Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) (64 page)

Gair dragged his gaze away from the frightened nuns and looked around. Oily black smoke billowed into the bleaching sky from another part of the city, with flames leaping at its heart. He checked the eastern sky for Simiel, spotting the edge of the moon’s yellowed disc edging above the rooftops. The smoke was rising to the south of it, which could only mean one place. His heart sank.

‘The Daughterhouse,’ he said, and hoped Alderan had seen sense at last. The breeze tasted of burned paper and regret.

In moments the rest of the city realised something was ablaze. Merchants and their families spilled out of their houses around the plaza to point and stare. Children whooped excitedly, the flames lighting up their eyes and laughing mouths. Even though they were only children and knew no better, Gair felt sickened.

More in hope than expectation of an answer, he flung out a hail attuned to Alderan’s colours. After a heart-stopping pause, the reply came back:
Get out of the city
.

Sensing Gair’s anxiety, Shahe started to prance and the Superior tightened her grip on his waist.
Alderan—

No time – just go, damn you!

Abruptly the familiar colours of brandy and jasper turned muddy and dim. Every instinct screamed at Gair to go back, even though the flames and the thickening column of smoke said the Daughterhouse was already beyond saving.

Are you all right?
he sent. Only silence answered.

Holy saints, no.
Alderan!

All he heard was distant cheering, distorted by the intervening buildings; an ugly, vicious sound, like the drone of some poisonous insect. He sent out one last hail, then reluctantly let Alderan’s muted colours go.

Guilt assailed him. ‘I should go back. There might be something I can do—’

He made to turn the horse the way they’d come but the Superior squeezed his arm.

‘You saw the size of the crowd at the gate,’ she said. ‘You’d never get through.’

‘I can’t just leave them!’

Those blasted books. Shahe danced, and he stared at the smoke staining the sky. If anyone had been caught inside the Daughterhouse, they were surely lost now.

Her fingers dug into his biceps. ‘My da used to say you have to do the job that’s in front of you. Besides, the lepers’ gate we used is on the far side of the preceptory. They may have escaped.’

She was right. She had to be, but somehow he couldn’t make himself believe it, and his shoulders slumped. ‘Maybe.’

Even to his own ears his voice sounded strained, and no amount of swallowing would clear the tightness in his throat.
I should never have come to Gimrael
.

‘We’d best keep moving,’ he said, when he could speak again. ‘The sooner we get out of the city, the better.’

Clicking his tongue at Shahe, he started her across the square. Nuns appeared from side streets in twos and threes, clinging to each other and darting fearful looks back over their shoulders, his urgings forgotten. Not that it mattered now; with destruction to watch no one was paying them any heed as they converged on the alley beside the oil-merchant’s shop.

The cheering abruptly grew louder, as if the crowd had turned a corner onto the main street into the square. Chanting rather than cheering – Gair made out words and phrases repeated over and over, though the only one he understood was
ammanai
. The chant growled and snarled, the crowd a beast with a thousand voices.

He dared a glance over his shoulder. A mob surged into the square from the southeastern corner carrying a bare-chested, thickset man on their shoulders who was brandishing an axe above his head. A yellow sash circled his waist. Ululating women danced around him, skirts swirling, their veils gone. Long black hair flew like banners.

A victory mob. He urged Shahe to a brisk walk and soon caught up with the others in the relative safety of the alley’s gloom. There he handed the Superior down from the mare’s back and twisted in the saddle to watch the Cultists manhandling something to the front of the crowd. Bronze leaves gleamed in the early light: the Oak from the Daughterhouse chapel at a guess. It clattered onto the cobbles and was lost in a chanting, stamping mêlée. He turned away, glad the nuns couldn’t see over the heads of the crowd.

Three more figures clustered uncertainly in the mouth of an alley directly across from the oil-merchant’s. At a nod from Gair, the Superior waved them over. With the citizens so intent on the Cultist mob, they hiked up their robes and ran into the arms of their sisters. He counted. Fifteen now on this side of the square, still less than half the number who had set out. Standing in his stirrups, he searched the other streets he could see that opened onto the plaza and found the shapes of four more nuns, maybe five; the pre-dawn shadows between the buildings prevented an accurate count.

He turned to the Superior. ‘Take this group to the gate. I’ll bring the rest.’

She shook her head. ‘Sister Martha can take them. I’ll stay here until I know they’re all safe.’

‘I don’t want to have to choose between protecting you and protecting your flock if this crowd turns ugly.’ As soon as the words left his mouth, Gair realised arguing with her would be fruitless. She simply folded her hands in her scapular, serene and immovable as a marble saint. ‘As you wish.’

He swung Shahe around and walked her back out into the plaza. At the sound of hooves on the cobbles a few spectators glanced towards him; when all they saw was a lone deep desertman ambling his horse across the square their attention quickly returned to the spectacle in front of them. By the time he reached the other side, the waiting nuns had increased in number to seven and crowded about his mount.

‘We saw smoke. What’s happening?’ demanded one. Her sagging veil revealed a pinched, pale-lipped face.

‘There’s a fire on the other side of the city,’ he said, unsure if he should tell them the absolute truth. He needn’t have worried.

‘The Daughterhouse,’ the nun moaned, clutching at Shahe’s reins. ‘They’ve burned the Daughterhouse!’

The black mare tossed her head until Gair disengaged the nun’s hand. ‘Easy, Sister. I’ll see you safely out of the city, don’t worry.’

She seized his arm, her fingers cold with fear. ‘Merciful Mother, what are we to do? Where do we go? They’ve burned the Daughterhouse!’

Sobbing, she slumped to her knees. At once Resa was beside her, an arm around her shoulders. The older nun clung to her and buried her face in the girl’s robe.

Gair searched the group for other familiar faces but found none. ‘Where are the rest of you?’

A nun carrying a sack with bulky, awkwardly shaped contents answered him. ‘Sofi took them further up towards the Lion Gate. She said she used to visit the poor by the north wall and knew another way through.’

Damn it. They were three separate parties now instead of one. At least when the sisters were all in the same place there was a chance he could shield them if it came to it, but not any more. The Song surged restlessly in response to his unease.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll cross the plaza together whilst everyone’s busy watching those Cultists. I’ll stay between you and the crowd, so keep together until we get to the other side. The Superior’s waiting for us. Ready?’

Six nods, of varying degrees of confidence. The weeping nun was still sobbing into Resa’s shoulder.

‘Let’s go.’

As one, they moved out into the plaza. Gair kept half an eye on the Cultists as he rode across. The man with the axe was holding court, the bronze Oak trampled to pieces at his feet. Shouting in Gimraeli, he scooped up a handful of the twisted metal leaves and brandished them at the crowd before flinging them back to the ground. He spoke too fast and too passionately for Gair to pick out even the bones of what he said, but the gestures with fists and axe, the growls and cheers of the crowd that greeted his words, made his meaning plain.

Just like in Zhiman-dar. Nothing but contempt for anyone who does not share their faith
. Gair’s stomach soured. The Superior was right about that as well: they were vandals – and if they were prepared to attack Church property, it was surely only a matter of time before they turned on the Empire’s merchants, if they hadn’t already.

The thickset man thrust out an arm, pointing at him. No, past him. Gair looked up the main street, his hand already closing around the hilt of the
qatan
. Several men in yellow sashes were swaggering into the square, grinning widely, their arms spread in welcome. The Cult followers began to cheer, but all Gair noticed was the way one of the yellow-sashed men was limping.

The moustache. The cocky, look-at-me strut. His fingers tightened on his sword hilt, the cut along his ribs burning with the memory.

‘Stay with me, sisters,’ he hissed. ‘Keep walking. Don’t look up!’

The sister with the awkwardly shaped sack did just that. She squeaked and stopped in her tracks. Another walked into the back of her, the impact jolting her hard enough to tip the bulky sack forward in her arms. From it fell a thick, heavy book, landing with its cover open at a gorgeously coloured frontispiece of the Goddess on the oak tree.

Another sister snatched the book up, but the limping man had seen enough. ‘
Ammanai!
’ he snarled, pointing.

The nuns froze in place.

‘You godless ones are not welcome here.’ He drew his sword. A heartbeat later the rest of the yellow-sashed warriors followed suit.

Gair swore and wheeled Shahe around to put the nuns behind him, his heart sinking. No more than a hundred yards separated them from the oil-merchant’s shop and the robed figures clustered in the shadows at the alley’s mouth, but it might as well have been a mile.

He drew his sword and let it hang down by his leg, ready but not threatening. There was little to be gained by offering the Cultists any provocation: seven or eight swords afoot were more than a match for one man on horseback. His mount would be hamstrung in a matter of seconds, and he would barely slow them down enough to buy the women time to escape – never mind what would happen when the rest of the crowd beyond the well realised what was happening. His spine prickled, anticipating the bite of that axe.

Holy saints.

Quelling a sudden flutter of fear, he addressed the moustachioed one, who was clearly the leader of the group.

‘There doesn’t need to be any trouble,
sayyar
,’ he said. ‘Let the women pass.’

‘Their presence is an insult to Lord Silnor, and they must answer for it,’ the fellow spat. His eyes narrowed in recognition. ‘You! I thought I’d finished you yesterday.’

Bluster – the fellow was saving face in front of his men. It was tempting to offer a pointed rejoinder, but Gair held his tongue. Baiting the man would only provoke him, and there was still a chance that the situation wouldn’t come to blows – but it did no harm to be ready just in case. He took a deep breath in, all the way to the bottom of his lungs, then let it out slowly, settling himself just as if he was about to work the forms in the practice yard.

‘Let the sisters leave,’ he said.

The Gimraeli sneered. ‘I take no orders from northern barbarians. I answer to my God alone!’

Gair opened himself up to the Song. Power sang along his nerves and set them tingling. Just holding it sharpened his senses to almost painful clarity, set them alive to the weave of his clothes against his skin, the smell of baking bread on the morning air and the warm horse beneath him. Behind him, one of the nuns prayed to the Goddess for protection in a fervent whisper, and he heard every word as if he was kneeling at her side.

‘Let the sisters leave,’ he said again, ‘and we can all walk away from here.’

‘And if I don’t?’

A smile tugged at his lips, feral and unexpected. ‘Then we don’t.’

Moustache growled something in his own tongue and the warriors behind him began to fan out. ‘Stand aside, Churchling, or you will die here!’

As the yellow-sashes spread out, Gair could no longer keep them all in view at the same time. If one or more of them got behind him he’d be finished, but he no longer cared. Alongside the power of the Song, a little madness bubbled in his veins.

Raising the
qatan
to his lips he kissed the blade, the way the Knights in his childhood storybooks had blessed themselves before battle. His blood was singing.

‘Then so be it.’

Gesturing with his sword, Moustache barked another command that sent the two outermost pairs of his men surging into a run. Gair flung a shield over the nuns and gave Shahe his heels to charge the nearest pair, unable to engage them all simultaneously. It was time to dance.

The
sulqa
barged the first man off his stride with her shoulder. Gair swung hard at the other and the sword took the Gimraeli in the side of the neck with a disconcertingly wooden sound. The man dropped without a cry.

Whipping his blade free, Gair heeled the mare to face the first Cultist again as he recovered himself. He met steel with steel, parrying once, twice, as quick on his feet as a dancer. His blade snaked out beneath Gair’s guard and only Shahe’s battle training spared her its bite. The
sulqa
jinked and lunged with her teeth, and as the Gimraeli stepped sideways to dodge her, Gair reversed his too-high blocking stroke into an upward sweep of steel that opened the other man’s chest to the bone.

The Gimraeli’s screams attracted the attention of a few outliers of the crowd on the far side of the well. Several figures exchanged glances then began drifting across the square, but Gair had no time to spare for them. Two other yellow sashes of the four sent against him remained unaccounted for. He wheeled Shahe again, his blade held ready.

They had separated in an attempt to flank him: too far apart to get in each other’s way, but too close together for him to target one without leaving himself or his horse exposed to the other. He swore under his breath, reining Shahe a couple of steps left then right as he tried to keep both swordsmen in sight. Behind him the nuns were praying fervently, and he hoped their prayers would be heard. A little divine intercession would not go amiss. Time was running out.