Unholy War (17 page)

Arkanus looked at Rashid, then at Hecatta. Something passed between them, then both men nodded simultaneously. Rashid had once said that the Souldrinker warleaders spent so much time in each other’s minds that it was hard to know where one began and the other ended. All the Souldrinkers Salim had observed were like that: more dog-pack than human group. But it had been Rashid who’d come to him with the Souldrinkers’ offer to aid the shihad, almost seven years ago. It had cost a lot of gold, and now it looked likely to cost land as well.

And perhaps damn my soul in the eyes of Ahm for ever …

A few minutes later, Rashid slipped back into the room. He bowed low to his sultan before saying, ‘Appear reluctant, but give them what they want. We still need them.’

Salim looked through the lattice-work of the shutters towards the sunset. ‘My friend,’ he started, musing aloud, ‘I am wondering who is worse: these afreet, or the Rondians? These Souldrinkers feel no remorse at killing the innocent to replenish themselves. My captains are uneasy about our current arrangement. Many of them saw the strings of half-starved slaves who were led into battle by the Souldrinkers for one reason only – to provide more “fuel” when their powers burned low. At the end they were still chained together, and all dead. What sort of monsters are we allied with?’

‘I have been creating monsters for decades, Great Sultan,’ Rashid said. ‘I have kidnapped female magi and sent them to breed until their bodies gave out. I have had male magi chained to pallets and sent fertile human women to them, again and again, and I have forged their gnosis-wielding offspring into killers. That is what having magi for enemies has done to us.’

‘The Rondian Emperor sent his own uncle to die at our hands. You are saying we should be as ruthless?’

‘Indeed.’ Rashid walked over to the mounds of exotic fruit, plucked a grape from the bunch and swallowed it, a liberty none but he would dare in the presence of the sultan. ‘Dangle a prize before Arkanus and it will blind him to his peril. Offer him …’ He paused, then smiled wolfishly. ‘Offer him Khotri.’

‘Khotri is not mine to offer.’

‘All the better. You won’t miss it.’ Rashid chose another grape. ‘We must march north to confront Kaltus Korion. He will raze Halli’kut if I leave him unchecked.’

Kaltus Korion
. Salim had never met the fabled Rondian commander, but he had seen sketches. The man looked like a hawk. ‘What of the soldiers who escaped the battle? If Arkanus is right, there may be at least two Rondian legions out there somewhere.’

Rashid considered. ‘Conventional wisdom says the only way to defeat the Rondians is by strength – we must outnumber them five to one – but now we have magi of our own. I would keep thirty thousand men here, local men by preference, with magi support from Arkanus’ people. Make him divide his power.’

‘And if the Rondians flee into Khotri territory?’

‘Then let Arkanus follow them. We need to start thinking as the Rondians do, Great Sultan. We have our own magi now, enough to destroy the Khotri if they don’t bend the knee to you. It is high time we demonstrated our new power to the Emir of Khotriawal. It will be a message to his kinsman the Mughal of Lakh as well. Let us not forget that during the last Crusade, the Lakh raided our lands behind our backs. Vengeance is still owed on that account.’

Salim considered his words, then gave his assent. ‘Let it be so. But as the situation may become delicate I believe it will be best if I stay here in the south, to ensure that Arkanus does not attempt to take more than is offered.’

Rashid bowed. ‘You can trust me to act always in your interests in the north, Great Sultan.’

‘Yes, my friend, I can,’ he said. ‘Take the bulk of the army north – after Shaliyah, I believe many more will rally to our banner. Here in the south, I will ensure that the remainder of the Rondians are crushed, and that Arkanus deals with Khotriawal.’ He picked up his goblet. ‘And what price does the Emir of Halli’kut wish? Do you also desire your own kingdom?’

Rashid shook his head. ‘The Rondian magi rule through terror – that is the only way they can rule at all. I do not desire such a kingdom. My magi will be tolerated by ordinary people only if we are aligned to them in service of Ahm and of you, Great Sultan. And once we have ensured that the Rondians have been driven from Ahmedhassa for the last time, we will watch as Arkanus’ kingdom collapses about him, and then we will finish off him and his entire misbegotten brood for good.’

Salim noted the burning hate behind the emir’s words and asked mildly, ‘It took much for your people to fight alongside these creatures?’

‘Great Sultan, the Souldrinkers are a foulness that must be expunged. They are as much the enemy as the Rondians, and one day it will give me great pleasure to exterminate them. But right now, they are a necessary evil.’

‘Then we have made a bargain with Shaitan?’

‘We have indeed, Great Sultan,’ Rashid said quietly. ‘We have indeed.’

Mage-Children

Alaron stared morosely at
Seeker
’s battered hull, and in particular at the sheared-off stumps of the landing struts. Examining the damaged windskiff was a good distraction from looking at the Lakh girl lying moaning on the blanket and clutching her belly.

Brilliant. I’ve probably put her into labour.
He groaned and buried his head in his hands, but that didn’t help.

He had no idea where he was, only that it was Lokistan, a place he knew nothing about. The few maps he’d seen at Turm Zauberin had the considerable swathes of blank space filled in with lots of jaggedly artistic mountains and pictures of winged serpents. He was really hoping that was just artistic license and that the cartographer had had no real idea either.

The gales that had swept them southwards across the Rakasarphal had then hurled them against the rearing walls of stone on the south side of the huge inlet; it had taken an almost superhuman effort to gain enough altitude to avoid
Seeker
being dashed to pieces against the coastal range. But though they’d won a brief reprieve, it wasn’t long before they were enduring a harrowing ride through sheer-sided ravines that had been hacked into the mountain range as if by the cleavers of murderous giants. They’d skimmed cliffs and narrowly dodged treacherous overhangs, only to explode out into this valley, coming in too fast and too low.

The result of their precipitous landing was spread out before him: the skiff had skidded into the rocky slope, shearing off struts and cracking the hull; now it lay there quietly amidst the vermilion poppies that covered the scree and danced in the late afternoon wind. He could see the darkness rushing towards them: the sun was already lost in the clouds that swirled about the peaks looming above them.

‘Al’Rhon,’ Ramita gasped weakly, her eyes clenched shut, her hands groping for him blindly, ‘help me!’

He hurried over to her and clasped her small hand. They were the hardest hands he’d ever touched, rough and callused from a life of manual labour. She was less than half his size, even with the pregnancy, but there was something solid about her, something earthy and tenacious. Her skin was slick with sweat and her eyes were clenched shut as she forced herself to breathe through the contractions.

‘I’m here,’ he whispered, dropping to his knees beside her. He felt helpless and useless as he wiped the sweat from her brow with his sleeve. ‘What do you need?’

She didn’t answer but clutched at his arm. She was breathing fast, her whole form quivering. A stream of words in her own tongue tumbled from her mouth as she exhaled like a bellows, then she sagged against him as this latest wave of pain let go.

‘Hurts,’ she whispered in Rondian, shivering.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he told her. ‘Can you use gnosis to dull the pain?’

‘I’m trying,’ she replied. ‘It’s so cold.’

Cold – she’s cold
. Now she mentioned it, he too could feel the wind biting at his flesh. High overhead he caught flashes of the stark white of fresh snow.
She needs heat.
‘I’ll light a fire,’ he said, then thought,
What the Hel can I burn?

He wrapped her in their blankets as she prepared for the next onslaught, then he scurried about looking for wood, but they were so high up he could find nothing but grass and rock. In desperation, he gathered up the broken stumps of the landing struts and lit them with Fire-gnosis. The orange blossom was stark against the darkness, the swirling winds making the flames dance chaotically.

Ramita leaned towards the heat, beads of perspiration running into her eyes and blending with tears as she fought another great wave of agony. She finished the last of their water and moaned, ‘Thirsty.’

Thirsty. Great Kore, what do I do now?
There had been a stream running down the ravine they’d flown up. He muttered words of reassurance as he held her through the next bout, then disentangled himself. She was increasingly detached, almost delirious, and didn’t appear even to hear him as he prised himself loose. ‘I’ll get more water,’ he promised.

He headed down to the darkening cleft below, sure he could hear water rushing amidst the groaning wind. Using the gnosis for light, he found an icy stream trickling down the narrow valley and filled their water-bottles. When he returned, Ramita drank greedily. ‘It’s passing,’ she whispered, shaking. She let go of his hand and looked at him with a brave little smile.

‘Is the baby coming?’

‘Not tonight – no waters yet. But soon.’ She reached out and flicked his fringe from his forehead. ‘Shukriya, Al’Rhon. You are a good man.’

He squirmed. He didn’t feel like a man at all – and for all her adult manner and earthy pragmatism, she was younger than he was, and about to face the greatest killer of her gender. There were female magi – the Sisters of Assarla – who dedicated their lives to childbirth in Yuros. He remembered his mother telling him that without such healer-midwives, as many as one in three women died giving birth. That was worse than going to war. He wished there was an Assarlian sister here, right now. He’d have kissed her hem in gratitude. ‘Are you hungry?’

She shook her head and closed her eyes. ‘Husband,’ she whispered, pressed against her side, ‘I will make you proud.’

He frowned, then realised she wasn’t talking to him. That her children were the progeny of Antonin Meiros redoubled his anxiety. But her breathing was becoming more regular, and at last she fell asleep.

There was no real way to get comfortable. The ground was hard and rocks jabbed through the blankets. Ramita’s head fell into his lap and the stale, damp smell of her sweating body wafted past his nose. Neither of them had washed in days, but he was getting used to the ripe smells and the itching of soiled skin. He draped an arm across her and without thinking, he bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll look after you,’ he promised.

Time dragged as a crescent of light climbed over the eastern peaks, sharp as a scimitar: Luna, rising over this desolate place.
No one will ever find our bones if we die here
. He wondered where his father was. Vann Mercer – Da – was indestructible … but what if Inquisitors found him? Would they care that he knew nothing of the Scytale? And what about Anise? Or Cym? Had the Souldrinkers killed her? And where was Ramon?

For the first time it occurred to him that everyone he cared about could be dead.

For a long, long moment he just stared into the darkness and wished he was anywhere but here. His free hand stroked the scroll-case containing the Scytale. It didn’t make him feel strong or powerful, just frightened and alone.

Maybe I should just bury it?
he thought.
Or throw it down the ravine? Maybe I could just drop it into the sea?

He knew he wouldn’t, though. For one thing, the artefact had enough wards woven into it to survive pretty much anything. More importantly, it represented his one chance to make this world different, for his life to mean something.

These were just abstract notions though, as wispy as the mists rolling down these bleak mountains. They were certainly less tangible than the dark-skinned girl pressed to his side, snoring and cradling her belly protectively. Right now, it boiled down to one thing:
I’m here for her
.

He twisted until he could rest his head into a fold of the blanket, then he cradled Ramita and closed his eyes.

He woke with sunlight streaming into his eyes, orange-clad men standing all around them and Ramita in labour.

*

Alaron held onto Ramita’s hand as her contractions built towards a new crescendo. There was nothing else he could do. They were in Kore’s hands now.
Or whoever’s
, he added silently, eyeing the monks who came and went with heated water and soft cloths. Their chants echoed distantly through the monastery.

The past few hours had been a blur, since he’d awakened to find the saffron-robed men with long hair tied up in top-knots, and knotted beards that fell to their waists, bending over them. At first he’d thought he would have to fight them, though they looked harmless enough, until Ramita found she could understand their tongue, a variant of Lakh. They were Zain monks, and they’d helped Alaron turn one of
Seeker
’s sails into a stretcher and carried her carefully a mile up the valley to their monastery. He doubted they would ever have found the place themselves, so well camouflaged was it, for it had been carved out of the rocky peaks themselves.

The monks had installed Ramita in a small candlelit cell and immediately summoned a midwife from a village in the valley below. The middle-aged woman had a weathered face and the businesslike air of a farmer during calving, but Ramita was not alone in finding her quiet confidence a great comfort – Alaron was embarrassed at how relieved he was to be able to hand over the business of birthing to a competent woman. Ramita didn’t have to ask him to stay. She was his responsibility and he wouldn’t leave her side until he knew she was safe.

Hours went by, with Ramita screaming like a torture victim one moment and panting softly the next. He felt he knew her to her very core by now: he could number every pore sweating out her exertion, every lank black hair plastered to her forehead, every anguished expression her face would pull. He could never forget the immensely strong grip of her small leathery hands, or the downy softness of her cheek, or the silken tautness of her slick, drum-tight belly. She babbled constantly, incomprehensibly, but he felt as if he was learning that language too. There had always been a part of him that wanted to protect vulnerable things; that need almost overwhelmed him now. He was bound to her; if he could have taken on her pain, he would have, but he couldn’t even ward her from it – a healer-mage probably could, but he didn’t know how.

In the lulls between contractions, her mind wandered. Sometimes she called him Jai, sometimes Kazim, and often, when she remembered to use Rondian, ‘Husband’. So when she finally remembered his own name, it woke him from his dazed reverie.

‘Al’Rhon?’ Ramita’s hand searched for his and he seized it and held it tightly, sending what strength he could. Healing-gnosis wasn’t his affinity, so he just sent energy – she was burning through hers at a colossal rate. He was relieved that her loins were covered by a cloth – he was afraid that what he might see would put him off women for life.

‘Al’Rhon – the baby is crowning!’

‘I’m here! I’m here! Are you all right?’ He had no idea what else to say because he had no idea what crowning meant – except that whatever it was, it was just the
first
baby. She’d told him proudly that twins and triplets ran in her family, and he’d breathed a huge sigh of relief when she’d assured him that she was only carrying two – as if birthing twins thousands of miles from the nearest healer-mage wasn’t bad enough!

‘Where are we?’ she groaned huskily.

‘Safe.’ He got her to sip some water before the next wave of pain came. The midwife jabbered excitedly and Alaron clung to her hands as Ramita’s whole body arched. It was agony to watch her, but he couldn’t look away – it was the least he could do: to bear witness to her terrifying ordeal.

And finally, with an almighty effort, she forced a tiny child out of herself and into the midwife’s waiting arms.

Even then, it wasn’t over. As the infant wailed lustily, protesting this bright and cold new world, Ramita gathered what remained of her strength for one last effort. Only then would she be able to rest, only then could she sleep … And just a few minutes later another screwed-up, screaming little face appeared

Good lungs on the pair of them
, Alaron thought, and an enormous grin plastered itself over his face.

Ramita looked up into his eyes with a look of dazed happiness, and he leaned over and kissed her cheeks and hugged her, totally overcome with emotion and exhausted relief. He felt as proud of her as if she were his sister or his wife. Then the midwife shoved Alaron and the monks towards the door so she could clean up Ramita and the babies.

Outside, he realised the monks were congratulating him as if they were his own children. He tried to explain, then realised the futility and just thanked them, still grinning widely. He fell asleep while waiting for food.

*

Ramita blinked through a haze of exhaustion and stared down at the two tiny bundles at her breasts. She was naked, but the midwife had washed her and made up the pallet with fresh linen. Everything below her waist hurt, but they must have given her something – poppy-juice, most likely – because she was floating in a dream.

I’m a mother … Sweet Parvasi be praised!

The children were neither white nor dark but something in between, a pale gold, and completely gorgeous.
Two boys
. The firstborn was sleeping now – she could tell him by the tiny birthmark on his neck. His little brother still suckled at her right breast, fiercely hungry. Her left nipple was sore, the breast still swollen, but she hardly noticed as she cradled them to her, filled with wonder and disbelief.

My children. Antonin Meiros’ children. Our special babies.

She closed her eyes and thought of her husband: his strong face, his shaven skull gleaming in the sunlight, a wry smile on his face as he chuckled over some little incident. Would they take after him, or her? Or would they be something in-between, something entirely themselves? She could not stop the tears, thinking that they would have no father in their lives.