Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (52 page)

Despite its theological impossibility, the Cut was truly majestic: a watery defile that seemed to go down forever, with white waters constantly boiling far below. The dense bushes which overhung the cliff tops were a blaze of colour in their autumnal red and gold livery. The skies were filled with birds and the air was misty with spray. And to the east, Alaron could just make out the spires of Veiterholt Bridge.

The Veiterholt was the Ordo Costruo’s first major engineering feat: a mile-long bridge spanning Gydan’s Cut, linking Pontus to the proposed site of Northpoint. There was a fortress at either end of the massive stone span which arched gracefully over the narrowest point in the Cut, which in some places was a dozen or more miles wide.

Somehow, they had to find a way to cross the Cut, which would be no easy task, as the waters were an impassable torrent of white water churning far below. Alaron had come to the conclusion that he’d probably end up ferrying the lamiae across the channel one by
one on his skiff and he was about to turn back and re-enter the caves when he heard a shrill cry from above.

When he peered upwards he was alarmed to see a giant winged beast swooping overhead. On its back was an armoured man with a cloak streaming from his shoulders. Another followed, with blonde hair streaming behind her as she spiralled down to the level of the cliffs and raced along the rim.

His nails dug into his palms as he recognised the woman who’d so casually stabbed Ferdi.

The Inquisitors were here.

He waited to make sure they hadn’t found the cave entrances. As he watched the two fliers gliding hither and thither, buffeted by the updrafts, he heard sounds behind him and turned to see Kekropius’ face bobbing towards him as he undulated up the cave’s sloping floor. He had Cym on his back, her bare legs gripping his snaky hips. Alaron raised a hand warningly and put a finger to his lips, though the noise of the Cut’s churning waters made the gesture irrelevant.

‘Inquisitors,’ he hissed, jabbing a finger skywards, and Kekropius swayed to a halt, his face losing its welcoming smile.

Cym slid from his back and scrambled to Alaron’s side. He was faintly relieved to see her fully clothed; she’d threatened to go bare-breasted in solidarity with the Lamiae women, and he’d not been entirely sure she was joking. The Lamiae women were genuinely mystified over this fascination with feeding glands – not even their males understood it.

‘What have you seen?’ she whispered.

‘Two of them – they’re the same group that attacked your father’s caravan.’

Cym bared her teeth. ‘Let me see them.’

Kekropius put a warning hand on her shoulder. ‘No foolishness, Cymbellea. They must not detect us.’

Cym bit her lip. ‘They won’t,’ she promised.

Kekropius went to warn his people while she and Alaron crawled back to the entrance. They’d been living beneath trees or within caves for so long that open sky made Alaron nervous now. He slid in
beside Cym and they watched as four more Inquisitors appeared over the next hour, landing near the cliffs. They fed their steeds before feeding themselves, then one brandished a wooden staff.

‘Relay-stave,’ Alaron breathed in Cym’s ear. ‘They’re reporting in.’

By midday, there were three more venators present, including another woman, this one with a sour, pasty face who reminded Alaron of a female Gron Koll. Malevorn Andevarion was among them, and just the sight of him made Alaron tremble with rage and fear. Then a big windship loomed overhead and the Inquisitors bustled about, working ropes and sails to lower the craft onto the stone shelf right at the edge of the Cut. They lashed the ship down securely as the wind and rain rose in intensity.

Alaron could see Malevorn and the blonde woman herding their winged steeds into the trees and tethering them up. They were barely a hundred yards away.

‘Someone on their ship has been scrying me for weeks,’ Alaron said. ‘I think the distance has protected me, but now they’re right on top of us I’ve got to put some solid rock between us.’

‘We’d better move everyone to the lower caverns,’ Cym agreed.

He glowered down at the Inquisitors. ‘Kore’s blood, I’d love to go down there and hack those bastards to dog-meat.’

‘We all would, Alaron. But they’ll be mostly pure-bloods. We have to be realistic – the only thing we can do is hide until they move on.’

He sighed heavily. ‘I know. It’s just …’ He stared down at Malevorn Andevarion. ‘Why is it that some people who deserve nothing get everything?’

‘It’s just the way of the world – anyway, who says he has everything?’ She backed away from the cave-mouth and straightened.

She looks lovely
, he thought. Even with the face tattoo and in travel-worn clothes, Cym would always be his definition of beauty. Despite having the Inquisition on their very doorstep, he braved the question he’d been asking himself for years.

‘Cym, if I’m not what you want, and Ramon’s not what you want … what do you want?’

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘As if you two twerps are the sum of all
manhood.’ She sighed, reached down and pulled him to his feet. ‘Alaron, I want someone who walks like a king and shines like Sol. I want someone with poetry on his lips and majesty in his voice. I don’t know if I will ever meet him, but when I do, I’ll know. There won’t be any doubts or questions. I’ll just know.’

‘People like that don’t exist,’ he said sourly. He pointed at Malevorn. ‘Except that prick.’

‘Oh, Alaron.’ She put her arms about him. ‘You’re my dearest friend, and I do care about you. You just don’t make my heart go
boom
. I’m sorry.’ She peered over his shoulder. ‘And that creep down there does nothing for me at all.’

‘Good. Let’s go. I’m sick of looking at him.’

*

The Inquisitors showed no immediate signs of moving on, so the lamiae stayed in the lower caverns. It was as well they had moved into the deeps so quickly, for the Inquisitors found the upper caves soon after landing. They searched thoroughly, but Naugri had covered their tracks using Earth-gnosis to conceal the passages that led to the clan’s new hiding place and the skiff had been taken to the deepest cavern. Moving on was out of the question, until the Inquisitors were gone.

The solid rock shielded Alaron and Cym from scrying, so although they didn’t know it, the Inquisitors would have to rely on physical clues if they were to find their quarry. Clearly they remained oblivious to the fact that their quarry was so close.

The snake-folk found an underground pond they could fish, but even so, after nearly a week the clan was beginning to run low on food. Outside it was cold and wet, and the clouds hid the full moon that rose in the middle of the month. While the venator riders left on patrols each dawn, the windship crew took the opportunity to make running repairs on their great vessel. Men from the nearby Veiterholt Fortress came with fresh timbers and canvas, and their voices and hammers echoed through the woods, ringing out against the constant thunder from the Cut.

The ninth day of waiting finally dawned clear. The Inquisitors’
attempts to scry Alaron were entirely predictable – once at dawn and once again at dusk – and Alaron avoided them easily enough by staying deep underground at those times. That morning he and Cym crawled to a vantage point they’d found overlooking the windship. Only three of the venators remained, so five of the eight Inquisitors were out on patrol.

As they watched, another two left in a carriage – probably to go to the Veiterholt, Alaron guessed – leaving just one Inquisitor on board, a morose-looking youth with a fervent air about him. He was arguing with a fat priest, who Alaron stared at intently, wondering why the face was familiar, until he realised it was another old Turm Zauberin classmate. Boron Funt.

It must be Funt doing the scrying: they’re calling in people who know me
. It was an oddly flattering thought, to be personally annoying so many Inquisitors.

Then the windship’s pilot started walking around the hull, making the keel glow as he replenished its power.

‘They must be readying her for flying again soon,’ Alaron whispered.

Cym nodded, then suddenly turned to him and grinned. ‘Hey, you know what?’

He recognised that smile. It meant trouble. ‘What?’

‘That’s an awfully nice ship.’

*

Boron Funt stomped away, fuming. Brother Filius was an oaf – no, he was worse than that: he was an arrogant fool. In his narrow world there was only his precious order – he had absolutely no idea of the difficulties involved in scrying a vigilant quarry, let alone how draining it was. Funt felt constantly tired – not to mention the fact that he was positively wasting away on military rations, all the while he was frazzling his mind seeking that Kore-bedamned lunker Alaron Mercer.

Take this morning, for example: he’d been pounding away for
hours
, all to no avail, with not even a sniff of Mercer’s first veil. That was the demoralising thing: there’d been not even a
hint
of contact.
Filius thought it should be easy, but he wasn’t an Air-mage; he knew
nothing
of scrying.

Scrying is like fencing in the dark
, Funt thought.
You have to be hyper-aware, straining every sense for the other’s presence. Well, no wonder I’m exhausted.
It was hard, even for a pure-blood, and getting any sort of contact outside about sixty miles was nigh impossible.

Then once you’d found them, you had to pierce their wards to make full contact. The first veil of wards protected distance. The second veil protected direction, the third prevented visual contact, and the last prevented sound. There were all manner of shields that could block scrying – so could simply being underground or in a building – Hel, even dirt tossed in the air could break a weak connection. Water distorted it, and so did fire. Mercer might be nothing but quarter-blood merchant-scum, but he’d been trained at the best Arcanum in Noros.

Over the past three weeks he’d managed to pierce Mercer’s first veil three times, just enough to know that he was alive – but for days now he’d not even managed that. Each veil was harder to penetrate – and when he did get anything, it usually alerted the target, which meant he always lost the scent at that point. At least it showed he was getting somewhere, but Filius refused to see it that way.

The windship pilot was outside, replenishing the keel. The poor fellow was probably more exhausted than he was – windships were taxing beasts, as Boron recalled from his days at the Turm. He was so grateful to be in the clergy and above such mundane tasks. There was a raucous laugh from up on deck, where the six human members of the crew were repairing the sails and ropes and timbers. He hated all their talk of Pontus and the women there, filthy talk. He felt upset, and hungry. Why hadn’t he been taken on the visit to Veiterholt? He scowled, even as his mouth watered at the thought of the meal they would even now be enjoying.
No one realises how much I’m doing for this mission
, he grumbled to himself.

He was about to take himself back to bed for a well-earned rest before his next scrying attempt when a dazed-sounding voice called from the edge of the clearing, ‘Hello? Hello the ship?’

Funt stopped, utterly stunned, and waddled to the rail of the windship and peered down. ‘Mercer?’ he gasped. ‘
Alaron Mercer?
’

Unbelievably, his quarry of the past three months was standing below on the grass near the edge of the cliff. He looked awful: coated in mud, damp and dishevelled, one hand on his sword and the other clutching his bloodied side. He had lost a boot and his bare ankle was wrapped in bloody, muddy bandages. He was limping pathetically.

He was carrying a scroll-case.

Boron gaped.
I’ve done it! I’ve worn him down – I’ve
broken
him! What’s he carrying? – is that it? Is the rumour true?

Brother Filius appeared beside him, staring suspiciously. ‘This is him?’ he muttered. Gnosis-light began to glow about him. ‘This reeks of a trap.’ He drew his sword. ‘Beware!’ he shouted to the crew, who’d frozen in surprise at the first shout. ‘Watch every direction.’

The six crewmen clattered to the deck, their eyes wide as they tried to face every side at once.

‘Throw down your weapon,’ Filius shouted at Mercer, who complied at once, as if in a daze.

He’s dead on his feet. He probably hasn’t slept properly in months – not since I first broke through his defences.
Funt moved forward. ‘He is my prisoner, not yours.’

Filius threw a contemptuous look at Funt over his shoulder and snarled, ‘Stay where you are, you piece of lard.’ He leapt easily from the windship to the land and strode towards Mercer, pulling Mercer’s blade to his own hand with telekinesis. It was an ill-made thing; he barely looked at it before tossing it over the cliff into the seething waters below with a nonchalant shrug. ‘Drop whatever it is you’re holding,’ he shouted, indicating the scroll-case.

Funt held his breath. Was this the thing Adamus and Malevorn had hinted at? The actual Scytale of Corineus?
Can I let it fall into Filius’ hands?
He braced himself and followed Filius over the ship’s rail, wincing as he landed heavily in the wet moss.

‘Please,’ Mercer said in a plaintive voice, ‘sanctuary, for bringing you this—’

Filius snorted. ‘I dictate terms here, you fool. Put it down or I’ll skewer you.’

Mercer went to comply, but Funt called, ‘Wait! The Crozier must have that case.’

Filius glanced sideways. ‘Commandant Vordan controls this mission, not the Crozier.’

‘Adamus Crozier outranks the Commandant.’

‘In the field, the Inquisitor has precedence,’ Filius rapped back. He stretched out a hand and used telekinesis to wrench the case from Mercer’s hands, then backhanded him with the same power, almost sending him off the cliff.

He looked around, gripping the case, triumphantly. ‘Secure the prisoner,’ he told the nearest crewmember.

The sailor, a lanky man with a wispy beard, looked hesitantly at Alaron. ‘He’s a mage,’ he replied doubtfully.

Filius hissed impatiently and thrust a finger at Mercer. A mage-bolt blasted the fugitive off his feet. Whatever shields he’d been using were completely ineffectual and he collapsed, quivering and whimpering. Filius followed up with a gnostic web that engulfed Mercer, then vanished inside him. Mercer was evidently too far gone to resist the mesmerism-gnosis.