Unholy War (73 page)
That’s if he’s still alive.
Neither her blanket or shift had been washed for days and they reeked – there was no washing water and there hadn’t been any food for two days. The number of ‘work gangs’ taken out into the wilds had increased in the days before Ramon’s army arrived and all her escape plans had foundered because of the patrolling Inquisitors’ vigilance. She’d been trapped, as helpless as anyone else in here, and that frightened her.
She hung back as the new Rondian legionaries rolled wagons into the pen and began handing out food. She could feel Water-gnosis being expended at the watering hole. Even though she was now supposedly safe, the soul-draining energy of the camp continued to grip her. She felt no volition to move, just cradled her stomach and wondered what on Urte to do.
A mounted man rode past, a slight figure in the robes of a battle-mage, and the Ahmedhassans recoiled from him in fear.
A mage, close up
. She flinched as well, thinking only of hiding, but her face was drawn upwards.
It was Ramon, but his eyes slid blankly over her and belatedly she realised that she was still wearing her illusory disguise. She cancelled it at once, without even checking to make sure no one was looking. As her features remoulded a woman who happened to be glancing her way gasped, made the sign against the Evil Eye and started backing away. But Ramon had felt the expenditure of gnosis and spun in her direction. ‘Cym?’ he called, ‘Cym!’
He dropped from his saddle and flung his arms around her, but she just stood there in a kind of stupor, while the refugees edged away.
‘Hey, Sneaky,’ she whispered, choking up. ‘It’s so good to see you.’ Then her inner dam shattered and she cried so hard it physically hurt, her eyes stinging and ribcage aching with the force of her sobs.
For an instant Ramon looked shocked – of course, in her spiratus form she’d been so assured – but he must quickly have realised that of course she’d been another person then, out of her body, free to run. Here, she was a captive of flesh and fear, so he hugged her close. ‘It’s okay, Cym-amica, it’s okay. I’m here.’
‘Since when has that ever made things okay?’ she murmured, trying to recapture the strong, spiky person she thought she was. ‘It usually means disaster.’
He gave her another squeeze. ‘That’s my girl. Come on, let me take you away from all this.’ His face was full of questions, but she was relieved when he restrained himself, even though she could see it took a visible effort. ‘Come with me.’
He drew her over to his horse and with one arm around her shoulders, the reins in the other hand, forced a way through the crowds, ignoring the dark faces peering curiously at them. Behind them she could hear raised voice, and one frightened woman – the one who’d seen her change – started shrieking about afreets and Shaitan. But legionaries were stepping in to surround them, rough-looking men encased in leather and metal, their stubbly faces weathered and peeling, and then she and Ramon were outside the pen and standing before a heavily pregnant young Rondian woman with a cascade of brown ringlets and a lot of freckles. She waddled forward and took Ramon’s hand. ‘Who’s this, Lovebug?’
Ramon coughed and stepped away, ignoring Cym as she mouthed, ‘
Lovebug?
’ at him. ‘Sevvie, this is Cymbellea di Regia. Cym: this is my … er … Severine.’
Cym eyed the woman cautiously. ‘Hello,’ she said. Severine looked nothing at all like she’d imagined any lover of Ramon Sensini’s.
She’s Pallacian! He’s Silacian! They’re pregnant! Sol et Lune, but war breeds strange bedfellows!
The two women looked at each other awkwardly, and as her eyes rested on Severine’s distended belly, she realised Ramon’s lover was doing the same. Apparently Severine saw little she liked. She looked accusingly at Ramon and demanded, ‘Who is she to you?’
‘Cym’s an old friend, from my days in Norostein.’ He stepped between them. ‘She was caught up in the camp – she needs food and drink. She’ll be coming with us.’
Severine’s hand went to her mouth, her pretty face twisted and she spat out, ‘Then feed the ugly bint yourself!’ and stomped away. Behind her, a towering Schlessen and a grey-haired woman failed to conceal their snorts of laughter. After a moment the grey-haired woman hurried after Severine.
Cym watched Ramon as he wavered between pursuing Severine or staying with her. ‘That went well,’ she observed dryly.
Ramon coughed. ‘Si, si – she’s, um, well, she’s a little highly strung just now,’ he tried to explain. ‘She’s due in a couple of weeks.’
Cym’s hand went instinctively to her own belly, but Ramon said nothing – then he stiffened, his eyes going to something behind her, as a big hand fell on her shoulder. Her whole form quivered with utter, absolute relief as she whirled about, then Zaqri pulled her into his arms and engulfed her. She inhaled his sweat, the smell of sun-soaked cloth and hair, the hint of lion fur and blood, and drowned in the heat of him, revelling in the tensile steel of his muscle and the mountain-like solidity of his chest. She clung to him, struggling to breathe, repeating over and over,
Sol et Lune, he’s alive
. She didn’t know whether to cry with joy or to scream in rage. Part of her had thought that the gods had killed him to solve her vendetta dilemma, but she would still have to deal with it all herself. For now, she was just glad he was alive.
Mater Lune, forgive me, but I don’t want him dead. I have to find another way.
Ramon stammered something, then straightened. He was looking Zaqri over with wary eyes, and so were those with him. Magi and Souldrinker, face to face, studying each other, waiting to see what might happen here. Some looked appalled, others, like the giant Schlessen, merely curious.
Then Ramon thrust out a hand to Zaqri. ‘Ramon Sensini,’ he said, ‘of Silacia.’
Zaqri looked ill at ease, more than she had ever seen him, but he too extended his hand. ‘I am Zaqri of Metia. Cymbellea’s mate.’ They gripped hands tentatively: mage and Dokken, but neither typical of their kind.
‘Believe it or not, you’re not the first of your kind we’ve encountered,’ Ramon observed, removing any doubt Zaqri might have that he knew what he faced. ‘Many fought for Salim at Shaliyah.’ His words were like the tentative opening jabs of a fencing duel, feeling out the opponent’s defences.
‘There is an alliance,’ Zaqri said carefully, ‘but that does not concern me. My only concern is for Cymbellea, and our child.’
Cym quivered at the way he said it, feeling trapped by the gazes of the listening magi who suddenly stared at her with blank, accusatory faces, disgust and horror writ clearly as what he said sank in.
Yes, I’ve rukked a Dokken.
She lifted her head.
Well, what of it?
Silence clogged the air.
Ramon looked from her to Zaqri and back. ‘We’re marching west. Cym-amica, you are welcome to come with us.’ He didn’t need to add that Zaqri wasn’t.
She looked up at Zaqri.
I could walk away from him. Is that punishment enough for him, Mother?
But there was also Alaron and the Scytale, unmentioned so far but their existence heavy in the air between her and Ramon. ‘Can we talk?’ she asked, her voice low. ‘Alone?’
Ramon’s brow furrowed with worry, but he said, ‘Of course.’ He looked up at Zaqri. ‘If you don’t mind?’ he said levelly.
Zaqri’s hands loosened their grip on her reluctantly, then he turned her, tilted her head and kissed her lips and her heart leaped in her chest as he did so. The taste of him was like a sweet liquor on her tongue.
Claiming me before them all.
She claimed him also, open-mouthed and coiling her tongue about his.
‘I will await your decision here, at sunset,’ he said softly. Before she could respond, he turned and walked away.
*
Sunset. Zaqri waited where he’d said he would, in the no man’s land outside the pen. The gates were open, but no refugees had yet left – why would they, where there was food and protection here? The Ahmedhassans were pleasantly puzzled that this new Rondian force was not hostile, and in fact had a baggage train full of willing Khotri women. But those from the same villages or towns were gathering to discuss how they might return home. Zaqri remained aloof, waiting fretfully for his mate.
‘So, Zaqri of Metia,’ someone greeted him in Rimoni. It was that ferret-faced battle-mage, Cymbellea’s friend, Ramon Sensini. Cymbellea was nowhere to be seen.
Zaqri stood, swallowing. ‘Magister Sensini.’
‘Please, sit again. I’ll join you.’ Sensini went over to a mound and sat, then pulled out a flask of liquor and offered it to him. ‘You can call me Ramon.’
Zaqri looked about. ‘Where is Cymbellea?’
‘She’s gone down into the women’s camp. Something to do with her condition.’
Zaqri had to restrain himself from leaping to his feet and running to find her. ‘Is she going to stay with your army?’
Ramon sighed, his face rueful. ‘She seems to think that she has to go off and save my friend Alaron. You know the name?’ When Zaqri nodded, he went on, ‘She doesn’t know where he is, but ten to one he’s in worse shit than we are, knowing him.’
Zaqri felt his heart begin to pound.
She’s staying with me … Thank you, Pater Sol! Thank you thankyouthankyou …
‘I take it you know what is at stake?’ Ramon enquired.
‘The Scytale of Corineus. Freedom for my people.’
Ramon looked thoughtful. ‘I’d not thought of it in that way, but I suppose you’re right: it would be salvation. Perhaps it’s even the right thing to do.’ He studied Zaqri. ‘There were hundreds of Dokken at Shaliyah, led by a man called Yorj Arkanus. Do you know him?’
‘Only by reputation.’
‘He was an evil cunni who tried to sell me his wife to save his own life.’ Ramon looked disgusted at the memory. ‘So I killed him.’
Zaqri blinked. Arkanus had been the warleader of the eastern Dokken, the one who’d drawn their whole Brethren into the shihad.
If he’s dead, who is leading … ?
‘I have seen and read and heard nothing but evil about your kind, Souldrinker,’ Ramon went on. ‘Every holy book, every tale handed down, everything I myself have seen is telling me to lock you up while we decide how to kill you.’
Zaqri straightened. ‘I’m not so easy to catch, Magister.’
‘Easy there. You see, Cymbellea is like a sister to me. She says that you’re a good man, the best of your kind. She begged me not to have you arrested, and I agreed. I’ve spoken to General Korion and he accepts my word. The proviso is that you’ll not harm even the lowliest Ahmedhassan refugee here, and you’ll be gone by dawn.’
‘With Cymbellea?’
Ramon nodded slowly, painfully. ‘With Cymbellea.’
He closed his eyes to hide the sudden sting of tears.
‘Where will you go?’ Ramon asked.
He thought for a few seconds. ‘East – always east. There are Inquisitors hunting your friend, and Dokken too.’
Huriya Makani. Wornu and Hessaz. My own pack – no, mine no longer
. ‘We don’t even know if he is still alive.’
Ramon looked at him with misgivings writ large on his face. ‘I wish I could come with you, but we’ve got thousands of men here, and now all these refugees. And my lady is about to give birth to my child. I’m honour-bound to see them home.’
‘I understand that. I was a packleader once. Leadership is a responsibility.’ He added slowly, ‘And a child is a precious thing.’
‘Si. It is indeed.’ Ramon looked as if he’d just confirmed something to himself, something he’d hoped for but hadn’t entirely expected. ‘I will wish you buona fortuna, Zaqri of Metia. Give Alaron my best when you find him.’
They stood and shook hands, then the little battle-mage strolled away.
Zaqri turned, his heart pounding, and ran back to the camp.
There was an area set aside by common agreement for women only, but he strode unheeding into it, wearing his true face and skin colour, heedless of the looks they gave him as he approached. He wiped his sweating palms on the apron of his kurta, feeling his nerves grow as he walked.
She’s going to come with me! She’s going to have my child!
He remembered all the years with Ghila, all the still-births, then the final realisation that she was barren. The tears, the blame, the recriminations, the making up, the tentative finding of a new peace between them, despite the emptiness of making love when they both knew there would be no harvest from the sowing. He wondered if it had made her reckless in battle, until she let herself become separated from the others at the Isle of Glass. She had died unavenged as well, although Cym seemed to have overlooked that. He had a strong, uncomfortable feeling that this Alaron they sought might have been the one who took Ghila’s life.
How will I feel when I finally meet you, Alaron Mercer? I expect Cym to put her vengeance aside, but can I do the same?
When he reached the middle of the women’s camp and the people clustered there saw him, he realised something was wrong. It was in their eyes, the fear and the knowledge. He looked around for her, opened his mind to call.
that way
… somewhere in the heart of the press and bustle.
He ploughed into the mass of women, his mind conjuring images of lynching and murder, of her body torn and ravaged, her heartbeat shuddering to a halt. All around him the dark faces of the Dhassan and Keshi refugees stared at him, their eyes hostile. He shoved them aside, roaring in terror and fury, shouting her name.
He found her right in the middle, lying on her back on a blanket, her shift hiked up to the waist and her legs spread, shrieking in pain and loss. The stink of iron and viscous blood painted the air red. A clutch of old women were gathered about her, some holding her down, others sloshing water. One held a bloody stick.
‘
NOOOO!
’ He fell to his knees, blazing gnosis fire into the skies, assaulting Heaven. ‘
MATER LUNE, NO!
’
Perhaps she heard, the goddess of mad acts, for she was certainly present, but her work here was done.
