Riding the Serpent's Back (76 page)

“They won’t touch me,” Monahl said to Lachlan. “I carry the blessing of the Lord Huipo.” She saw confirmation in the eyes of the Morani.

Lachlan reached into his jacket and produced a long dagger. He stepped towards her quickly, smiling harshly. “Then I will,” he said. He raised the dagger, ready to strike.

Monahl glanced at the Morani, expecting them to defend her but, by their strange code of honour, they remained impassive.

As Lachlan suddenly lunged towards her, she tore one of the discs from her necklet and hurled it at him.

It struck him between the eyes and he stopped, as if surprised. He straightened, his eyes growing wide, and then he slumped to the ground.

Monahl stared at him.

All that was visible of the disc was one edge, protruding from the front of his skull.

She looked up at the Morani, suddenly fearful, not knowing what their honour would dictate to them now.

She backed away. She had done what had to be done and now she had no idea what would follow.

She turned and started to run, then suddenly it was as if something hit her in the legs, knocking her to the ground.

For a split second she thought it was the Morani, finally moving against her. Then, as she lay helplessly on the floor, she realised that the ground itself was shaking, rumbling.

Earthquake, she realised.

She scrambled to her feet and ran out into the corridor, rebounding from wall to wall as the ground heaved and shook.

She had to get out into the open.

The garden of fountains had descended into chaos. People were running in all directions, colliding with each other and cursing. Nobody seemed to know what to do, or where to go. The fountains themselves were spraying in all directions as their foundations were shifted, their Charms shattered.

Monahl sprinted through the garden.

Halfway across she had to slow down to avoid falling on the fragmented remains of the grotesque human pyramid statue. The thing had been shaken apart, she saw, and now the fallen pieces were mere lumps of stone, no longer writhing and squirming.

Out, through the main archway exit, one amongst a mad stream of people, desperate to escape the shaking palace.

As she ran, she had time to see that the stone soldiers set into the walls had stopped moving, as cracks spread through them and blocks started to fall away.

Broken statues, nothing more.

Finally, she was out in the open square, staring back with the others. The whole palace was heaving and twisting. She watched as a mighty ripple passed along its length, starting at one wing and rolling along to the other.

Then, a piece at a time, the palace began to collapse, cracks spreading, roofs collapsing, arches folding in on themselves.

As Monahl watched, the palace of Samhab disappeared in a cloud of rising dust, burying Lachlan Pas and all his power-crazed dreams.

She turned away, starting to cry uncontrollably. Not for Lachlan, or his grand city. She was crying for the sudden emptiness inside her: the First City’s energies had died. The tune of the earth had at last fallen silent.

Leeth charged past Ibby and left Gudrun’s house at a run.

He had to get back to the south as fast as possible. He had to tell Chi that Donn had been orchestrating everything, and that the mage was now dead. It put everything that had happened, and everything that might
still
happen, in a new perspective.

He ran through the streets and alleyways, taking the most direct route up the steep inner slope of Laisan’s volcano. When he reached the lip of the caldera he looked out over the Lai and his heart sank. Such an expanse of water to cross...it was so
slow
.

He longed to have Sky with him now, to be able to summon the courser and see the familiar shape of the great flying beast swooping down.

He even looked up to check the stark grey sky, but the only beasts aloft were the gulls and a few crows.

He lowered his head and ran.

Down the hill, through the increasingly crowded streets.

He saw the docks, and kept running.

Onto the main quay, head lowered, still running.

He came to the edge of the harbour and kept going. Suddenly he was suspended in the air above the water. He looked down at the churning waves, closed his eyes and focused.

When he spread his arms, he felt the air driving into them, tugging him up in its updraught.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the smooth grey skin of wings. He looked down: more of the smooth grey skin, chest bulging with flying muscles. He heaved his wings down, and felt them biting into the air, pulling him along.

He had shifted! More dramatically than ever before: he had taken on the form of a courser.

He headed across the spreading bay, and soon he was out over the lake, heading south, heading for the Heartlands.

~

He flew hard through the night, so that by morning he was well into the northern fringe of the Heartlands.

He had to get there. He had to.

And all the time, as he flew, he was aware that a part of his mind was calling out – a constant mental scream – for help.

He flew on, and the red desert rolled away beneath him. He had to get there in time.

And then he saw a speck over on the eastern horizon. Something flying, keeping pace with him.

A short time later, he knew their paths were converging. He watched as the courser grew bigger and bigger.

Sky.

He would recognise those craggy old features anywhere. He broke away from his line of flight and swooped across to Sky. Their wingtips met briefly, softly, then Leeth swung up and clear, and the two of them were tumbling through the sky, like a pair of playful pups.

When they had finished their aerobatics, Leeth pulled away and resumed his southwards course. Then suddenly, he realised that they were not alone: behind them, the sky was dotted with black shapes. He tried to count them and stopped. There were easily two hundred of the beasts, all summoned by his desperate pleas.

They flew on and suddenly Leeth believed that they might succeed.

~

They crossed the battered remains of Samhab and the sight reinforced Leeth’s belief that he might be in time. The place was in ruins, as if it had been struck by some mighty hurricane winds. Buildings and temples lay in ruins and crowds rushed about in the streets. The city appeared to be divided neatly in two by a straight golden line, until Leeth peered closer and saw that it was an enormous toppled tower.

They flew on.

When they reached the battleground, Leeth’s spirit sagged again. They seemed too late. He circled and looked down as small groups of horseriders repeatedly charged on the defences of the rebel army.

Lachlan’s forces were armed with long spears and lances, and at close quarters they were using modern rifles and hand-thrown bombs.

In all the chaos it was difficult to distinguish between the two sides, but a dismaying proportion of those still moving about freely wore the uniforms of the Tullan army.

They had come so close! Donn was dead, Samhab destroyed, yet they were going to lose the battle itself.

He folded his wings and dropped like a stone. Just short of striking the ground, he spread his wings and swooped up to knock a Tullan soldier from his horse.

Seconds later, he was high in the air again, the feel of bones breaking under his impact fresh in his mind. The adrenalin of success – of inflicting damage – pumped through his body.

He circled, and selected his next target.

Now, when he plunged, he was not alone: Sky was at his side. The soldier spotted him this time, but only had the chance to raise an ineffectual arm before Leeth drove into his side, sending him sprawling in the dirt, crying out in pain and surprise.

As he swooped back up into the air, Leeth saw that Sky had been equally successful and, all around, the other coursers, too, were plunging into the fray.

Before long, the soldiers in this part of the battlefield were aware of the risk from the air. As their formations rode in to attack the rebel positions, they were defended from courser attack by horsemen armed with atlats. As a courser dived, a barrage of short atlat spears would be directed at it.

Soon, there were at least twenty wounded or dead coursers scattered across the ground.

Leeth sent an anguished command to his flying brethren and they rose out of range of the Tullan troops. For a moment he had thought their aerial assault might tilt the balance, but he had been wrong. No matter what he did, it seemed the rebel forces were still heading for defeat.

We need more help
, he realised. He summoned all his mental reserves and sent out the thought-shape.
Help!

He led the coursers steadily deeper into the battle zone, heading for the encampment at Porphyr Hill. He had to find Chi, if he could. He had to tell him what was happening.

Soon they were able to surprise a new batch of Tullan troops with their aerial assault, but they learnt quickly this time. The coursers were able to inflict only minimal damage before they were faced with another barrage of atlat spears and, as they drew closer, musket fire.

As he flew, he continued to send the signal for help – to any coursers who could get here, to
anybody
.

The chaos of the battle seemed to centre on Porphyr Hill: explosions and gunfire, fallen buildings, great cracks and pits in the hill itself.

Leeth circled, then he saw a rotund, blond figure, scurrying through the remains of the main camp, stumbling over craters made by cannon-fire. It was Petro.

Leeth looked around, and suddenly understood one of the reasons why there was so much more chaos in the battle nearby: Petro had been casting his visual tricks, conjuring up illusions and confusion to distract the enemy.

He swooped down, and when he drew close, Petro hesitated and looked up, panic written all across his face. Of course: he could not know why this courser was suddenly swooping down on him!

Leeth alighted and channelled his energies into finding his old form. He was aware of Petro watching in amazement, but that was only peripheral. Suddenly it all hurt so intensely. The pain of shifting was almost too much to bear. He remembered Donn’s warnings about such abrupt changes of shape: shift too glibly, or too abruptly, and you would pay the price in suffering afterwards.

He felt hands on him, turning him over. When he looked up he saw Petro’s concerned expression as he peered down at him through his tiny glasses.

Leeth could barely move his jaws, let alone speak.

His vision blurred, and then he became aware of hands hauling at his arms, lifting him up.

“The gods! The gods!” cried Petro in despair.

And as he bounced about across the fleeing Petro’s shoulder, Leeth saw a mass of figures erupting from the forest fringe, and then he understood Petro’s sudden panic.

A surging wall of men, clad only in loin-cloths, charging out of the forest with spears and clubs held aloft. But these were no ordinary men, these were the men of the jungle.

They were men with the heads of jaguars, lips curled back, snarling as they sprinted into the melee.

“It’s okay,” gasped Leeth as Petro dumped him in the shelter of the fallen wall of a mud hut. “They...I’ve seen them before. I know them. I summoned them.”

Petro stared at him, then followed Leeth’s limp wave of a hand.

Together, they watched as the cat-men charged through the fighting, closing in on the Tullan soldiers.

Leeth saw a spear driven hard through a man’s chest, then a great pawed hand follow through and swipe at the dying man’s head, leaving a bloody pulp where his face had been.

The Tullans didn’t know what to do. First Petro’s illusions, then the courser attacks, and now...now men with the heads of jungle cats hurling themselves into the battle.

Nearby, a man raised a musket and fired. One of the cat-men gave a piercing shriek and fell. As the soldier watched the fallen man’s features melting back into human form he was struck from behind by a huge paw, killed instantly.

Leeth stared at the cat-man hunched over the soldier’s body. The cat-man looked up, bared his blood-stained fangs in an expression Leeth recognised from the Lost City, then leapt away, disappearing into the chaos.

Soon, there was not a Tullan alive in the encampment. Those who had not fallen were fleeing for their lives.

“Where’s Chi?” Leeth asked as he started to master the pain of his body. “I have to see him.”

“He’s safe, I hope,” said Petro. He offered Leeth a hand to help him to his feet. “You have some useful friends,” he said.

Leeth peered around at the carnage. “I set them free,” he said. “They had been bound into the stone of their city, but I stumbled across them and freed them. They think I am a messenger from the gods.”

Petro started to smile. “After this little lot,” he said, “there are going to be a lot of people who think something like that.” He put a hand on Leeth’s arm to support him. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and find our brother.”

Monahl rode south across the Heartlands on a horse she had taken from the chaotic remains of the First City.

It was only when she started to pass small groups of fleeing, defeated soldiers, all heading north, that she knew for certain she had been right to follow her vision and go to kill Lachlan.

As the exodus grew, she began to realise the scale of the Embodiment’s defeat. The troops showed no interest in her, as she rode past them. All they seemed to care about was escaping to the north as fast as they could manage.

After a time, she spotted a group of nomads, sitting on horseback, waiting. They watched her as she drew closer. She approached them cautiously, aware of their brutal reputation.

One of them was laughing, hysterically.

Then she saw that there were four soldiers of the Ixitan army sitting with the nomads. She relaxed a little: the Ixitans were allies – Sawnie had trained many of them as scouts, and used them in her guerrilla raids on the Tullan supply lines.

She rode up and greeted them.