Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  *

  Exilium’s venator plunged from the sky, limbs limp and heart still, and he went with it, still strapped in the saddle as the beast plummeted. There was nothing he could do but tear himself loose from his straps but they’d tangled, he’d lost his blade in the impact and had run out of sky. Far above, Basia and Solon rocketed away from him.

  I should’ve learned to joust . . . He’d always regarded the sport as lunacy, a symptom of noble inbreeding that was beneath a warrior of Kore. Too late now . . .

  Then a sharp cry sounded behind him and he turned, his heart thumping, only now realising that the second flyer had pursued him down and was only seconds behind him.

  He tried using kinesis to manipulate his dying mount’s wings to somehow check their fall, but to no avail. A bare second before impact he rolled himself into a ball on the saddle and was shielding with all his strength when his mount smashed belly-first into the swamp, spraying freezing muddy water in all directions. Even shielded, the impact almost broke Exilium’s spine. His tangled saddle-straps ripped and he spilled from his perch, his body numbed and barely responding.

  Moments later a winged shape reared over him and landed, an armoured man dismounted and waded through the knee-deep muck towards him. Exilium was too dazed to react as a war-hammer rose against the moon, then slammed down and the darkness became complete.

  *

  ‘There, there—’ Coramore kept shouting, right in Basia’s ear, pointing at the glow of rose-gold light emanating from the mound within the Garden of Saint Eloy behind the Celestium. The burnt-out remains of the ancient heart of the dwyma were alight with pale golden foxfire.

  Chancing a look over her shoulder, Basia saw a griffin streaking after her, and other pegasi converging on them. It was going to be a near thing – and what they could do if they got there, she had no idea.

  Well, I guess it’s as good a place as any to die.

  Exilium was down too, his venator nowhere to be seen, which gave her a pang of regret for her idle fancy that one day she might mean as much to him as his faith. But regrets were for the grave; she had the living to worry about. She urged Vasingex on and once again, the wyvern responded with a fresh burst of speed, tearing over the rooftops of Fenreach and Southside and into the Winter Tree garden. Her pursuers were just moments behind now and battering her shields with mage-bolts.

  ‘Beside the mound,’ Coramore called frantically, ‘hurry—’

  They came in too fast: the wyvern’s clawed feet carved deep ruts in the muddy grass as they skidded and almost rolled. The force was straining the saddle-straps almost to breaking point, but the moment they were still, Basia and Coramore ripped themselves clear and scrambled down. Vasingex reared over them protectively, flames licking his jaws in readiness.

  One wall of the triangular garden was the back of the Celestium, another formed part of the outer fortifications and the third wall topped the bank of a canal leading from the Bruin River to Lac Corin. The guards on every wall were staring down at them and alarm bells were ringing within the Celestium – and in the sky, a knight on a griffin was plunging towards them.

  ‘Help us—’ she shrieked at the guards, ‘help us—’

  But before anyone could respond, Takwyth’s griffin had flashed over the walls, followed by two pegasi-riding palace guards, all swooping towards them.

  Basia turned to the princess and shoved her, screaming, ‘Cora, run—’

  They tore towards the mound, where the sapling Lyra had planted to replace the destroyed Winter Tree was outlined stark against the moon. The golden radiance they’d seen emanating from the cave was flickering fainter and Basia’s heart sank.

  It’s fading, she realised. That can’t be good.

  One of the guardsmen was flying directly at them, just a foot above the earth. Coramore froze, but Basia pushed her aside and threw her dagger in one smooth, practised motion: the blade slammed into the neck of the pegasus, which shrieked and faltered, sinking just far enough for its hooves to catch on the grass. It ploughed into the ground and flipped, slamming its rider headfirst into the turf.

  The sound of his neck snapping cracked through the night air.

  One.

  ‘Run, Cora,’ she told the frightened girl behind her, ‘run—’ but the girl just stood there, paralysed with fear.

  Cursing, Basia turned at bay, shielding the princess as Solon and the other man landed, slipping from their saddles and thudding heavily toward her.

  Vasingex snarled and hissed at them, flames licking his jaws.

  Solon Takwyth was radiant: his scars were all but faded and he shone like a vision of pure chivalric might. His sword looked like it could cleave Urte in two. And Basia knew the other man too – Sir Del Briarson, with whom she’d sparred and even flirted. He looked pale, but resolved: there would be no mercy from him.

  ‘Solon,’ she pleaded nevertheless, ‘please – this is a holy place—’

  ‘Holy?’ the Corani champion snorted. ‘The Celestium may be, but this garden is a place of abomination and I’m going to destroy it and all the heretics who wield such powers.’ He raised his blade. ‘Will you die by the blade or at the end of a rope, woman?’

  Basia kissed her thin blade and bade her life farewell. ‘I’m not going to die at all.’

  The broken woman against the greatest knight of his generation and his power far greater than hers could ever be? He snorted dismissively and closed in, Briarson moving to flank her.

  Go down fighting – don’t let him take you alive . . .

  Coramore finally burst into motion, taking everyone by surprise as she went sprinting for the opening in the mound. Briarson tried to catch her with a kinesis leap, but Vasingex lunged, spouting fire an instant before his jaws snapped shut, clamping right over the knight’s breastplate and lifting him into the air, teeth punching through the steel plate. Briarson was screaming, piercing cries growing more agonised as fire engulfed his body, and the wyvern’s jaws crunched tighter.

  But Solon had ignored his companion’s plight, and was coming right at her. Basia blazed a mage-bolt at him, powerful enough to jar him backwards, then parried his overhead swing and diverted it, riposting with a low thrust that forced him to back up. She pivoted and raised her blade to guard, breathing sharply, slightly surprised to still be alive. Vasingex threw the broken Briarson away and started snarling at Solon, seeking an opening to lunge in.

  The would-be emperor hesitated.

  ‘What, no Rollo the Blacksmith to hide your old age?’ Basia taunted him.

  Solon grimaced and backed up another step . . . then he thrust out an arm at Vasingex and the air pulsed: a burst of mesmeric-gnosis that hammered into the construct’s psyche, making made the beast reel . . . then collapse behind her.

  Basia swallowed, then realised that Solon had drawn deeply to stun the wyvern and was now slightly dazed and reeling himself, his shields weak.

  She hurled herself into the attack – and for a few heartbeats, she had him on the rack; her lighter blade went whipping around his face, administering swift thrusts and cuts, the steel sparking off his shields and rattling off his helm, then she opened him up and lunged, seeking to skewer his right eye-socket—

  —but somehow the veteran warrior rallied, battering her blow aside, and the near-miss galvanised him. He straightened, roaring in defiance – and then he was on her, blasting a mage-bolt that lifted her off her feet and slamming an overhead blow into her guard.

  Basia parried – somehow – and dared a riposte, which almost cost her sword arm. She blocked a flurry of muscular blows aimed at her chest and head, each one rocking her backwards until she couldn’t hold her guard, couldn’t protect herself . . .

  She saw the gap open up in her defence as if time had stood still.

  Solon saw it too.

  His blade whipped across, brutally fast, slicing through her lower legs, just below the false knees, and in a flash of blue light they shattered. She went down, agony jarring up her th
ighs, and tried to whip her left arm around and surprise him with a falling thrust, but he battered it aside effortlessly, smashing the longsword from her hand, then planted a boot on her chest.

  ‘Some protector,’ he sneered, just like those jeering boys who’d mocked her crippled limbs when she’d finally emerged from the infirmary, the heartless bullyboys who riddled decent society. Takky was just that sort.

  ‘You’re just a pitiful half-woman,’ he told her. ‘You’re not worthy of my blade . . . but the noose will do nicely.’

  He bent and slammed his fist into her jaw and the world exploded in a burst of stars.

  *

  Coramore sped down the stairs, her last sight of Basia de Sirou facing the Knight-Commander. She knew how that would end. She knew how everything was going to end.

  He’s going to kill me, then Abraxas will eat me for ever.

  She couldn’t let that happen – but the impulse that had driven her here was giving her no clue about what she should do. The glowing amber encasing the stairs and chamber contained ghostly shadows that were pressing close. The fire-pit was dead and the roots poking through from above into the chamber were lifeless and charred – save for one, which contained a green shoot, hanging from which was a single drop of amber. She caught it on a finger and following her instinct, licked it and swallowed.

  ‘Aradea.’ She whispered the word like a prayer – and something heard, because the amber walls immediately began to glow and as the golden radiance grew in intensity, she felt a honeyed warmth blossom in her belly and spread, and the shape of a giant tree aglow with stars appeared in the walls.

  Then she heard boots on the stairs and whirled to see a man in armour appear only a few yards away: Solon Takwyth, sword in hand, triumph in his eyes.

  *

  Descending into the golden glow of the underground chamber was far more frightening than facing a charging knight. Solon knew what he was dealing with when it came to warfare, but the dwyma was a mystery. There were shifting figures in the walls, and when the chamber opened up before him, he saw Coramore facing the wall, and the shape of a tree . . .

  ‘Coramore,’ he warned her, ‘don’t move.’ He conjured a kinesis grip and went to unleash it –

  – as Coramore faded into the amber glow – and was gone.

  The gnostic energy fizzling through his fingers ebbed away and he stared at the unearthly wall as the human shapes within it slowly vanished. If he strained, he thought he could hear voices whispering . . . daemon voices, he was sure. He was scared to remain, like a child who’d stumbled upon something deadly.

  He backed up, then turned and fled up the stairs, only regaining his composure when he emerged onto the grassy space. By now his men had caught up and three men were standing around Basia de Sirou, binding her gnosis in a Chain-rune. An animage was securing her wyvern.

  Reports were hissing through the aether: his legions were inside the Celestium and had Wurther cornered, and Wilfort too. Yes, he thought, raising his head, this is another great victory. He straightened, enjoying the brief moment of glory, before turning his mind to the question of clemency.

  A ruler must take care not to be overly merciful, Makelli had written. A little can be a sign of strength, but too much will be seen as weakness. Err on the side of brutality in all things.

  *

  Oryn Levis shuffled into the large chamber where Grand Prelate Wurther had been found. He was cornered in his study, but Oryn felt nothing but misery.

  Dear Kore, I’ve led men into the Holy City to depose the Grand Prelate. Surely I’m damned . . .

  Of course, he’d done the same at Lyra’s behest, to depose Ostevan – but Ostevan had been a daemon-possessed cabalist, while Dominius was the true ruler of Kore’s holy church. There was no comparison.

  I wish I were a thousand miles away.

  His battle-magi looked no happier. They were lined against the near wall, facing Wurther and Wilfort and a dozen Kirkegarde soldiers. The grandmaster had his sword drawn, his grim face simmering.

  Someone, presumably Wilfort, had burned a groove across the wooden floor and the dozen Corani soldiers were arrayed on this side of it, facing the clergyman and his protectors on the other. Both sets of men bristled with loaded crossbows and they all looked fidgety enough to fire at the least motion.

  But Wurther was slumped in his huge chair, pouring himself a goblet of what looked like Brician merlo. ‘Ah, Lumpy,’ he drawled as Oryn entered. He raised the golden goblet in an ironic toast, then set it aside. ‘You’re in on this crime too, eh?’

  ‘Holiness,’ Oryn said miserably, dreading a tirade.

  ‘I hope that this monstrous act will destroy your master, and you with it,’ Wurther commented coldly. ‘All of Koredom will hear of this outrage.’

  ‘You have harboured traitors,’ Oryn mumbled. ‘The Crown cannot tolerate—’

  ‘Traitors?’ Wurther snorted. ‘Rivals, perhaps, although only in the paranoid space between your master’s ears. But you know the truth of it, Lumpy: we were allies only weeks ago, before you betrayed your queen and changed sides.’ He gestured offhandedly to the men lined up behind Oryn. ‘You’ve sinned and blasphemed enough tonight. Call them off, before something truly regrettable happens.’

  Oryn hung his head and studied the burned mark on the floor. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘That’s the line thou shall not cross,’ Lann Wilfort growled.

  Oryn looked at his men, who looked nervously back at him. He motioned them back and listened to the reports crackling through his head – Exilium Excelsior was down and taken, so too Basia de Sirou and most of the battle-magi who had remained loyal to Lyra. Only a few had escaped.

  There was only one major name missing. ‘Where’s Calan Dubrayle?’ he asked Wurther.

  ‘He left hours ago,’ Wurther rumbled. ‘He always did have the instincts of a rat, as you’d suppose.’

  ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘What money?’

  Oryn paused. As always, Wurther was almost impossible to read. Was he going to be ambiguous and ironic to the last? Does he know that Dubrayle emptied the Treasury? he wondered. Should I reveal it? They were always enemies . . .

  He was still wavering when the door slammed open and Solon Takwyth stormed into the room, his face a mask of thwarted fury, as it always was these days. His sword was drawn and energy sizzled in his left hand.

  Oryn took a step back, thankful to be able to abdicate responsibility, but anxious to avoid bloodshed. ‘Solon—’ he began.

  ‘Shut your face, Lumpy,’ Solon snarled, facing the Grand Prelate as the tension in the room, which had been ebbing, suddenly flared again. ‘Where’s fucking Dubrayle?’ he demanded. ‘Hand him over.’

  ‘I don’t have him, Solon,’ Wurther said evenly.

  ‘You lying pig,’ Solon grated, looking down at the line, then belligerently stomping across it. Wilfort raised his sword, an old lion at bay, and the men behind him aimed their crossbows. Solon didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘I am the Voice of Kore and cannot lie,’ Wurther said calmly.

  ‘You’re a corrupt old windbag and you lie with every breath.’ Solon extended his sword towards Wilfort. ‘Back off, Grandmaster. You’re too old for a real fight.’

  ‘Big talk, when you don’t have de Farenbrette to hide behind,’ Wilfort spat back.

  ‘Kore’s Balls, Solon,’ Oryn breathed, eyeing the crossbows in full awareness that at this range a bolt could punch right through the thickest steel plate – and gnostic shields would fare no better. Thinking of his grandchildren, he pleaded, ‘They’re not our real enemies—’

  Solon gave him a look of cold contempt. ‘Everyone is an enemy, Lumpy,’ he murmured, before turning to face Wilfort and Wurther again. ‘Grand Prelate, I’ll ask you one more time: where is Calan Dubrayle?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Where’s Lyra?’

  Wurther snorted complacently. ‘Isn’t she supposed to be in your bedchamber, Solon?’


  Solon went to speak, then stopped, turning puce. Behind him, his own men fidgeted uncertainly. He swore under his breath, stamped a foot, then whirled and stormed out.

  Oryn stared across the room at those deadly crossbow bolts, shaking with relief—

  —until Solon burst back into the room, a crossbow in his hands that blazed with energy as he released it, sending the bolt searing through the air, slashing through half-lowered shields and crunching through Lann Wilfort’s breastplate, exploding inside the casing and hurling the Grandmaster onto his back.

  Crossbows flew on both sides, something punched Oryn in the chest before he could rekindle his shields, a blow that knocked the air from his lungs. He staggered, looked down in disbelief at the stick of feathered wood sticking from his left breast as the strength went from his legs, the ceiling tilted and the back of his helm smacked into the floor.

  All around, men had dropped to the floor, dead or groaning. He saw Roland de Farenbrette striding into the room, roaring, ‘Infamy, kill th—’

  But the sound was fading until all Oryn could hear was his granddaughter’s laughter . . . and then that too was gone.

  *

  Solon examined the dents and scratches on his armour and the blood seeping from his right shoulder where a bolt had grazed him. The chamber was filled with the dead and the dying, but more of his men were finishing off the last of the Celestial Guards.

  An ashen-faced Dominius Wurther was staring at his fallen Grandmaster, his composure broken at last. ‘For all that’s holy, Solon,’ he croaked.

  ‘You don’t fuck with me,’ Solon told him. ‘I thought you knew that.’

  Dominius slowly raised his eyes from the bloodied corpses, and whispered, ‘You’re going straight to Hel.’

  ‘There’s no such place.’ Solon gestured to Roland. ‘Take him in an unmarked wagon. Put him in the dungeons of the Bastion and if he hasn’t told you where Dubrayle is by dawn, he’s dead.’

  The Grand Prelate was too shocked to protest, even when the Blacksmith hauled him off.

  Then Solon saw Oryn Levis lying on the floor, a single crossbow bolt jutting from his heart. His big, gentle face was contorted in shock, his eyes empty.