Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (96 page)

We did it. We’re alive . . .

He blinked slowly at the scarred face of Mater Lune, Goddess of Insanity. The stars were fading and the few clouds turning pink and gold. Jelaska looked as shaken as he was. Wordlessly, they hugged, then turned to the slumped figure in the prow, huddled over a blackened crystal in his seared hands. Delta’s morose, lifeless face held just the hint of a smile, but his eyes were empty.

May your god take you home
, Ramon wished the Souldrinker silently, then he took up the tiller again and began to pilot them back towards the Lost Legions’ camp.

They landed solemnly, to find their whole camp wide awake. Many of Kaltus Korion’s rankers had fled in their direction, only to be taken captive; any of the wild constructs that’d come their way had been driven off.

The rising sun revealed the full extent of the devastation visited upon Kaltus Korion’s army: his camp was not just wrecked; it was
devastated
, with construct-beasts still stalking the remains, seeking more men to kill. The tents and wagons had been mostly burned out and a pall of smoke hung over it all – ash, and the miasma of death.

Seth came to meet them and hugged them both hard, not even attempting to hide his emotion. The rest of the surviving Lost Legions magi – Fridryk Kippenegger, Lanna Jureigh, Carmina Phyl, Chaplain Gerdhart and Evan Hale – were not far behind, all lost for words as they gazed at the most destructive scene they’d ever seen: a battle won without a blow, through the sacrifice of others.

‘What the Hel do we do now?’ Evan Hale whispered, speaking for them all.

They all looked to Ramon, who looked to Seth.

‘Well,’ the general’s son said, after collecting himself, ‘I suppose we need to go over there and look around. There’ll be injured, Lanna, so get ready for casualties. And some of those construct-beasts will still be hostile, so we’ll need to move in groups. If anyone – or any
thing
– resists, send for me or Jelaska. Remember, these people aren’t our enemies any more. Tell the men.’ He clapped his hands, a little dazedly. ‘Well done, all of you.’ He looked at Ramon. ‘And three cheers, Bastidinio. You are a miracle-worker.’

Ramon raised a nonchalant,
it-was-nothing
hand. ‘You should be cheering Delta. He did all that, not me.’ He paused, then grinned. ‘Though it was my idea. Si, you’re right: I really am a genius.’

*

Seth Korion stared at the fallen drakken. The rear part of its body was charred through to the bone; he could see the ribs, broken by the fall from hundreds of feet above. The other drakken was gone, having eaten its handlers and destroyed two full Inquisition Fists as they slept, then driving off another before simply flying away. All the surviving magi were fled, and the Souldrinkers were all dead, immolated by their own powers. The aether still felt wounded from the immense energy expended here.

The camp was ghastly, a never-ending parade of the dead and the maimed, rent and shredded by wild beasts that had once been obedient constructs. Some were now padding about the camp as if wanting to resume their lives of servitude, but most of those still alive – the surviving legionaries had managed to slay a great many – were out in the desert now, and likely not coming back.

‘We think around a third of Korion’s men got away, but not many magi, sir,’ said Tribune Storn, Ramon Sensini’s senior logisticalus, who was walking with him. ‘Most of the survivors have fled along the northern road, but they’ve taken no supplies. We’ve managed to salvage enough food here to get us to Pontus, maybe even Verelon.’

‘Incredible. I’d been wondering how we’d manage the supply situation.’

‘Kore provides,’ Storn said piously. ‘Will they send more men to stop us, sir?’

‘Perhaps. But the men who died here were the cream of the First Army. The rest must still be in the Zhassi Valley, facing Sultan Salim – so I don’t know who they’d send.’ Seth glanced at Storn. ‘You’ve still got the gold, haven’t you, Tribune?’

Storn ducked his head, then said reluctantly, ‘Yessir.’

‘Hmm. Look after it, Storn. A lot of men have died for that coin, and many more will if we mishandle it.’ Storn saluted and Seth looked away, staring at the great bulk of the construct-drakken. ‘I wonder if there were ever real drakken?’

‘Sometimes folk dig up old bones in the wilds,’ Storn replied. ‘The Rimoni caravans show ’em off, for a price. Drakken bones, they say. But who knows?’

There were splintered shafts of timber protruding from beneath the monstrous carcase. Seth peered at them curiously. ‘What did it land on?’

‘We think it’s a wagon. But the damn thing’s too big to move, so we’re not sure.’

‘Then burn the carcase where it lies, Storn. I can’t imagine it’s good meat.’ He saluted and started to walk on, then turned. ‘Has there been any word of what befell my fa— er, General Korion?’

‘No sir. Not a thing.’

Seth had felt his father’s last few seconds; he’d been in utter agony, and his mind had bled his pain into the heavens, for those listening. There had been no remorse, no peace, just self-centred despair, the last roar of a dying predator, cut short abruptly.

In that moment, a weight had lifted from Seth’s shoulders. It felt as if he could straighten his back for the first time in his life. He felt unfettered.
Free.

An old ballad popped into his head and the melody formed in his mouth. He found himself singing as he walked away from the broken beast.

38

Kinship

The Duties of the Exalted

One of the key questions concerning the magi is their true role in society: are they, as the Rondian Empire posits, the natural leaders, divinely ordained and entitled to special privilege? Or should they be the nation’s first servants, using their gifts for the betterment of those less fortunate?

And is the answer Pallas gives us the one we’re prepared to accept?

L
ADY
O
DESSA
D
’
A
RK,
O
RDO
C
OSTRUO,
H
EBUSALIM, 920

Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Thani (Aprafor) and Jumada (Maicin) 930

22
^nd
and 23
^rd
months of the Moontide

Before the magi and their systematic approach to the gnosis, the folklore of Lantris and Rimoni had been filled with ‘magicians’ – usually demigods of the Lantric pantheon – who could do the miraculous, the inexplicable. Their tales were replete with confounding subterfuges and trickery, like turning enemy soldiers into allies with a sweep of the cloak. Gurvon Gyle felt as if he were trapped in such a tale.

Damn you, Elena.

Either Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro had betrayed him, or another faction had triumphed, then marched south under false banners. No other explanation made sense. But Gurvon knew who to blame ultimately: himself.

I got too greedy. Chisel
that
on my tomb.

The sun was lowering, right in the line of his bowsprit, as he streaked towards Brochena in the aftermath of Jekuar. The winds were contrary, but that would slow anyone chasing him as well. There was no obvious sign of pursuit, but an illusion could hide a pursuer and at this range he’d not know.

I must reach Brochena before the news, otherwise the Jhafi will storm the palace and I’ll end up with nothing.

He arrived at dusk, setting down in the inner courtyard where one of Endus Rykjard’s messenger-pilots was working on her own skiff. His was almost drained; it wouldn’t be ready to move again for hours. He waved the girl over as he disembarked. She was new and naïve, not someone who could be subverted in moments, and therefore of no use to him. He needed to empty the vaults and get out. Persuading her to help him in the time he had wasn’t practical. Which meant . . .

She came to greet him, faint surprise on her face. ‘Lord Gyle? I thought—’

‘Hush, not here,’ he told her. ‘Come, there is an urgent situation unfolding. I need you to take a message to the Krak for me.’ He ushered her towards a side room, away from the watching guardsmen, laying a friendly hand on her shoulders and flirting just a little with his eyes. ‘Endus speaks highly of you,’ he said, ‘so I know I can trust you. Is your skiff fully powered up?’

‘Of course. I—’ She quivered, and her eyes flew wide as she looked down and saw the hilt of his knife jutting from her chest, just above her left breast. He grabbed her around the waist and put his other hand over her mouth, stifling her cries while his mind blocked her mental calls for help. She went gently, sagging against him as if grateful for his care, closing her eyes as if going to sleep.

Stupid bint . . .

He propped her up in one corner, pulled out the dagger and wiped it clean, then hurried up the stairs into the keep. The few servants he saw ducked from his path, which suited him fine. There was a watchful near-silence to the palace with all the decision-makers and most of the soldiers away, leaving a strange void here at the heart of power. He reached the royal suite unchallenged and co-opted the guards as labourers. He had his gold in eight chests hidden behind the walls in the old spy-tunnels. They broke them down, draped them in wall-hangings and carried them down to the girl’s skiff below. Once they were done he sent them on their way with a generous tip each, none the wiser.

Within the hour he was gone, long before the news of Jekuar had every bell ringing, and every man, woman and child pouring into the streets.

Hebusalim, Dhassa, on the continent of Antiopia

Jumada (Maicin) 930

23
^rd
month of the Moontide

Alaron Mercer strolled through the broken halls of the Ordo Costruo, wondering what it would take to restore the building. It had been burned out during riots in the wake of Antonin Meiros’ murder, according to a grizzled grey-haired Dhassan who was squatting in a cellar below with a young wife and three half-clothed children.

The ruin was positioned atop a rise that gave views over all of Hebusalim. The city was dominated by the Bekira-Dome, the largest Dom-al’Ahm in Ahmedhassa, which had once been sheathed in gold – until the retreating Crusaders had scraped off the gilt as they fled. Huge city walls encompassed the inner city – this was the place where his parents had joined the assault on the city in the First Crusade, where his mother had been so badly burned that she never fully healed, and his father had once shared water with a Lakh trader named Ispal Ankesharan – Ramita’s father. He was still getting his head around that coincidence. Ramita called it Fate.

The city was throbbing with movement in some parts, eerily deserted in others. Where there was life, it had a brittle feverishness to it, as if the normal mores of society had been put aside through the suffering and strangeness of war. Rondian traders, tolerated for the coin and supplies they brought, were pulling out now, cutting their losses and heading towards the Bridge. The Rondian army was in disarray, with outlying garrisons abandoning their posts and pouring northwards, strung out along the roads in little order.

Alaron and his Merozain brothers had flown here directly from the confrontation with Malevorn, intending only to see if there was anything salvageable in the Domus Costruo before returning to Mandira Khojana and collecting Dasra. They still had to agree how best to return the Hadishah prisoners to the Keshi, but he wasn’t in any hurry to release them, especially Alyssa Dulayne, crippled or not.

A mental touch brought him to attention, and Yash spoke into his mind.

Yash’s voice was full of suppressed triumph.

Alaron couldn’t take the same pleasure in the news. Though most of the Crusaders might have acted like a gang of thieves, he knew that the legions from Noros were mostly just farmers and labourers, either unwillingly conscripted or seeking their fortunes when home offered little; most of the others legions were probably the same.

he sent back.

An hour later he met Yash outside the stockade walls of a legion camp on the edge of the city, a dismal place full of hollow-eyed, exhausted men trudging gloomily past, or collapsed against the walls. The gates were wide open, the guards taking little notice of who came and went, and the lack of magi or even senior officers was striking. There were queues outside the cooking tents, and shorter ones to a row of semi-permanent huts housing a bedraggled line of Dhassan women with jaded bodies and sour faces, too tired even to call out to passers-by.

‘Hey! Who’re you?’ a guard barked at Alaron, the first to even notice he existed. ‘Stop there!’

Alaron was dressed in a cloak over his monk garb, but he was clearly Yurosian. He probably presented quite a puzzle to the guard. He conjured gnosis-light in his periapt and the guard’s eyes bulged. ‘Magister! I’m sorry—’

‘Who’s in command here?’ Alaron asked. ‘May I see him?’

The guard looked blank and sent him to a pilus, a cohort leader, who found a lost-looking tribune, who pointed him towards a large tent that was almost empty, apart from a pile of broken wooden cases filled with all manner of Dhassan and Keshi carpets, cushions, and trinkets.