Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (71 page)

They lit the first package and hurled it below.

The opium Ramon’s maniple had been diligently hoarding for the past few months was ‘cooked’ by the suppliers before delivery: boiled until purified and dried out. Now it was essentially flammable flakes, all ready to be smoked. It took a push with both Air- and Fire-gnosis to get the effect he needed, but in just a few seconds they had filled the narrows below with clouds of burning opium. At first it had little effect, and then all the men below – by now mostly Keshi – were collapsing, choking and coughing. They poured more and more of the toxic powder into the narrows and set it alight as the surviving
Rondians staggered from the clouds and fled to the left, trying to link with Kip’s Ninth Maniple.

The enemy magi immediately tried to counteract the toxic cloud, but Ramon was Arcanum-trained, and he held the poppy-packed air together, keeping it from becoming dissipated, either by their own frantic workings, or by the gathering winds as the heart of the storm rolled inexorably closer. He fought with all that he had, and as he did, he felt lives wink out below him as they were overcome by the poison fumes.

To think men actually smoke this stuff by choice!

To think I almost traded in it …

He put aside that flash of guilt. For now there were lives to be saved, and he pushed every ounce of his gnostic strength into keeping his lethal cloud intact, even as enemy magi ripped at it from all sides.

And it was working: he was buying the extra minutes needed for the remains of Marle’s and Duprey’s rankers to escape and flee to the south. They were staggering out of the smoke, dazed and weaving, but Kip’s men seized them and pushed them on their way.

The following Keshi infantrymen who made it through were just as disorientated and were mercilessly dispatched.

Then no more Rondians emerged; he’d done enough. The weight of all the enemy magi focusing their counter-spells against him began to tell, and the rising winds started to rip at the cloud too, until with a final groan, Ramon was forced to release his gnostic workings and let the smoke go. In seconds the rising gale had torn it apart and swirled the poppy flakes away.

Revealed below was a sea of enemies, thousands of them, all staring up at him. The steep cliff prevented them from coming straight at him; instead they turned and started running to his left, heading for the riverbed where Kip’s men held the new rearguard. The Ninth Maniple were suddenly the only thing preventing the enemy from pouring onto the upper plain and running amok among the fleeing men and the lumbering supply wagons.

The Keshi were storming heaven with their hymns as they surged
up the slope, each trying to outstrip the rest as they sought to be the hero to take down the giant barbarian.

The first Keshi was wielding a scimitar and shield, and Kip called to his gods as he swung the zweihandle and brought the six-foot blade crunching through the man’s blade, shield and helm. The next tried to spear him, but Kip stepped to the right of the lunge and hacked the man in half. The next two tried to take him together, one on either side, but they were hammered back by a burst of carefully marshalled telekinesis, then their heads flew off, effortlessly severed from their necks in one fluid swing. Then Kip’s rankers, taking courage from their mage, closed about him, forming a new line. More Keshi were coming, but Ramon could see that they weren’t totally alert; they must have been exposed to his drug-cloud.

‘
Ycha bei Minaus!
’ Kip was shouting. ‘
Ycha bei Minaus!
’

Si, you are a bull-headed god, no doubt – but I’ve still got to get you out of there!
Ramon thought as he spurred his horse along the ridge. He began pouring mage-bolts into the oncoming Keshi and they stopped and looked upwards, trying to pinpoint this new threat. Their hesitation caused their advance to falter, and Kip’s men stopped retreating. The Schlessen must have been caught in the toils of bloodlust, because incredibly, he screamed an order to advance – it was an act of utter madness, but it lifted his men, who took up his stentorian cries. ‘
Minaus! Minaus!
’ they screamed – soldiers always loved war-gods, even foreign ones.

Ramon watched as fear struck the Keshi, who suddenly believed that they were caught at the front of some massive counter-attack, led by an insane barbarian. The first ranks faltered, their prayers wavering, and they started involuntarily backing way – then they turned and ran back into the dust clouds below.

Kip’s men whooped, and began to go after them, but Ramon screamed at the Schlessen to stop them.

‘Kip!’ he shouted, trying to attract the barbarian’s attention as he spurred his horse down the slope. ‘No – no! Kip, don’t chase them! You’ve got to get your men out of there!’

But the Schlessen didn’t hear him. His eyes were wild and the
blood was pumping fast through his veins as he waved his zweihandle and screamed, ‘
Yar! Yar! Ycha bei Minaus! Attacke! Attacke!
’

‘Neyn, you idiot! Kip! Get the Hel out of there!’ Ramon slammed a mesmeric spell at the Schlessen’s brain, trying to puncture the battle madness. ‘Pull back, you fool!’

For a few moments it looked as if Kip and his men were going to ignore him and charge straight back into the unholy mess below, but then sanity – or Ramon’s spell – prevailed.

Abruptly, Kip exhaled and blinked several times, as if banking the fires burning in his eyes. He raised a hand to halt his men and shouted, ‘Yar!’ acknowledging Ramon’s order. ‘We go!’

He waved his men back up the slope, though Ramon thought he looked almost disappointed to be leaving the fray with Keshi still alive. The men with him were as reluctant as their battle-mage to leave the field.

Ramon spurred his horse down the slope to meet his friend. ‘Don’t lag, amici! There’s a whole lot more of those bastido down there!’

‘Yar, this is a proper war now,’ Kip announced grimly as he reached Ramon and reached over to grasp his hand. ‘About time, yar?’

‘Si, amici,’ Ramon snorted. ‘And we’ve just been royally rukked over.’

Kip laughed aloud. ‘Yar, it’s been one giant
arschficke
.’ He raised a hand and gestured, setting his rankers on the path southwards. ‘But my Bullheads stayed strong,’ he added with gruff pride. ‘They’re almost as good as a Schlessen warband.’

‘As you say – but can they run?’ Ramon called. ‘See that fortress? It’s about a mile south, I reckon. That’s where you’ve got to be before that rukking storm hits us!’

They both turned back and looked up. If anything, the storm appeared to be slowing, almost as if it had somehow been set to linger over the centre, right where Duke Echor was.

And that might just be the saving of us
, Ramon thought. ‘Let’s go.’ He tugged on Lu’s reins. ‘Save me a good spot in the castle.’

‘See you there, mein freund,’ Kip agreed as he sheathed his
zweihandle. He leaned across and slapped Ramon’s thigh. ‘Don’t wait too long yourself, yar?’

‘I won’t.’ Ramon waved him off, then attended to his own responsibilities. It was time to ensure his own motley collection of storemen and clerks escaped this catastrophe too.

‘All right, men, it’s time for us to get out of here,’ he shouted. He brandished his sword and cried, ‘Come on – let’s go!’

As the men about him began to run, he pointed his own horse’s head south and spurred it hard.

He could see Bondeau had his maniple halfway across the plains, closely followed by the remnants of Marle’s command, those who’d managed to scale the dune ridge while the legate bought them time to escape. On the hill to the south was the broken-down fortress, the only possible sanctuary in sight. The wagons were spread out across the plain, and the men too, as everyone ran for cover. He estimated there were two thousand men, less than half of the legion – but then he saw a dark shadow to the west, and his heart sank.

Cavalry, flanking the line and cutting towards them … If that’s not the Lesser Son, we’re completely rukked
.

‘Faster!’ he shouted to the men about him, though it was unnecessary; he wasn’t the only one to have seen what was coming for them. ‘Move yourselves!’

The remnants of the Thirteenth ran like all Hel was on their tail.

The Deserts

It is said in The Kalistham that the deserts are a punishment for the sins of the world. For every sin, Ahm weeps a tear that becomes a grain of sand. The Keshi say that the world is filling up with sand, for man is eternally sinful. But through the agency of the Ordo Costruo, gardens flourish now in Kesh, where once there was desert. Grain by grain, ignorance is defeated. It is for such works that we exist as human beings.

A
NTONIN
M
EIROS
, H
EBUSALIM
, 854

Isle of Glass, Javon coast, Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6
^th
month of the Moontide

The skiff broke the surface and the membrane of canvas and gnosis that had protected them, allowing them to keep breathing, popped, letting a gust of fresh air wash over them. Then another wave towered above them, soaking them. Alaron shouted aloud and the bubble reformed as they went under again. Though it bulged alarmingly, somehow it held, despite the power of the waves. He tapped into the power the lamiae had poured into the keel, kept the bow down and headed forward, praying all the while.

Next time they surfaced, he was ready. He used sylvan-gnosis to feed buoyancy into the keel, and as the pillar receded, he found they could actually float. The waves, though gigantic, weren’t breaking, and though the movement had both Ramita and him vomiting, the
skiff remained upright and above the waves. Until they could get aloft, it would suffice.

His mind was still buzzing with a thrill he’d never expected to know. For a few seconds back on the landing platform he’d reached trance-gnosis again – and this time more completely than he had in Gydan’s Cut. Desperation and terror were achieving what years of lessons and practice had never managed, and proved he really did have the ability to use different aspects of the gnosis simultaneously. But any sense of triumph he might have felt was obliterated by what had been left behind. Justina Meiros was dead. And Cym –
Cym!
– if she wasn’t already dead, she was in the hands of one enemy or another …

As they were swept away by the fierce currents the Isle of Glass behind them was receding at a frightening pace. They could see the Inquisitors’ windship was still aloft, but its mast and sail had been burned away and it was moving sluggishly. It looked like none of the venators were left. All the shapeshifters had vanished inside the massive pillar.

We got out, but Cym’s still in there …

He felt tears well up again, and this time he couldn’t stop them. Cym was lost and her newfound mother was dead, and he could not go back without destroying what little her loss had gained.

He clutched the Scytale to him.

Ramita, sitting in the bow, her eyes fiercely protective as her hands caressed her bulging belly, whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’ She was barely audible above the thunderous seas, but he knew what she’d said.

There was nothing he could say; he could only add his salty tears to the surging waters that bore them away.

*

Ramita stared about her. The little skiff flared with protective shields every time they went under and she was barely wet, despite a dozen immersions. Already the Isle of Glass was far behind them as the open sea swept them along on massive surging waves.

She could not escape the image of Huriya, her sister no more, devouring the soul of the old woman …

All you gods, what has she become?

And Justina was dead.

Dear daughter, be at peace.

But worst of all was the guilt: one simple truth had unpicked Justina’s defences with awful precision.

I let Kazim in. I killed Antonin, and now I’ve killed Justina.

She buried her head in her arms as they were swept onwards, into the darkness of the trackless seas, cradling her unborn children and praying for survival, for their sake if not for hers.

*

Cym opened her eyes, disoriented by the smoke and darkness. She was lying face-down on cold stone and her whole body ached abominably, especially her right shoulder; that was where she’d struck the wall. It was only because she’d managed to get her shields up in time that she’d even survived that impact.

She went to move, but couldn’t. Something heavy, a weight pressing into the middle of her back, had her pinned down. She twisted her neck, trying to see, and found herself gazing into the face of a lion just a few inches away. Its panting breath was hot on her flesh.

She tore her gaze away from its blue-eyed stare and realised that the head sat on the shoulders of a majestic human body – a man’s body.

This is the one who killed my mother.

And it was more than likely that he was about to kill her too. What had the Keshi girl said to her mother that had left her defences so fatally wide open? The words had been in an unknown tongue, but what words could have left her mother – a mage of such power and such experience – so utterly defenceless?

Now she could see other shifters moving about her. Most of them were kneeling before the feet of a diminutive Keshi girl, kissing her hands and feet. Cym thought the girl’s face was a strange mixture, both regal and common at the same time, but she appeared to be inordinately proud of herself, for she was preening and giggling at the same time.

Then her eyes fell on Cym and she said something – one word, a name, maybe?

‘Zaqri—’ she called again, and this time Lionhead shifted to face her.

She spoke again, a liquid stream of Keshi.

Lionhead is called Zaqri,
Cym noted.
He killed my mother …

Zaqri stood, and his face changed, until it become that of a ruggedly handsome blond man with gleaming blue eyes. Cym tried to move as well, but she was drained by gnosis use and battered from being crushed beneath him. She barely had the strength to lift a hand. All she could do was lie there, helpless, as Zaqri moved gracefully over to the young Keshi girl and knelt at her feet. He bent and kissed them, and words passed between them, and then he returned to hunch over her, a single hand pressing her back down. He was still naked from the battle, a vision of masculine power and grace. And he was drenched in her mother’s blood.

‘Girl,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

They speak Rondian …

She shook her head in surprise, and an involuntary moan escaped her lips as she tried to squirm away from him. She had to drag her eyes from the majesty of his gore-covered body.

He seized her chin and pulled her head around to face him. ‘I will Chain you if I must, little girl.’ His huge hand rested on her forehead and suddenly he was inside her brain. His gnostic strength was truly frightening.

His mental touch was as masterful as his body – he was decades older than her, she sensed, and yet he was in his prime.

Though he terrified her, she made herself be defiant.

he countered bitterly.

They stared at each other unflinching. Then something broke inside her.

He shook his head.

she asked tremulously.

he replied, with no attempt to soften the blow.

He gripped her shoulders and spoke aloud. ‘Open to me girl, or this will hurt.’

She had no choice, she realised; she opened her wards and let him into her mind. He was like a torch in a darkened room, and he filled her absolutely, his lion face shining like the sun.
Like Sol.
She couldn’t have resisted, even if she had tried.

His leonine visage studied her very carefully as she forgot how to breathe. Then he caught a thought she could not protect; his eyes went wide and he looked away, wonder in his expression, his hands shaking with excitement.

He left her mind and said softly, ‘My Queen, I have learnt something.’

Huriya walked slowly back to him. ‘Yes?’ she asked, dropping her own voice to a whisper.

Cym could only just make out his words as he bent his great head to Huriya’s ear. ‘The Inquisitors came here seeking an artefact – you have Sabele’s memories; you will know the Scytale of Corineus.’

Huriya’s eyes went round as saucers. ‘You’re sure?’

Zaqri’s hand gripped Cym’s chin. ‘This girl has held it in her hands.’

Cym’s heart sank as she looked from Huriya to Zaqri. The Keshi girl was unnerving, with her aura that was both ancient and corrupt. But Zaqri frightened her more. Her mind went back to something she’d said to Alaron recently, an articulation of all her girlish longings: ‘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.’

And I do know, for he is Zaqri.

But he killed my mother. So I must do the same to him.

Under her breath, she whispered the sacred oath of vendetta.

*

The Fist – what was left of it – knelt in a prayer-circle on the foredeck as the windship crawled east on a cold breeze, heading towards the
distant cliffs. There were more ghosts than survivors now, and even Elath Dranid’s usually stolid face was haunted by failure and loss. He had been so certain in battle; now he looked lost. The three other survivors wore that same look of oppression, of defeat and disgrace on their faces.

Malevorn glared down at his signet, feeling the weight of his family’s need weighing on his shoulders. As a child he’d been the one to find his father’s body; now that memory blurred with Vordan’s last moments.

If we do not succeed, we will be joining them both in Hel.

That he was even here himself was a minor miracle. Realising he was trapped on the lowest level of the stone pillar, he’d had to clamber out, using Earth-gnosis to ascend the treacherous slope. He’d hailed the remnants of the Fist and they’d only just managed to extricate him before the winds shoved the hulk of the
Magol
out over the seas. But there was little comfort in rescue, and little brotherhood between the survivors gathered about him. Dranid had retreated into himself; he was clearly inadequate for the challenges of leadership, despite his martial prowess. Dominic had never seemed so much like a bleating lamb. Only Raine’s simmering fury reassured him. He knew how she felt; she, like him, would visit a world of pain on those who’d thwarted them. He didn’t care what it took, but Alaron Mercer and that mudskin with him were going to
suffer
.

We’ve had our arses thrashed by
Souldrinkers.
We let Alaron-Kore-be-damned-Mercer escape us with the greatest prize on Urte. There will be a reckoning.

They had jury-rigged a sail to the stump of one of the
Magol
’s masts. Dominic’s only notable contribution so far to this whole damned trip had been to start the masts regrowing, using his otherwise useless sylvan-gnosis. Nonetheless, they still were crawling landwards at a walking pace. Of the two dozen men-at-arms they’d taken into the fray they had only half a dozen left, and only one pilot-mage. All the venators were dead too. Malevorn Andevarion’s fury was barely containable.

Faces swam before him: Vordan, dead by his own hand. Brothers
Alain and Jonas, both cut down by Jeris Muhren. Seldon and Filius, butchered by constructs. Boron Funt, brought in to scry a college-mate and slaughtered by those same creatures. And porcelain-faced Virgina, skewered on a broken mast. Had Mercer done that, or had it been the mudskin girl? She’d hurled him backwards like a toy, he knew that, and he’d have her guts for it. But who
was
she?

Adamus Crozier joined them. He stood beside them and laid his hands on Malevorn’s and Dranid’s shoulders. ‘My brothers and sister in Kore, we have been punished – not by our enemies, but by Kore Himself. We have been weak, and we have strayed from purity. Spiritual weakness has led to martial weakness. No more. We have a clear goal before us: the capture of this thief Alaron Mercer, who has betrayed the empire and thrown in his lot with Rimoni and mudskin scum. We are going to find him and we are going to make him sorry he was ever born.’

Kore, let it be so.

‘Now listen. You all know we hunt the Scytale of Corineus itself. You know what it does, and what it could mean: a rival Ascendancy; leading to the destruction of all we hold holy and pure. We have no choice: we must not stop until we have regained it.’

Mount Tigrat, Javon, Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6
^th
month of the Moontide

Elena set the sails of the skiff so they were poised to unfurl as soon as they’d risen high enough to catch the wind. Kazim stood in the bow, surrounded by their possessions – some clothing, their bedrolls, all their stores, weapons and armour.

She met his eye.

Time to go.

They could not stay here on Tigrat, of course: the monastery was compromised – and she just wanted to be away from the place. No matter; she had another refuge in mind. Shepherds kept huts on
the high summer slopes; they went deserted through winter and she knew of one less than a day’s flight from here. They’d laboured throughout the rest of the night, gathering everything they would need and piling it into the skiff. Staying busy helped to keep the horrors at bay too – and kept her from crawling back to the sanctuary of Kazim’s strong arms and hiding there forever. It was his very solidity that gave her the courage to go on – but it also reinforced their growing mutual dependency.

Kore help me, I want him. But it shouldn’t be now. Not so soon after … all this blood.

How they’d not fallen into each other in the aftermath of the battle she scarcely knew. Perhaps because of the stink of death that hung in the air here; the miasma of destruction. But the bond between them was as palpable as the winds that whistled through the old ruins.