by David Hair
—until a dry – very masculine – cough brought him back to the here and now and they both flinched and stepped apart. A lean man in grey robes with long silver hair and an eye-patch concealing his left eye emerged from behind the reptilian bird creature.
‘Lady Nara,’ the man drawled coolly, ‘perhaps you might introduce us?’
Nara flushed. ‘Dirklan: this is my friend, Prince Valdyr Sarkany of Mollachia.’
‘Erm, Lord Dirklan?’ Valdyr managed a sketchy bow, his face burning scarlet. ‘Please excuse my forward behaviour, but this is a reunion – um . . . of a kind. I am, uh, honoured to meet you, sir.’
‘Good to meet you,’ Dirklan replied, measuring him with his single glacial eye before turning to Nara. ‘Reunion or not, remember your station and recent events, Milady.’
Nara went an even brighter red and nodded meekly. Valdyr wondered what he was referring to. She told me that she was the consort of a powerful man in Pallas, he remembered. But she never speaks of him. What’s happened?
In the sky above, four more giant beasts were circling lower, calling to each other in shrill voices. Dirklan glanced behind Valdyr at Ogre and Gricoama, who had emerged from the undergrowth. ‘And these are?’
Valdyr belatedly recalled that Ogre, a sentient, gnosis-using construct, was illegal. He’d told Nara about Ogre – had she told anyone else? ‘This is Ogre, the researcher I told Nara of. And the wolf is named Gricoama.’
‘A researcher?’ Dirklan repeated doubtfully.
‘Among other things,’ Ogre said in his gravelly baritone. He conjured fire in his left hand and hefted his axe in his right. ‘Perhaps Lord Dirklan wishes to enforce the Gnostic Codes?’
For a moment tension crackled, until Nara stepped between them. ‘Ogre, Valdyr’s told me so much about you,’ she exclaimed, extending her hand – which bore an imperial signet ring. ‘I understand that we have you to thank for our knowledge of the enemy?’
Ogre was immediately disarmed. His gnostic flame winked out and he lowered the axe as his misshapen face creased into a shy smile and he mumbled, ‘The Master is a threat to us all. We must stop him.’
‘Indeed.’
Nara’s manner was authoritative but not overbearing, reminding Valdyr of Kyrik. She has my brother’s relaxed sense of command. He was impressed anew, and a little embarrassed at their impetuous kiss. But she returned it . . .
‘Perhaps we should make camp?’ he suggested, looking at Lord Dirklan. ‘We were just about to – night is falling and we’re leg-weary.’ He indicated the undergrowth where they’d hidden. ‘We have supplies we can share – and much to discuss.’
Dirklan scanned the skies, where the other flying beasts were still circling. They all looked to be laden, with riders or perhaps baggage. Then he agreed, ‘Aye, let’s camp here.’
*
While Dirklan tended to his wyvern – they’d quickly discovered Domitia wouldn’t let anyone else touch her – Lyra, who knew nothing of cooking, helped Rhune unloading the venators, leaving dinner to Sarunia. It was nigh impossible to tell the Ventians’ ages, for they had similar narrow faces, smooth tanned skin and the silver hair of their race. Lyra heaved down a saddlebag and was hauling it across the clearing when she was nearly knocked off her feet by the friendly head-butt of the immense venator. Rhune took the bag from her, lifting it effortlessly, and gave her a grin as he set it down.
‘Rhune,’ she panted, ‘may I ask you: is Sarunia related to you?’
She’d seen them kiss like lovers, but there was no privacy on a mission like this and the pair had maintained a polite distance, sleeping under different blankets.
Rhune gave her a lopsided smile which made him look even more like his . . . sister? ‘Private,’ he replied in a droll voice, and sauntered off to get the rest of the baggage.
Feeling useless, she took a pail and went to scoop up water from the shallow stream trickling through the glade. A moment later, Valdyr joined her, lugging a pair of waterskins.
‘How did you find us?’ he asked. ‘I’ve stayed out of the dwyma and Ogre hasn’t sensed any scrying.’
‘I just knew where you were,’ she replied. It was the best way she could express it.
She knew some of his history, the pain he’d endured as a child in the Keshi breeding-houses, but there was a sense of ease about him that she’d not felt before. He looked like a man who’d conquered daemons.
He said that the Mask, the man who tormented him, is dead . . . as is Ostevan, who tormented me. The symmetry was encouraging.
She told Valdyr what had been happening in the north in broad terms, careful not to identify herself – she trusted him, but the empire had been no friend to Mollachia. ‘But now the false Pontifex is dead. We don’t yet know what the outcome of the battle for Pallas was, if they’ve fought yet.’
‘Is the man you . . . um, your lover . . . is he in the fighting?’ Valdyr stammered, his voice a little sour.
With jealousy, or distaste? ‘No,’ she said, worried he thought her a harlot.
‘I daresay such arrangements are common in Pallas,’ Valdyr responded cautiously. ‘In my land, a woman is a virgin until she marries – and that is for life. Men of Mollachia must often work apart from their families, you see: in the mines, or hunting and trapping. They need surety of their wife’s virtue, that their children are their own.’
He does think I’m a slut . . . Lyra looked away, feeling her usual despair when it came to matters of the heart. You’ve only just met him, she chided herself. Who did you think he was – Rynholt himself?
‘Things are different in Pallas,’ she said. ‘Men have all the power and women need protectors. My patron was a bully: he turned against me when our politics clashed and tried to force me into servitude. Now he marches against the Empress,’ she concluded bitterly.
‘You say women have no power, but you have an empress,’ he noted.
‘She has a lot less power than you imagine,’ she told him. ‘She has to juggle this against that, find allies and keep them. Her life is privileged, but hard.’
She realised that she’d raised her voice and promptly shut her mouth.
‘You care about her,’ Valdyr said. ‘To us, she is a distant tyrant.’
When he’d told her of Mollachia’s problems, she’d discovered the Pallas-appointed tax-farmers had been ravaging his kingdom, far overstepping the laws. ‘When the Empress found out what was happening in your kingdom, she made all tax-farming illegal,’ she reminded him. ‘If she survives, she will make reparations, I swear.’
‘You speak for her, do you?’
‘I know her,’ Lyra blurted. ‘I have attended on her at times and I know her mind. She doesn’t always make good decisions, but she cares about her people.’
Something in her vehemence must have satisfied him, because he made a placatory gesture. ‘I’ve seen the sort of decisions my brother must make,’ he replied, in a gentler voice. ‘Some of them have been very complicated and alienated a lot of people.’
‘No one can please everyone, all the time. That at least I’ve learned.’ She blinked, and added, ‘From observing the queen, as well as my own life.’
He didn’t appear to notice her little slip. They fell silent, just looking at each other. She wished they could return to that initial moment of joy – and that kiss – but there was too much going on for that. It would have to wait.
That resolved, she regained her emotional balance. ‘It’s good to finally meet you, Valdyr,’ she said formally. ‘Dirklan needs to hear what Ogre has learned first-hand and so do I. Let’s join the others.’ She rose, hefted her bucket and left him.
This is a time for level heads, she told herself firmly, not wayward hearts.
*
Ogre looked at the fire-pit, which was burning well. Unless they were overflown or someone stumbled right into their dell they were pretty well hidden. The Pallacians had brought supplies, so the meal had been fresh and filling, the best he’d had in weeks. Gri
coama was hunting for himself, the giant venators were gnawing on haunches of meat and the beautiful pegasus was peacefully grazing, a vision of magic come to life.
All eyes were on him, though, as he related what he’d learned from the Daemonicon di Naxius. ‘The Master claims that Urte is a sphere of stone spinning in a void,’ he said. ‘It teems with life – and that living energy, constantly renewing, is what keeps the void at bay.’
‘So say the Arcanum scholars too,’ Dirklan agreed.
‘All magi agree that the void isn’t empty: daemons dwell there – perhaps they were once living souls. Wizards can summon them, but only for a few hours, before they’re cast back. But the Master changed that.’
He thought about Naxius, always scratching away at the surface of reality.
‘Master Naxius created ichor, a substance that anchors a daemon in the living world. The ichor is a distillation of living tissue and daemonic essence – and it’s spreading. The Master wants to infect every living person with his ichor.’
Nara shuddered, but Dirklan shook his head. ‘Everywhere it appears, we’ve defeated it.’
‘For now,’ Ogre agreed. ‘Master Naxius admits the ichor has vulnerabilities – silver, argenstael, sunlight, these are some of the remedies we’ve discovered – but he believes that these can be overcome. But he fears dwyma – he wrote that in a war of Life Magic against Death Magic, here in the Living World, Life has the advantage.’
‘I’ve used pure light to kill daemons,’ Nara put in. ‘And I’ve burned ichor out of my own blood.’ She shuddered at the memory, while Valdyr glanced at her admiringly. That Valdyr was in love with Nara was as clear to Ogre as his own love for Tarita, but something told him that she wasn’t ready to open her heart, despite their earlier kiss.
‘This is so, but the Master has found a way to give the daemons the edge. He purposes to poison the dwyma. In the Daemonicon he details his hunt to find a dwymancer to put to use for that effect.’
‘And now he’s captured Jehana,’ Valdyr put in darkly.
‘Jehana Mubarak,’ Dirklan said, emphasising the notorious family name. ‘Is she a willing accomplice?’
‘Jehana is no more desirous of the end of our world than any of you,’ Ogre told them. ‘I have travelled with her: she is a good woman. But the Master knows how to break a person’s soul – and the Daemonicon says all dwymancers are vulnerable to madness, because at some point they must face this dilemma: that humanity, which burns forests for fuel and breeds animals for meat, is the enemy of Nature and the source of the daemons.’
They all fell silent. Nara and Valdyr shared a troubled glance.
After a moment, Ogre went on, ‘The Master will break Jehana and she will destroy the dwyma, and when she does, the barriers between the Living and the Deathly will collapse. Daemon spirits will pour into this world: this is what Master Naxius writes, and he is never wrong. Every living soul will be conquered by daemons in the greatest mass-possession of all time. It will be irreversible and complete. Daemons will rule this world, feeding on all life, then cannibalising each other until Urte becomes a lifeless rock, populated only by daemons, and ruled by the one who controls them all: Master Naxius.’
‘Dear Kore,’ Dirk breathed. ‘What madman could desire such a thing?’
‘And why?’ Nara added plaintively.
‘Because when he’s done with this world, he’ll find others,’ Ogre told her. ‘The Master knows that Urte is not alone in the void. When it’s a discarded husk, they will move on, taking this knowledge and leaving nothing behind.’
He stopped then, watched them all make self-reassuring gestures, hugging knees or casting eyes skyward, lips moving in prayer. He lifted the waterskin to moisten his dry throat.
‘What can we do to stop him?’ Dirklan asked.
‘We must find him and kill him,’ Ogre said simply. ‘And if she’s too far gone, we must also kill Jehana.’
‘How long have we got?’ Nara asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘but he’s had Jehana for several weeks now and she won’t be able to resist him for long. No one can.’
‘Where’s his lair?’ Dirklan asked, his single eye intense.
‘I do not know precisely where it is,’ Ogre admitted. ‘It’s somewhere in Rimoni, but I’ve never been there. But I know a way to find it, for which we must travel via Norostein.’
‘Why?’ Dirklan asked. ‘What’s there?’
‘Who: Jehana’s brother, Waqar Mubarak, who is also a potential dwymancer. It may be that only he can reach his sister. Familial blood can break through scrying wards better than anything else.’
‘But if she’s a dwymancer, can’t we find her through the dwyma?’ Nara asked.
Ogre patted the Daemonicon again. ‘We can try, but if the Master is correct, her dwyma will change, and may already be doing so. Naxius intends to attune it to the void – “dark dwyma”, he calls it – and if successful, she may not share your concerns for life any more.’
‘But the dwyma rejects the ichor,’ Nara protested.
‘That’s true,’ Ogre replied. ‘When he wrote his Daemonicon – which was taken by the Ordo Costruo twenty years ago – the Master believed the ichor would corrupt and enslave any person, but we now know that he misjudged. At Midpoint Tower last year, Sakita Mubarak was used to destroy the tower through a feat of dwymancy, but it destroyed her.’
‘Another Mubarak,’ Rhune observed. ‘Does the family serve Naxius?’
‘Not Waqar, not Jehana,’ Ogre replied sharply. ‘The Master wrote of using his agents – Masked men and women infected by daemon’s ichor – to propagate strife and draw out the dwymancers so that he could capture and use them. That was his main purpose for this whole war. Some of the Shihad leaders are likely to be his servants – but Waqar and Jehana are not.’
‘Tell us more of them,’ Dirklan asked.
‘Waqar and Jehana were born to be both mage and dwymancer,’ Ogre told them. ‘The Ordo Costruo found that when Sakita, the first dwymancer in centuries, had children by a mage, they fused the potential.’
He watched those around the fire take that in. ‘They’re uniquely powerful,’ Dirklan breathed. ‘With them leading the Shihad, we could be annihilated.’
‘Neither of them wish that,’ Ogre told them. ‘Jehana isn’t warlike and she doesn’t support the Shihad. Waqar is also of the peace faction, although he has fought, as his duty decrees: he is, after all, a royal prince. Neither have gained the dwyma – indeed, Waqar has shown reluctance to do so. His only real concern is the safety of his sister.’
He glanced round the circle, stopping at Nara, who was looking stricken. ‘My son . . .’ she whispered. ‘He will have the same potential, won’t he . . .?’
She has a son? Ogre noted that Valdyr must be aware of this, because he didn’t react with surprise, just awe.
She looked up at him. ‘You’ve given us too much to think about, Ogre,’ she said, but she smiled. ‘And Os—’ She stopped, then restarted, ‘My comfateri was a Mask who sought to capture me when he learned that I was a dwymancer. Naxius also pursued me, in spirit form. Things he told me chime with your tale, Ogre.’ She looked at him directly. ‘Your Master is an evil man, but you deserve the highest praise.’
To be complimented by a beautiful Pallacian noblewoman was enough to make Ogre stammer into silence, but he’d told them all they needed to know.
Now they just had to decide what must be done.
*
The camp settled into sleep after the usual awkwardness of finding private places and working out how to share the small circle of warmth around the fire without sticking feet or elbows in someone’s face or snoring and disturbing everyone. Lyra, quite unused to such deprivation, found the discomfort almost impossible; she barely slept despite her exhaustion. Her mind was churning and the ground was hard as stone – and Valdyr’s presence made it worse.
Dirklan took the first watch, with the Ventians volunteering for the middle
and dawn shifts before settling down a little apart. Beside the fire, Ogre rumbled and snored like a volcano, quite ruining Lyra’s sleep, until all she could do was gaze through the flames at the Mollach prince’s face as he too tried and failed to sleep.
What do you think of me? she longed to ask him. Do you see a pampered, wayward fool? Do you understand that people can make mistakes – but that they can learn from them?
But eventually she closed her eyes and drifted away . . .
Next morning, one of the pack-venators was assigned to Ogre; his affinity for animagery enabled him to quickly bond with the creature. Instead of mounting up behind Rhune, Valdyr walked to another of the riderless constructs and Lyra felt his dwyma entwine with the beast, who permitted him to mount. Within minutes, he was riding as if born to the saddle.
Gricoama emerged from the undergrowth and Dirklan was issuing instructions on how to get the wolf safely onto the last pack-venator, when Valdyr barked something in Mollach and the wolf vanished into the trees.
‘What did you say?’ Lyra called to Valdyr.
‘I told him to meet us in the south,’ he replied. ‘He’ll find us, don’t worry.’
Dirklan frowned, but he muttered to Domitia and the wyvern shot into the skies. Lyra sent Pearl cantering in their wake, feeling the wind stinging her face as she looked back to see the venators rising behind her. The thrill of flying rushed through her again.
‘Norostein, here we come,’ she shouted. Valdyr drew alongside, upright in the saddle and peering about him in wonder. She’d intended to be proper today, to be a lady – but instead, she waved merrily, kicked at Pearl’s flanks and shouted, ‘Catch me if you can!’
They tore across the skies, her heart soaring with her.
26
Armoured From Within
The Riddle of Armour
A knight girds himself for battle, coating himself in chainmail and plates of steel. But do be not deceived: unless his heart and mind are armoured with courage, he may as well go forth naked and unarmed.
BOOK OF KORE
Norostein, Noros