Roland her legs and they carried her out.

  ‘Who was that?’ Brunelda murmured as one of Nita’s hands flopped down and dragged on the ground a moment before the two men vanished with her through the tent flap.

  ‘No one,’ he told her, turning her face to his. ‘Just a foolish nobody who got in the way.’

  That’s all she was, he told himself insistently. That’s all she was.

  ‘Stay in here,’ he told her. ‘I’ll post guards until I return. We’ll spend the night at Finostarre Abbey.’ He stroked her face, the relief of surviving another battle stirring his blood – although in truth he’d only been peripherally involved in the fighting. She can do this until I get my hands on the real Lyra.