Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (38 page)

It took all Hessaz’s years of personal discipline as huntress and warrior not to bolt. She finished her task and made herself walk calmly from the crypt, feeling Toljin’s eyes on her back the whole time. When she got out into the night air she bent over and vomited, then she closed her eyes and prayed for guidance.

*

From the stone platform, Malevorn Andevarion could see the whole of the Dokken packs and clans who’d gathered, waiting for him to perform his miracle. It reminded him of the
Book of Kore
, and the crowds who’d gathered to hear Corineus preach.

He took a deep breath, then projected his voice across the crowd. ‘Let the Second Ascendancy begin!’

Amidst a massive cheer, he dipped a ladle and poured a measure of ambrosia into the open mouth of the first Souldrinker lined up in formation. At his side, Hessaz did the same, blessing the recipient with some Amteh sign. He would have felt a fraud uttering such words, and doubted that a Kore sign would have been welcomed, so he just muttered, ‘Good luck.’

Not that luck will avail you.

The massive batch of ambrosia was an approximation, probably much like Baramitius had brewed first time round; he had neither the time nor the inclination to brew exact doses tailored to each recipient. There were six hundred Souldrinkers in the Valley of Tombs, so if history ran true, they’d lose a third, stone-dead. But the rest would be Ascendant Souldrinkers: two hundred, give or take a few. And then . . .

. . . Guard your throne, Constant Sacrecour!

He could feel the presence in the aether of the daemon who controlled Toljin. He’d spoken to it, told it what he wanted, and they’d reached a bargain.
Bahil-Abliz
, its name was; it wanted to extend itself into this world, and his Ascendancy Ritual would allow that to happen. It had pledged to serve him, and his wizardry-gnosis would ensure it did.

He fancied he could feel the physical effects of its proximity: colder nights and the withering of the sparse vegetation, and bad dreams. The air was oppressive, doom-laden, but still the Dokken came, from small, half-wild packs of animagi barely a dozen strong, to clans of almost a hundred, born and bred in the towns, all drawn to the Valley of Tombs by the rumour of a cure. Xymoch’s pack had spread the word discreetly, jealous of rivals gaining ‘their’ prize, and they were impatient, wanting to know why they weren’t permitted to go first – but Malevorn knew he had only one shot at this.

They were all were about to become his slaves, the young, the few old, men and women, even unblooded children. Or they would die.

Ablizians. That’s what I will call them: for the daemon I’m planting in their souls.

He looked sideways at Hessaz, wondering what was going through her mind. The gaunt Lokistani had been subdued in the last couple of days, even more taciturn than usual, and with none of the zeal she’d shown earlier in the process. When challenged she’d claimed that she was just awed by what they were about to do, but something in her manner didn’t convince him.
She suspects something
, his instincts whispered. But she’d performed her duties without fuss, no sign of fight or flight. And there had been no opportunity for her to sabotage this moment.

After tonight, she’ll be just like the rest . . .

It took almost half an hour until the last of the Dokken had swallowed their measure. The final one was a young mother from Mirobez, where the people were tall and lean, their skin jet-black and their hair close-cropped. She had a three-year-old child cradled in her arms. As she took the poison and fed it to her son, she said something grateful to Malevorn, something worshipful. He looked sideways at Hessaz for a translation.

‘She gives you thanks and blessing,’ the Lokistani woman told him. ‘She says that you are a messiah, a new prophet.’ She sounded faintly disgusted.

‘That’s what I am,’ he replied, amused. ‘I’m another Corineus.’

Only
I
won’t end up dead
.

The Mirobezi woman rejoined the rest of her family and Malevorn surveyed his new brood, now all gathered in the middle of the central plaza inside a giant circle carved into the stone. One by one they lay down in preparation, as he’d told them, and the poison was already taking effect in those who’d been first in line. That left about forty minutes to prepare for the first of them to start dying: plenty of time.

Hessaz turned to him. ‘What now?’

‘Now? Your own reward, my dear Hessaz,’ he replied mockingly. The dying sun glinted off the jewels in the gem-studded collar he had started wearing around his throat as he held out a spoonful of the ambrosia to her. She met his eye and a tremor ran through her, but she opened her mouth and took her measure calmly. ‘Go and join your people, Hessaz.’ She bowed and walked away towards the massed Souldrinkers in the plaza, her step unsteady, as if the potion had already begun to take effect.

And as easily as that, the Hessaz problem is solved.

He settled down to watch the show.

*

Hessaz made her way to the plaza, trying to hide her terror, stepping over the etched lines and symbols that Malevorn Andevarion had carved with Fire- and Earth-gnosis into the flagstones at the edge of the open space. They meant little to her, but she could guess what they were: Wizardry sigils.

She’d never had an Arcanum education, and whole swathes of the gnosis were a complete mystery to her, but she was a hunter, filled with practical intelligence and cunning. Over the past two days, working alongside Malevorn, doing his bidding without any sign of her thoughts, she’d begun to piece together her theory of what was
really
going on here.

He’s fallen out with Huriya. That’s a fact.

Toljin is not himself. That too is a fact.

This plaza has been prepared for a large-scale spell.

SK’THALI FAIL. AFREET.

She couldn’t work it all out: she didn’t have the knowledge and couldn’t make the connections, and she knew she never would. Elaborate schemes weren’t her way; she had always seen the world in black and white, straight lines. But as the day that should be the greatest in the history of her kind progressed, she began to feel trapped, dread rising within her, and all the instincts she trusted were urging her to run.

But she couldn’t; she was constantly under Malevorn’s eye, and the fervour of the Souldrinkers gathered below was such that no one could have deflected them: this was their day of days. So she was left muttering benefices and doling out poison, and no closer to working it all out.

Sabele will know what to do.

She had to get to Huriya somehow, actually talk to her – but as she swirled the ambrosia in her mouth, she was terrified that she had missed the chance. She quickly found the place behind the rocks she’d already scouted, and making sure no one was looking at her, she spat it all out and surreptitiously rinsed her mouth from her waterskin.

She was careful to feign the same symptoms as the rest, conscious that Malevorn was only a hundred yards away, sitting on an old stone throne and observing them all. Her weapons were stowed in her tiny room in the ruined palace, her pack prepared.

When night falls and he is tending to the first drinkers . . . that’s when I’ll run . . .

In the meantime all she could do was lie on her side, and watch her happy, exhilarated, guileless brethren die, certain that they were about to be born again.

SK’THALI FAIL.

AFREET.

KILL ME.

*

To the east, the waning moon was a sliver carved into the pale blue sky. Opposite, the sun fell towards the horizon in a scarlet blaze. There was a cold hum in the air, and Malevorn could feel the multi-faceted mind of the daemon waiting in the aether for each of these little gateways to reality to fall open.

Some had panicked as the throes of death began and were trying to crawl out of the plaza, but gradually each succumbed. He kept a special eye on Hessaz, but she’d gone still from the moment she’d lain down, as many others had, surrendering themselves to the ambrosia. The woman from Mirobez went last, her son already corpselike in her arms – the ambrosia had been brewed for bigger bodies than his. She was screaming at him, hers the only voice left as the plaza fell silent, tearing at her hair, shrieking prayers that slurred into mumbles until she rolled over and went still.

And now it begins . . .

He rose, walked to the edge of the platform and raised his hands. Calling wizardry-gnosis to his hands, he triggered the protective circle – a rectangle, in fact, for the shape didn’t really matter so long as it was regular. He shouted aloud in the Runic speech – not magic-words, but a verbalising of his intent to aid focus, and a warning to the daemon waiting to enter these dying Souldrinkers that the moment was nigh, though he doubted it needed telling. Indigo rays of light shot from his fingers and suddenly the whole plaza lit up, then it faded again, leaving the wards in place.

Those inside could still leave, though they’d feel some resistance in crossing the boundaries he’d etched: but anyone possessed by Bahil-Abliz would suffer excruciating pain and be unable to cross. That was the purpose of the circle: to keep the summoned daemon from its summoner, giving the Wizard time to take control.

How many will survive?
He licked his lips in anticipation, calculating how many he might need to conquer Pallas. After he’d been broken, Adamus had admitted that there were no more than a dozen Keepers still alive, and they were mostly decrepit.
I think a hundred new Ascendants will be enough, but the more the merrier . . .

A few minutes after the Mirobez woman collapsed, the first of the bodies began to twitch and stir back to life, their jerky movements spreading like a virus. From his vantage atop one of the tombs they looked like maggots exposed when rotting timber is pulled aside, ugly, clumsy wrigglers. He fingered the jewelled collar he’d found in the unplundered tomb, getting used to the unfamiliar weight, for after today he’d seldom be without it.

Then the first of his brood sat up, kindling gnostic-fire, then ramming head-first into the protective circle, making the invisible web of light suddenly flash a very visible scarlet. It laid both hands on the barrier and began to rip.

This is it!

There were risks to a mass conversion, but it was the only way: had anyone seen what happened to those that went before, they would have resisted. This was the trade-off: putting himself in mortal danger.

He conjured the name of the daemon –
BAHIL-ABLIZ!
– then hurled it like a javelin into the skull of the Dokken trying to destroy the circle. The daemon clutched its skull, trying to reject the binding as it came steaming towards him, out of control and changing shape, growing horns and teeth, humanity falling away as the aether-beast took over its host. Hate blazed from it, and fear rippled like a shock-wave as the rest of the dying Dokken stirred. But he fed the hook he’d planted, shouted the command –
SUBMIT!
– and left the mental link open. It locked wills with him instantly, tried to blind and stun him, to overwhelm him.

All he had to do was speak three words, and make the daemon believe them.

You. Are. Mine.

It wasn’t so hard, not with the daemon’s name to anchor his will and the gnostic power at his disposal. The demon caved in, fell to its knees and put its forehead to the ground in worship. He swallowed and stared down at it while panting from the exertion of his gnosis.

One down. Six hundred or so to go, with luck . . .

It wasn’t so many, of course. Almost half died while he lost himself in the job of subduing the rest, presumably Hessaz among them, for he never saw her as he fought to subdue those who survived. Sometimes singly, at other times four or five at a time, he pacified them before locking in his control of each individual using a gem in the jewelled collar around his neck. Each gem turned scarlet as it took on the binding of an individual Ablizian, and with each one he added, the necklace’s own aura of power grew and began to fuse with the rest, until he was wearing a collar of red diamonds, glittering with energy.

After an hour, with his gnosis running low, he cut the throat of a newly-made slave – a young man with fanatical eyes – and inhaled his soul to replenish himself. He took care not to let the daemon inside him. A brief vision filled his consciousness – the young man’s life – then power blazed through him: of Ascendant’s might.

More than renewed, and carried along on a wave of exultation, he laboured on, until far into the night, the last of the newly possessed Dokken fell to its knees before him. Two hundred and ninety-three of them, all possessed by Bahil-Abliz and his multi-faceted mind, which was enslaved to him. Two hundred and ninety-three . . .

Hel, let’s call it Three Hundred . . . of the ‘Blessed’.

I’m going to crush the sultan and the Sacrecours and rule the whole of the known world. My reign will last for ever.

He assembled his possessed Dokken – his
Ablizians
– and accepted their worship.

*

Malevorn never saw Hessaz slip away, so caught up was he in his great task.

I’m just another body, one of those who didn’t get up again . . .
She slithered around the edge of the plaza and darted down an alley as behind her the Souldrinker Brethren rose and began to chant Malevorn’s name. She could scarcely move for trembling, could barely see through her tears.

Dear Ahm, what has he
done
to us?

But there was no time for that. She had to get out.

She raced for her room, threw on her pack and armed herself with feverish speed, straining her ears all the while for footfalls or nearby expenditure of the gnosis. But the reverberations of power from the plaza was echoing over her awareness, deafening her to all other powers.