Unholy War (16 page)

Sensini frowned. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s likely to keep raining heavily for some time now and a defended ford is hard to cross. What if the Khotri also have magi?’

Seth went to open his mouth then paused.
The enemy have magi. We don’t know how many or where. Frightening.
A few days ago he would have said that was impossible.

He looked at Tyron, who frowned. ‘Who’s to say if the fords will be as treacherous as you say? It can rain anywhere, anytime,’ the chaplain said.

Sensini shook his head. ‘Not here, chaplain. According to the veterans it rains here twice a year, lightly in Janune and more heavily in Junesse. The storm at Shaliyah has brought the Janune rains early.’

‘In Yuros—’ Tyron began.

‘We’re not in Yuros,’ Sensini retorted, his eyes narrowing. ‘I thought you’d have noticed by now, prete.’

Tyron flushed, then closed his mouth.

Seth looked at Sensini crossly. ‘What was your question?’

‘There are two roads from here to Ardijah. One is shorter, but we’re likely to run out of water on the way. I want us to take the more southerly route, which is significantly longer but will bring us alongside the Efratis River. Then we can refill our water barrels as we make our way to Ardijah.’

Seth pulled a face.
How would I know what to do?
Yet this decision could cost lives. He reached out mentally to Tyron.
>

The chaplain glanced vexedly at the Silacian and admitted,
.>

Seth sighed. ‘Very well, the river road it is.’ He saluted the next battle-standard to pass. Fridryk Kippenegger was riding beneath it.
I’m surrounded by barbarians and low-lives
. ‘What else?’

Ten minutes of rattled-off requests followed, far more than the promised three: where in the column the baggage would go, the order of march, where to scout and who should form the rearguard, and a multitude of trivia that Seth was appalled to find a general needed to think about. He did the best he could off the cuff, and finally the irritating Silacian nudged his horse into motion and bounced away.

‘Anyone would think he’s enjoying himself,’ Tyron observed. ‘You were at college with him, weren’t you? How did he ever get into a proper Arcanum?’

Seth curled his lip. ‘He arrived with a sack of money and some mysterious note from his real parent, or so we assume. The principal never even told the other staff about it. His mother was a tavern girl – he never made any secret of that. But his father … who knows?’

‘The by-blow of some rich noble?’

‘Or some mage criminal. In Silacia the only magi are army men and their by-blows.’ Seth stared after Sensini as he trotted away. ‘Every time he speaks, it makes my stomach churn.’

‘Why is that?’

Seth hung his head guiltily. ‘The truth is, my friends and I were cruel to him. Regardless of his baseborn nature, I’m not proud of the way we bullied him and his friend Mercer. One shouldn’t whip animals for the mere pleasure of it.’

‘Trials make us strong,’ the chaplain responded, quoting the
Book of Kore
. ‘You were probably doing him a favour, beating the devils out of him.’

Perhaps that’s why Sensini appears to be coping with this better than the rest of us?
Seth shook his head. What had happened at the Arcanum hadn’t been right; he’d known it then and could see it even more clearly now. ‘What do you think the enemy are doing?’

Tyron shrugged. ‘I don’t know. None of us do.’ He gestured towards the northeast. ‘I’ve sensed gnosis being expended from the direction of Shaliyah, but not a lot, and not near.’

‘It’s not supposed to be like this,’ Seth complained. ‘We’re magi – we’re not supposed to be blind. But now we’re all too scared to try our powers, in case it brings the enemy to us.’ He squeezed his reins tighter. ‘What if we’re walking into another trap? What if I’m going to get us all killed?’

‘I believe in you,’ Tyron Frand said encouragingly.

That just made him feel the responsibility even more deeply.

*

Salim Kabarakhi I, Sultan of Kesh, sat beneath an embroidered canopy, sipping cool sharbat and nibbling on sweets as the victory parade wound its way past his balcony. He looked attentive, as if he was watching every movement avidly, but in truth, his mind was far away. Trumpets blared and people bellowed thanks and praise to Ahm and every apsara in Paradise; the cacophony was deafening, but he barely noticed it. The shimmering sea of rejoicing could have been a thousand miles away. Behind him, two dozen courtiers chattered softly in each other’s ears, little jokes and asides, little stabbing knives of wit. But he was above and apart, as always.

We won. Ahm be praised indeed …

His eyes drifted down a line of spears planted all along the route of the parade. They were stabbed butt-first into the earth, and impaled on the spearhead of each were the gore-caked heads of the fallen magi, eighty-three of them, including Duke Echor Borodium himself, pulled down by Souldrinkers while trying to flee. Salim had the duke’s crown and signet in his treasury, along with a few other personal effects. About a third of the enemy magi had died in battle; any captured by the Souldrinkers were dead and emptied and the rest were now prisoners or fled. The prisoners had been handed over to Rashid’s Hadishah for breeding.

Never have we seen such a victory … But without the Enemy’s connivance, could we have done it?

Salim looked towards the lower balcony, where Rashid Mubarak, Emir of Halli’kut, sat amidst a more martial retinue of cloaked magi. It was his Ordo Costruo renegades who’d conjured the mighty storm that had carved into the Yuros army and aided its destruction. Most were almost as white-skinned as the men they’d fought, lured to the side of the shihad by Rashid’s cunning persuasiveness. He looked the very embodiment of greatness, sitting among his retinue with the majestically beautiful Alyssa Dulayne at his side. His glittering robes outshone all but Salim himself.

In truth, it was your victory, Rashid.
He considered the man’s demeanour. Did the emir still know his place?
Or will his magi turn on me next?
They had always had a strange understanding. Rashid was a mixed-blood mage, and that made him hateful to the common Keshi. He needed a ruler who was prepared to support and protect him. But he was also ambitious – some might say exceedingly so – and to have to defer to a higher authority, especially a human, rankled with the emir, though he tried to hide it.

As if sensing his regard, Rashid’s head turned to him and he raised a goblet in silent toast, then turned back to the parade. Salim watched him silently a moment longer, then followed the emir’s gaze to the opposite side of the parade-route, where a lower balcony faced his. On it stood a more motley collection of men and women, rough-dressed, laughing and cavorting uncouthly, pointing at sights in the parade like children. Not all were Keshi, or even of Antiopia, though most were as dark-skinned as peasants. They had a feral look to them, as if more used to sleeping beneath stars than ceilings. In the midst of them sat a powerfully built figure clad in robes the colour of a scabbed wound. His powerful, sensuous face looked carved out of granite; his skull was shaven but for a black top-knot bound with jewelled ribbons. Gold loops hung about his arms and neck.

Yorj Arkanus. Our so-called ally.

A tall, voluptuous red-haired woman with coppery skin sat at Arkanus’ feet: his mate, apparently: a Fire-magus named Hecatta. To command the Souldrinkers, one had to consume the soul of one’s predecessor, he was told – and in a barbaric twist, mated pairs fought for supremacy together. Arkanus and his wife were the Souldrinker warleaders.

I think perhaps I can still trust Rashid and his magi, but what of these? They are slugskins, for the most part, for all they claim to hate the magi more than we do …

This had been his greatest gamble, sending Rashid to Pallas to try and reach accommodation with the emperor over Duke Echor. The idea had been proposed by a Rondian spy who offered the deadly deal: take on Echor’s army under advantageous circumstances to win a victory that both Rondians and Keshi would celebrate. And it had worked, exactly as planned.

But now came the aftermath: the news of this unprecedented victory would spread and people would rise up against the Rondian garrisons. Some might even be successful, where they massively outnumbered the Rondians. But Kaltus Korion was still in the north, and his far more powerful army was well-entrenched, with strong supply-lines.

The victory at Shaliyah marked the end of the arrangement with the Rondians, leaving him free to go after Korion. But did he dare? Kaltus Korion had destroyed Ahmed hassan armies before. Was it better to wait out the Crusade and then rebuild as usual, this time with the glory of Shaliyah to immortalise his fame?

Salim knew how others saw him; he had cultivated his public persona as carefully as a farmer cultivates his crops. He was a tall man, still only in his mid-twenties, and extremely well-educated. Women sighed over him, but they were not a passion for him: they were for breeding and little else. His was a male world, and he’d grown up learning to read the men around him, assessing their relative threat. His courtiers feared him, something he had deliberately promoted with little acts of dominance as he became confident in his authority. His soldiers loved him. He had been trained to rule with sword and intellect, and thanks to magi-training he could mask his thoughts. He knew how to balance risk with reward, and how to pursue a goal without remorse.

But the decisions to come would be like trying to negotiate a maze filled with cobras. And the first of those decisions concerned the Souldrinkers.

He turned to the small shaven-haired secretary on his left, and whispered, ‘Have Rashid and Arkanus join me in the royal suite immediately this parade is over.’

*

‘What is left of Echor’s army?’ Salim asked, speaking Rondian for the sake of the Souldrinkers. Both were of Yuros ancestry and still favoured the common tongue of the empire. The suite was illuminated by lattice-patterns of orange-pink light from the falling sun. Precious carpets covered the floors; the walls and low tables held trophies and ornaments. Mute servants stood like statues holding trays of iced drink. ‘Did any escape?’

Rashid Mubarak pursed his lips. He too spoke Rondian easily. ‘Our storm came across the front from north to south, with our men and war-elephants shielded within. We crushed all of the enemy except those on their southern flank, who fled into the hills.’

‘Echor’s forces were rabble,’ Alyssa Dulayne purred, stroking a blonde tress from her brow. ‘Just as I said.’ She and Hecatta, Arkanus’ woman, exchanged a look. Two beauties of very different types: one the embodiment of the courtly lady, the other filled with primitive sensuality. They pretended friendship, but Salim could see the rivalry clearly.

Arkanus rolled his powerful shoulders. ‘The survivors have gone south,’ he grunted. ‘No more than ten thousand, my scouts say. Only the deluge following the dust-storm prevented a complete massacre.’

‘The laxity of your watchers allowed their escape,’ Rashid said coolly.

‘Visibility was less than ten yards at the worse of it,’ Arkanus rumbled. ‘Your magi didn’t see them either. Anyway, they can’t have gone far.’

‘They’re heading south,’ Rashid reiterated. ‘Towards Khotri. That is a problem.’

‘Let them,’ Hecatta said in her deep cat-purr. ‘Why should we care?’ She picked up a handful of nuts with her left hand – the social gaffe made Salim wince – and stuffed them into her mouth. These Souldrinkers had apparently dwelt secretly in Ahmedhassa for years, but their manners were barbarous. ‘We can follow wherever they go.’

Salim tapped the table, silencing them all, though the deference from Arkanus and Hecatta seemed grudging. ‘The Emir of Khotriawal has an army permanently stationed across the Efratis River, camped outside the town of Ardijah. Khotri refused to heed the shihad, and they will not tolerate any incursion. If they cross into Khotri, we cannot follow without provoking the emir.’

‘We cannot afford war with Khotri at this time,’ Rashid said.

‘My people acknowledge no borders,’ Arkanus sniffed.

Rashid raised his voice. ‘We must move the bulk of our army north to confront Kaltus Korion, but this matter must be resolved before these blundering Rondians trigger a border war with Khotri.’

Hecatta whispered something in Arkanus’ ear. The Souldrinker warleader nodded thoughtfully. ‘My mate reminds me that our agreement to aid you ended with this great victory, Sultan. My people have done our share, and we have harvested well. We lost many, but gained far more. Dozens more of our youth now have the gnosis. If you wish our service for longer, we will require additional concessions.’

Rashid frowned. ‘Do you indeed? Fighting for Ahm’s holy shihad is not enough for you?’

‘It is of great comfort.’ The corner of Arkanus’ mouth twitched with sarcasm. ‘However, our lineage and ways are traced to Yuros and the Ascension of Corineus, so it does not pull our heart-strings quite so strongly as yours. We have been persecuted here as well. We are your “Afreet” in the flesh.’

‘What is it you want, war-leader?’ Salim asked.

‘Land of our own.’

Salim glanced at Rashid, who’d gone still. To give these beings land to rule could create a monster for future generations: a new enemy with the gnosis, and the need to constantly consume souls to sustain that power. It was such a deal as Shaitan himself might offer.

And what about you, Rashid? What do you think on this?
The emir gave no sign either way. Arkanus and Hecatta waited, their eyes predatory.

Alyssa Dulayne stroked Rashid’s arm and shared a look with him. No doubt they were communicating silently in the way of the magi. Salim envied that, but he would fear a mage wife, and that his thoughts were not his truly own. A ruler had to rule his own bed first. He wondered if either Arkanus or Rashid could truly claim that.

‘I hear you, Arkanus, my friend,’ he said eventually. ‘I value all you have done and all you could do for the shihad, but what you ask is a great deal. I will need to consider it.’ He drew himself upright, looked about him meaningfully. ‘Alone.’