Unholy War (2 page)

The room was filled with gasps and scraping chair-legs as Betillon, Korion and Wurther jumped to their feet, aghast. Even Belonius Vult looked startled, and in truth, Gyle had barely managed to restrain himself from a similar horrified reaction.
A Dokken in Pallas? Unthinkable!

The Ascension of Corineus had changed the world, for it had resulted in the creation of the magi – but there had been a number of acolytes of Corineus who had failed to become magi despite drinking the ambrosia. Instead, their gnosis was triggered afterwards by inhaling the soul of a dying mage and fed thereafter by the consumption of human souls. The reaction to this horrifying revelation was immediate and fatal: most had been hunted down without mercy. There weren’t many left now, but their deadly trait perpetuated through their descendants and they remained the magi’s most hated enemies – and their only real rivals.

‘Peace, be at peace!’ Naxius exclaimed as Korion, Betillon and Wurther’s gnostic energies flared.

He was echoed by Dubrayle, who cried, ‘Delta is no threat to you. He is a slave and his powers have been contained.’

The old mage cackled gleefully. ‘I’ve placed such bindings upon his mind that he can scarcely place one foot before the other without my permission.’

It was true that the Dokken’s eyes were chillingly empty. Gurvon glanced at Lucia, who was watching with calm equanimity. Clearly she had already been briefed and had no qualms at whatever Naxius was doing. He took his cue from her and sat back to watch.

Korion and Betillon belately looked at Lucia too, then slowly sat, but the Grand Prelate remained standing. ‘My lady, I must protest. The presence of an Amteh worshipper in this place was barely tolerable, but this is clear blasphemy.’

Lucia looked at the churchman disinterestedly. ‘You can always leave us, Grand Prelate. But this session will continue, with or without you.’

Wurther’s protests floundered. ‘My lady, I feel that I must remain, but under duress—’

‘Sit down, you old windbag,’ Betillon growled. ‘Your point’s made.’

‘Save your wibbling for Holy Day,’ Korion added scornfully.

Wurther glowered about him and settled ponderously back into his chair. It creaked in protest.

Naxius resumed his presentation, his voice childishly happy. ‘My lords, noble Lady, thank you for your attention. It is with great excitement that I will demonstrate this remarkable thing we have discovered.’ He clapped his fingers loudly and the door behind him opened wide enough for a soldier to shove a pale-skinned, skinny young man in torn and dirty clothes into the room. Naxius caught the boy’s shoulder with fingers like talons and held him immobile. ‘Let me introduce Orly: a thief, I’m sad to say.’ The mage displayed the youth’s left arm, which ended in a stump at the wrist. ‘Young Orly had his left hand removed for stealing two years ago. A few nights ago he was caught again and yesterday he was convicted. He will hang next week.’

The boy’s eyes were wide with terror as he fell to his knees. ‘Please, mercy,’ the young Pallacian started, but Naxius held up a hand to silence him.

‘Do not fear,’ the mage purred. ‘We are going to give you a reprieve – one you could never have dreamed of.’ He handed the inert solarus crystal to Delta.

The boy looked about the room. He clearly had no idea in whose presence he was, but he sobbed in gratitude, ‘Oh thank you, thank you, good sirs, madam, thankyouthankyou—’

His torrent of words ended as Naxius made a peremptory gesture and channelled kinetic gnosis. The young thief’s neck audibly snapped and he slumped to the floor, his face going from shock to bewilderment to betrayal before falling slack.

The falcon on Delta’s wrist shrieked as if marking the moment.

Gurvon stared, surprised to find himself mildly shocked, though Naxius’ reputation preceded him.
Well, he’s got our attention …

Delta bent over and seemed to kiss the dead thief on the mouth. The watching men winced in distaste, but Gurvon also sensed curiosity; he doubted any of them had ever seen a Souldrinker in action. He certainly hadn’t.

The crystal in Delta’s hands lit faintly and Naxius’ voice took on a declamatory tone, as if he were lecturing to students.

‘Observe,’ he ordered. ‘Delta has now inhaled the soul of the young man, but he has not absorbed it himself. Instead, because of the presence of the solarus crystal and the gnostic inhibitions I have placed on Delta, Orly’s intellect is now preserved intact
inside
the crystal.’

Holy Kore!
Gurvon looked at Vult, feeling his own eyes going wide.

‘And now!’ Naxius said theatrically, with a sweep of the arm.

Delta held up the crystal in front of the falcon on his wrist and it flared again. A stream of white light shafted from the gem into the eyes of the bird. It shrieked piteously, flapped its wings, half rose into the air and then fell from the man’s wrist and sprawled across the table. Everyone in the room except Lucia and Dubrayle recoiled from it.

‘What have you done?’ Korion demanded. ‘If there is danger to the emperor I will—’

‘Calm down, Kaltus,’ Lucia drawled. ‘You think I would risk my beloved only son?’

Naxius prodded the fallen falcon. ‘Get up, little bird,’ he cackled merrily.

The falcon stirred and then pulled itself upright and began to preen itself awkwardly. The watching magi stared.

Finally Vult broke the silence. ‘Did he just do what it appeared?’

Naxius giggled in delight. ‘Yes! You see it, don’t you? The soul of the thief Orly is now in the bird.’ He reached out a hand. ‘Orly,’ he said, addressing the falcon, ‘tap three times with your left leg.’

As they all watched, the falcon did precisely as instructed. ‘Now fly thrice around the room, then land on the chandelier.’

No one moved as the bird fulfilled these instructions exactly.

Naxius smirked. ‘We have found that the transplanted soul is extremely suggestible to command and rapidly falls into the habit of complete obedience.’

Calan Dubrayle, clearly Naxius’ sponsor, took up the narrative. ‘Imagine our cavalry, mounted on constructs that can follow precise instructions. Imagine winged venators with human intelligence. Imagine beasts of burden that need not be driven, just instructed where to deliver their loads. Imagine plough-horses that can work the fields alone. Imagine birds scouting miles ahead of the army and reporting back. Imagine rats and snakes able to slip beneath castle walls and attack the defenders. Imagine the unimaginable.’ He tapped the map of Dhassa and Kesh on the table. ‘All we need to make such miracles in the numbers we will need are animals, constructs – and thousands of human souls.’

Constant’s jaw worked but only little squeaks came out. Korion and Betillon were pale, their expressions torn between horror and greed. Wurther looked outraged. But Vult was fascinated, his fingers tapping rhythmically as no doubt a hundred more uses for such creatures ran through his mind.

Mater-Imperia Lucia looked as if she’d just gorged on chocolate.

And me? How do I feel? It’s very, very clever. And it’s probably the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

‘Well,’ said Emperor Constant, ‘the Keshi are just beasts anyway. They shouldn’t mind a whit.’

Low laughter rippled about the room and Gurvon took care to join in, though he was staring at the face of the man called Delta. Now he could recognise something in those empty eyes: utter self-loathing and despair.

‘Have we done well?’ Naxius asked the throne.

Lucia smiled. ‘Magister Naxius, you have surpassed yourself.’

The Dawn to End All Night

Vann Mercer was startled awake as his horses snorted and danced sideways. He hauled on the reins to pull them back into line, then cast about for what had startled them. He didn’t have to look far: a despatch rider was alongside his wagon, peering at him intently. ‘Vannaton Mercer?’ the man asked. His accent was clearly of Noros.

The man’s voice invoked
home
: snow-capped peaks, verdant forests and sudden storms, lush grass and tumbling rivers. It was so far from Vann’s present reality that for a moment his guts ached. The horizons were straight, the land here flat and brown. At least the temperature was bearable – Decore in the East was the onset of what passed for winter here; cold by local standards but akin to early spring in Noros.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name’s Relik Folsteyn, of Knebb. You won’t remember me, sir, but I was on the mountain, back in nine-ten. Part of Langstrit’s legion.’

Vann smiled sadly.
The brotherhood of veterans
. ‘Good to meet you, Folsteyn.’

‘Honoured, Cap.’ Folsteyn glanced at the wagon. ‘Fuckin’ hot place t’be selling wool bales, sir.’

‘It’s all I’ve got – but you’d be surprised, the weavers here snap them up.’ Vann took the proffered envelope. It looked official: the seal of the Norostein Watch was scuffed but unbroken. He recognised Jeris Muhren’s writing. It didn’t feel like good news.

‘Might I beg some water, Cap?’ Folsteyn asked. ‘It’s been a thirsty ride.’

Vann indicated the water tank on the side of his wagon. ‘Help yourself – I’ve plenty.’

‘Thank’ee,’ the rider said. He looked at Vann worriedly. ‘After you read that, we’ll be needing to talk.’

Vann was travelling with two dozen other traders; they’d all crossed the Bridge together once the military traffic had lessened. There was still trade to be had, mostly here in eastern Dhassa, away from the path of the Crusade. Vann’s family’s future was depending upon his success here, and his thoughts turned often to his wife Tesla and his son Alaron, waiting patiently at home in Norostein. He and Tesla had been estranged, but recent events had thrown them together again; despite everything, he still loved her. He still clung to the memory of the person she’d been. And his mage-son Alaron, naïve and impetuous but honest at heart, was the centre of his life.

He pulled his wagon to the side of the road, shouting to his fellow traders not to worry, that he’d catch them up. Then he looked down at the letter, filled with foreboding.

Perhaps if I never open it, nothing it contains will have happened …

He cursed the foolish notion and broke the seal. The letter was dated Junesse – six months ago. Even allowing for three months to traverse Verelon and Sydia on the coast road it had taken a long time to find him. But then, he’d always kept a low profile while travelling.

He read it again, carefully, then bowed his head. Tears threatened, but never quite came.

Tesla, my dearest, you would have gone to death with open arms.

When he looked up, Relik Folsteyn was watching him carefully. ‘Captain Muhren and your son left Norostein the same day the letter was written, Cap,’ he said, gruffly sympathetic.

‘What?’ Vann asked sharply. ‘Why?’

‘We don’t know, sir. But all along the Imperial Road from Brekaellen to Pontus, there’ve been Imperials looking for them
–
and you.’

A chill that overrode the sullen heat of the desert prickled his skin. ‘I wasn’t going to cross the Bridge this time, but when I got to Pontus I realised I had no chance of turning a profit unless I did my own trading.’ He swallowed. ‘Why are they looking for me?’

‘We don’t know, Cap. But it was Quizzies doing the asking.’

Inquisitors … Kore’s Blood
. ‘Who sent you, Relik?’

‘The Merchants’ Guild – when they heard about the Inquisition, they decided to find you first. Jean Benoit sent us. His orders were that whoever found you should get you to safety.’

Benoit family had been disgraced for embezzlement and stripped of their titles and lands; the punishment had driven them into trading and young Jean Benoit, a pure-blood mage, had risen quickly, pulling many lower-blooded magi into his following as he swiftly rose to Guildmaster in Pallas. It was he, forty years ago, who had advised rich merchants to seek out and marry into impoverished mage families, and as a result Benoit’s influence was now immense. The Imperial magi took a different view; to them, Jean Benoit was kin to the Lord of Hel himself.

Vann licked his lips. Benoit was no friend to Noros or to provincial traders, though he had been instrumental in brokering the peace after the Noros Revolt. Civil wars were bad for trade, after all. The Pallas Merchants’ Guild had been bullying provincial traders for centuries; it had become worse under Benoit. ‘I don’t suppose I have much choice,’ he said wryly.

‘Not unless you enjoy chatting with Inquisitors,’ Folsteyn agreed.

‘Then I suppose I’m in your hands.’ He cast his eyes skywards and breathed a silent prayer for Tesla, his damaged and broken wife, finally at rest, and for Alaron, wherever on Urte he was.

Alaron dreamed of home and of his father, laughing and happy. Even his mother was joyous, her burns gone and her whole body restored to youth and beauty. He should have known from that alone that he was dreaming, but it seemed so real. Then a hand on his shoulder pulled him from sleep’s clutches and he jolted awake into a terrifying reality.

He was wrapped around a tiny girl with a hugely distended belly and skin the colour of dark coffee, and they were lying in the stern of a tiny skiff that was hovering above the ocean. The sun blazed through seaspray and the air was full of a watery roar.

‘The sea is rising again,’ the girl said, and he stared at her dumbly until his memory supplied her name: Ramita, Lord Meiros’ seventeen-year-old pregnant widow. They’d fled the attack on the Isle of Glass together, leaping into the skiff to escape Malevorn Andevarion, his old nemesis from college, and an unlikely bunch of shapechangers and Inquisitors. Then another memory emerged and he groped inside his jacket, sighing in relief as his hand fell on a long, hard scroll-case.

The Scytale of Corineus.

More memories surfaced: they’d plunged into the sea, he and Ramita, though he’d been sure it would be the death of them – but the little windskiff,
Seeker
, was steeped in spells and it had sealed over and kept the water out long enough for them to reach the surface. After that, they’d endured a dizzying, sickness-inducing horror ride, going under time and again, clinging together, soaked and frozen, frantically trying to get Air-gnosis into the drained keel, enough to stay above the waters, all the while expecting each moment to be the end.

Somehow they’d survived, though the waves had swept them so far from the Isle of Glass that the rocky pinnacle was no longer visible. About midnight he’d found the strength to lift the skiff from the waves, but without a mast or sail they had no way to propel it, so they’d just hovered above the waves. It was at the very least a respite, a chance for sleep.

The Lakh girl crawled awkwardly along the hull. She was steady-eyed, despite her obvious exhaustion. ‘The waves are getting higher each minute,’ she said. ‘We need to fly away.’

There was no land in sight and the waves, black-green spume-encrusted mountains, were indeed churning up towards them. Alaron cast his mind back to the previous night and their escape. Keeping them alive beneath the waves had used up most of the gnosis stored in the keel and now they were barely managing to hover above the ocean. Without any means of propulsion they were just delaying the inevitable. ‘I can put more Air-gnosis into the keel,’ he told Ramita, ‘though my affinity isn’t strong. But we need a mast and a sail.’

His eyes went to the hole where the mast should have been: the wooden shaft was now buried in the body of an Inquisitor, a glorious blonde girl with the cold eyes of a killer, back at the Isle of Glass. He had no qualms about the Inquisitor’s death – she’d been about to kill him, after all – but he would have loved to have had that mast back right now.

Ramita looked around thoughtfully, then with surprising strength she wrenched off a piece of the bracing from the hull.
Then again
, Alaron thought,
it’s not that surprising, is it? She threw that mast nearly thirty yards, and with enough force to penetrate a pure-blood Inquisitor’s shields as if they didn’t exist
.

‘We must …’ She fished for a word in Rondian, and when it came she spoke it like a spell: ‘We must
improvise
.’

He nodded, grateful to be able to throw himself into the task at hand, because back on the Isle of Glass, Cymbellea di Regia was a prisoner, or dead. He blinked back tears, reached for his gnosis and began to recharge the keel.

*

It didn’t take Ramita long once she worked out what needed to be done. Working with wood and plant matter was one of her strengths: her
affinities
. She liked the word. It sounded magical. The gnosis had frightened her once, but now she realised she could not contemplate being without it. Her family would barely know her: pregnant to the greatest mage in the world, alone with a strange ferang boy in the middle of the ocean, and yet she wasn’t afraid.

I am Lady Meiros. I can do anything.

She made a mast by growing it from the piece of bracing, then made a canvas sail from the material that had been used to cover the stores – not that they had any stores; a little water was the only thing left. They’d not expected to be needing the skiff, so they hadn’t got around to restocking it. A big mistake.

She grew more rope from the existing ones and Alaron, who knew how these things worked, fixed them to the corners of the new sail. Together they lifted the mast into place, then she helped him replenish the skiff’s keel, gripping his hand and feeding him energy for him to convert to air-gnosis. They weren’t used to working together and she could sense most of it being wasted, but enough got through to make a difference.

At last they rose from the grip of the reaching waves and using the position of the sun, turned the bow south, where there should be land, if they remembered the charts aright.

Thank you, Great Goddess.

Thank you, Creator and Protector.

Thank you Darikha-ji, for protecting us from the agents of death.

She flinched inwardly, trying not to remember that dreadful moment when Huriya, once her best friend but now an enemy, had pierced Justina Meiros’ defence by telling her the terrible truth: that the death of Antonin Meiros, Justina’s father, had come about because Ramita had betrayed him. That one piece of knowledge, hidden so carefully, had undone her dead husband’s daughter. Though she had never meant to deceive her husband, the deed could not be undone, and nor could the consequences. She had tried to be a dutiful wife, but instead she had betrayed all trust and brought ruin to the Meiros family.

She tried to hold the tears in, but still they flowed, even as her children stirred in her belly.

Vishnarayan, Lord of Light, show me what to do. Send me a sign.

Cymbellea di Regia woke with tears in her eyes, still seeing the face of her mother Justina, the way it had changed from composed strength to floundering bewilderment as each word uttered by the tiny Souldrinker Huriya struck her like a blow.

What had she said?

Then Zaqri, the lion-headed shapechanger, had swiped his clawed hand across Justina’s throat and all but ripped her head off.

Mother!

She lifted her face and found she was lying on her stomach across an unmade bed. She began to move, but a heavy weight landed on her back. She craned behind her to see – and froze. A lion was lying beside her on the bed, one forepaw across her back, pinning her down.

Zaqri?