A Shout for the Dead (10 page)

She gazed at him, finding herself almost pitying him. 'Whatever powers you think you have developed, they will serve only to destroy us all.'

'Ah but what powers they are,' said Gorian, voice low and resonant, his anger gone. 'And how much I can show you. Expand your horizons. I know the real truth.'

'Get out of here, you're making me sick. Just one scream and you'll be ashes tomorrow.'

'You won't do that,' said Gorian, taking a step towards her.

She met his gaze. 'Try me.'

But he only laughed and when he reached out towards her and his energy flooded out over her, she found she had no voice with which to carry out her threat.

The morning sun edging around her shutters woke her. She was in bed, the covers neat around her. The relief of a fading bad dream warmed her and her anxiety on waking already seemed preposterous.

She turned her head. Something was lying on the pillow beside her. She frowned. One of her shutters slapped gently in its frame.

'I loc—'

She flew from her bed, Kessian's name on her lips. She cast aside her bedroom door, past the papers strewn on the marble and the people standing in her hallway. Kessian's door was open. His bed was empty and cold.

Mirron spun round. Arducius stood there. So did Ossacer. And men from the Ascendancy guard. And Jhered. Why were they all here? And why did they wear such pain on their faces? 'Where is he? Where's Kessian?'

She knew she was screaming. None of them spoke. They could only stare at her.

'Help me,' she said, a roaring in her head. 'You have to help me.'

Mirron gasped and ran back into her bedroom. She snatched the ring that lay on her pillow. They all had them, the original Ascendants. Bryn Marr, the Westfallen blacksmith, had made them. They had been too big then, of course and he had not lived to see the teenage Ascendants put them on. She still had hers and was certain that Ossie and Ardu had kept theirs safe too.

She opened her fist and looked at the beautifully engraved Ascendancy symbol surrounding a single letter. Gorian had kept his too. She sat on the bed and let the tears come. They were all standing in the doorway.

'He's taken him. Gorian has taken my son.'

Mirron had Kessian's sailing boat cradled in her arms. She was sitting on his bed, the scent of his room drifting through her, vestiges of comfort quickly diluting, fleeting motes of energy. Gone too soon. Just like Kessian.

It was surreal. The news had spread too quickly to be contained and the palace complex was in uproar. Three ancient corpses had been found. Once young palace guards who'd had the misfortune to encounter Gorian last night. The inquest had begun. The Advocate was demanding answers, the Academy was frightened and messages had gone out to Westfallen to be on their guard. Harban had expressed his regret but it was nothing to do with Mirron's loss. He'd already left to return to Kark, speaking about impending conflict.

Mirron found herself calm and with only the vague sense that she had misplaced something important. She felt she ought to be more desperate and panicked but after the first moments of terror and with the arms of Hesther Naravny about her, she had almost recovered her self control. She knew it was transitory. Like being in the eye of the storm.

'At least we know he will not harm the boy,' said Jhered. 'That is of no comfort,' said Mirron.

'But we must remember it nonetheless,' said Jhered. 'Cling on to it for sanity if not for comfort. This is no kidnap for ransom, no snatching of a child from a loving parent for reasons of rage or revenge. He needs Kessian. And Kessian will slow him down.'

'But we know nothing. No one who saw him enter is alive and no one saw him leave at all. How can that be?' Mirron forced her hands to unclench. She put the boat down before she broke it. 'This is the palace of the Advocate.'

Ossacer shrugged. 'For ten years, we've been teachers and messengers. Gorian's been developing new abilities. Never mind this animation of the dead or whatever it turns out to be, he can obviously do other things we haven't a clue about. Imagine it and don't be surprised if he can do it.'

'Even he will have his limits, Ossie,' said Arducius.

'All I'm saying is, rule nothing out,' said Ossacer.

'We'll find him,' said Jhered. 'But first of all, we need information on how he got in and out, where he's gone. And from you, we must know what he might want Kessian for, assuming it isn't just the desire of a father to be with his son.'

Mirron snorted. 'My son has no father.'

'You know what I mean,' said Jhered. 'It's then we can form a plan and go and get him.'

'We can't take too long,' said Mirron. 'I won't risk Gorian changing him, turning him against me.'

'Don't worry, I'll have him back in your arms before you know it,' said Jhered.

'Even sooner than you think,' said Mirron. 'Because I'm coming with you.'

'And we'll be by her side,' said Arducius. 'I don't think so,' said Jhered.

'Think what you like,' said Mirron. 'But nothing and no one is stopping me going out to get my son.'

'And to kill the one who took him,' said Ossacer. Mirron bit her lip and wished it wasn't so. 'That too,' she whispered.

Yuri Lianov, Harbour Master of the Gesternan port of Wystrial, put his magnifier to his eyes and looked again at the ship making steady progress under oar towards its allocated deep-water berth. He was uneasy and couldn't put his finger on why.

Since the arrival of a Tsardon invasion fleet ten years before, this bleak port on Gestern's eastern seaboard had been cautious under his charge. Every incoming vessel was watched from the harbour-mouth fortifications and met by harbour officials riding fast boats. Lianov didn't care what flag they flew, he would not be caught out again by one ship or a hundred.

His people had flagged all-clear. Just another independent Tsardon trader from a port in the Bay of Harryn and flying the kingdom's flag proudly from her single mast. It caught in the throat to let them in but Gestern needed the trade and Marshal Defender Mardov had been particularly explicit in her orders. And the ship appeared entirely normal. The skipper was on deck by the tiller, his deckhands were at the rails and the stroke drum beat a standard pace.

Lianov looked beyond the ship and away towards the dockside. It was busy with morning trade. Loading and unloading was taking place at six of the port's ten berths. Shouts floated across calm waters and the smell of the sea, fresh fish and seaweed mingled pleasantly. Lianov handed the magnifier to the fort captain.

'Watch that ship. If it deviates from its given course by one degree, sound the alarm. Something's wrong here, I can smell it.'

'Yes, Master Lianov.'

‘I
know what you're thinking captain. Too many of these feelings, isn't it?' The captain looked at him, unable to deny his words. 'This time. This time.'

Lianov hurried down the slope from the wide floor of the fort that housed his onagers and ballistae. He ran through the dark and cold of the fort and back out into the sun along the causeway that curved towards the dock. He barely took his eye from the Tsardon ship. Three banks of oars dipped and rose; clumsy like a rookie crew in training. Its wake ran away from the bow, the distance between him and the ship shortening as it neared its anchorage.

Lianov increased his pace. The paintwork on the ship was poor. Peeling and without the aggressive images of Tsardon sea gods that adorned most hulls he had seen. It was clear to him then what it was that had bothered him from afar through the magnifier. It wasn't that the images weren't there. They'd been painted out. It was a sign he understood only too well. Whatever this ship was here to do, the gods did not want to see.

The alarm bell rang out its flat tone from the fort behind him. Lianov broke into a run.

'Archers to the dockside!' he shouted. 'Dock guard to ready. Prime catapults.'

No one heard him at first but the alarm sent the defences into standard order anyway. He saw men and women looking out into the harbour, searching for the source of the threat. Onager arms were winched back. Ballista windlasses rattled and creaked as they cranked. On the surface of the water, gulls put to flight. More bells joined the clamour.

'Tsardon Trireme. Bearing south south-west. Berth seven.'

Lianov pumped his arms harder. The vessel's drum beat faster. She was going to ram the dock, surely. What could they hope to achieve? One ship. He reached the berth. Sailors, dockers and traders had scattered or been cleared from the concrete wall. Bows bristled. Swordsmen stood by. On the artillery towers, flags signalled their crews' readiness.

The bells ceased and the silence fled across the harbour and through the dock. The beating of the drum, the cries of the gulls and the sound of wavelets slapping stone became unnaturally loud. Lianov stood in front of his guards.

'Steady.'

The trireme came on, oars driving her through the water. She had to be making nine knots. Lianov frowned and shook his head. He sensed unease and confusion behind him.

'Tsardon trireme!' he bellowed though he doubted the skipper could hear him. 'Turn your vessel or we will fire on you. You may not land here. This is your only warning.'

The ship came on. It was under a hundred yards distant now. Deck hands were moving forward but without urgency and without any attempt to hide themselves or brace themselves from the inevitable impact. Lianov moved to the right. He could not order artillery fire. There were too many innocents in the bay. But he had no such problem with his archers.

'Ready to fire. On my order, let's wipe that deck clean. And if anyone makes it on to my dock, shoot them too. We'll question anyone who's still breathing later.'

Lianov raised his hand. The ship loomed large now. He could hear the individual creaks of oars and the hull pushing through the water. It was unnerving. The bow was strengthened but would split apart on the deep, heavy walls of the dock. Her ramming spike would miss entirely and the whole would ride up before falling back into the water unless by some mischance, it stuck fast. 'Fire at will,' he said, dropping his hand.

Arrows crossed the shortening gap, coming in across bow, starboard and port rails. Thirty shafts in the first volley and with more archers gathering all the time. Lianov saw most of them miss but two or three found targets. Sailors were knocked from their feet or stumbled to their knees. At the stern, the skipper did not flinch.

A second volley flew. More accurate this time. Six men struck down. Lianov's grunt of satisfaction died in his throat. He hadn't seen it immediately but there was no doubting it now. Every single one of those hit by an arrow, whether in head, body or limbs got straight back to his feet and continued on as if nothing had happened. He could see blood on shirts and bare chests but not one of them reached down to check their wounds or even so much as look at them. Like they didn't know or care that they had been pierced.

'God-surround-us all,' he breathed.

Two volleys later, the ship struck the dock. Lianov felt the vibrations through the thick concrete. He saw chips fly away from the impact zone and watched timbers buckle and crash inwards. The ship drove hard up the side of the berth. His guards backed off a pace. Swords were drawn, more arrows were nocked and ready. Fear washed across the dockside. He could almost taste it and looking down at his hand, he saw his fingers trembling.

But no one came to the rails to lead the assault on to the dockside. Through the smashed timbers, Lianov thought he could see movement but it might have been a trick of the light. He could hear a scrabbling sound from within. None of it made sense, certainly not the fact that the drum was still beating time and as many oars as could were still moving, apparently trying to keep the ship against the dock.

Something moved on the bow deck. A flash of black. Lianov looked again but it was gone. Smoke billowed into the air. There was a fire below. Some of the guards started cheering but a heartbeat later there was black everywhere, and the cheer faded to nothing. Driven by smoke and flame they came. Thousands of them, scrambling over each other in their desperation to escape. Over the bow rail and boiling from the smashed hull. Rats. Tens, dozens, tumbled into the sea. But for every one that fell, ten more made it to dry land.

This wasn't any accident. This was cargo.

'Kill them!' shouted Lianov, drawing his gladius. 'Kill them all.'

Hopelessly, guards dropped bows and pulled swords and daggers. Two men were carrying a pitch fire down towards the ship. Rats scurried towards them.

'Pour it over the dock,' ordered Lianov. 'I want every one of these little bastards gone.'

But it was already too late. Lianov stamped and slashed as the rodent tide coursed around him and his men. The rats were already scattering towards nearby buildings and the streets that led into the town. He heard screams and cries and saw people running.