Unholy War (18 page)
Milk came naturally, to her relief, and so did love. She’d heard of women who could not bear to be near their own children; it was the fear of every pregnant woman, her mother had once told her. But she was not so cursed: she adored them both, and she carried their tiny faces down with her into the trackless paths of sleep.
*
When Ramita awoke again, someone had clad her in a shift with a long buttoned slit in the front, to make feeding the twins easier. Alaron was beside her, his anxious face shining, and she smiled, remembering his attentiveness. She wished she could hug him, but she wasn’t sure if a Rondian would find that proper.
‘You’re awake,’ he said, stating the obvious as if it were a miracle.
She had to struggle to remember her Rondian. ‘Yes. Awake. Thirsty.’
He gave her a cup of water, and she drank deeply. ‘Are you in pain?’
‘Everywhere,’ she admitted, ‘but especially …’ She waved a hand towards her groin, and smiled when he looked embarrassed. He was so easy to tease.
‘Are you hungry? You should eat – I’ll ask them to bring food, if you’re up to it?’
Her stomach gurgled eagerly, answering his question, and they both laughed. ‘Shukriya, Al’Rhon,’ she whispered, and when he looked at her quizzically, she added, ‘Shukriya means “Thank you” in my tongue.’
‘I – uh – um … sure,’ he burbled, and went to fetch food. He returned with a bowl of steaming broth, and she managed to finish it before the babies started stirring. She hadn’t realised how starving she was, but seconds would have to wait.
She got him to pass her the babies, one by one, smiling at his aghast look when she undid her shift in front of him. ‘You’ll be seeing a lot of these things, so get used to it,’ she scolded him gently.
He still averted his eyes though, which was polite, and rather charming.
He is a well-brought-up young man
, she decided.
‘What are you going to name them?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know – I’ve not really thought about it,’ she admitted. ‘My husband gave me no names to use.’ She pondered a while, then announced, ‘I will call them Nasatya and Dasra. Those are the names of the twin sons of the sun god Surya. They are healers, and very playful.’ She showed him Nasatya’s neck. ‘This is the eldest, the one with this mark.’
‘Nas and Das.’ Alaron grinned. ‘I like it.’ Then he bent closer and, dropping his voice, asked, ‘Ramita, who are these Zains? Are we safe here? Can we trust them?’
Don’t they have Zain monks where he comes from?
she wondered, a little shocked, then realised,
Of course they don’t!
The Zains came from Lakh originally, and over time had spread over most of Ahmedhassa. ‘Al’Rhon, they are holy men,’ she chided. ‘Of course we can trust them.’
His face clouded. Trust was clearly something he was learning to dole out sparingly. ‘I don’t think taking anyone or anything on trust is a good idea right now. It’s us against the world, don’t forget.’
A faint cough sounded from the doorway and they started guiltily, then flinched in embarrassment when the old monk with the wispy beard and long, top-knotted grey hair bowed and greeted them in Rondian. His accent was odd and his phrasing archaic, as if he’d learned the language from an old manuscript. Perhaps he had. ‘Humbly I apologise, and greet thee formally now that you have recovered. Welcome to Mandira Khojana. My name is Puravai, which means “East Wind”. I am the head scholar of this order of Zain.’ He bowed from the waist, his beard touching the floor as he bent in half. ‘Everything here is at your disposal.’
‘Everything?’ Alaron echoed doubtfully.
‘These are Zain monks, Al’Rhon,’ Ramita told him. ‘They are sworn to the sanctity of life. This is known.’
‘Not by me it’s not.’
‘But it is so, nevertheless,’ Puravai said without rancour, bobbing his head. ‘Are your children well?’ He asked the question of Alaron.
Alaron glanced at Ramita and sent her a silent message:
Ramita bit her lip, then waggled her head:
So be it
. She asked the Goddess to forgive the lie.
Alaron swallowed, took her dark little hand in his big pink one and kissed it. ‘My … uh, wife and I are eternally grateful to you,’ he mumbled unconvincingly.
Puravai bowed again, though his eyes seemed to narrow a little. Ramita could guess why: she did not have a wife’s pooja mark, nor was she wearing dowry bangles. Her arms and wrists should be adorned with gold – a married woman in Lakh would always wear them – but she’d not worn them at home. In fact, she couldn’t remember seeing them since Meiros had died. But she was grateful for Alaron’s protective nature.
Puravai will think we are refugees from the Crusade, illicit lovers fleeing the wars
, she told herself.
But surely that is safer than the truth.
‘I’m so tired,’ she blurted out. She met Alaron’s eyes.
Puravai was apologetic. ‘I am sorry to disturb you. The midwife will check on you, then you may rest.’ He turned to Alaron. ‘Will you walk with me, Magister?’
Alaron agreed hesitantly. He let go of her hand and she felt a little regret at that loss of contact. She’d grown used to her husband’s affection and the past months had been characterised by an aching loneliness – Justina had been many things, but affectionate was not one. She realised that she liked being near this odd young man from Yuros.
As he said: there is just us. And the three most precious things in the world: my babies, and that scitally-thing. The Scytale.
Alaron left with the monk as the bustling midwife returned. She had so many things she needed to ask, but she was too tired. Once again she found herself drifting slowly back into sleep, her questions unanswered.
*
Puravai led Alaron through dimly lit passageways and onto an unexpected balcony bathed in stark sunlight. The air was cold, and their breath trailed them like wispy spirits, haunting their every exhalation. The sun’s rays glinted dazzling on the white snow, casting blacker shadows on the dark, barren landscape; the monochrome palette was broken only by the saffron robes of the monk next to him.
Alaron peered over the wooden balcony railing, taking in the dizzying drop below. Narrow waterfalls tumbled from the precipices about them. Though the sun was at its zenith, it hung low in the northern sky and gave little heat.
‘I sent a party to retrieve your conveyance,’ Puravai said eventually, breaking the awkward silence.
‘The skiff?’ Alaron said in surprise. ‘Thank you. May I see it?’
‘Of course. It is yours.’ Puravai looked sideways at him, appraising him. ‘Do you know of our order?’
‘No,’ Alaron admitted.
‘There was once an Omali holy man named Attiya Zai, who realised that achieving moksha, the release from the cycle of life, required divorce from all earthly matters – the pursuit of wealth, of power, of women, these things which absorb most men. He taught that those seeking moksha must set aside such things and retreat from the world into a simpler existence. This is one such place. Here a man’s only cares are for his immortal soul.’
Alaron thought of all the things his father used to say about Kore monasteries back in Yuros. Parasites, he used to call them. It seemed a little churlish to argue with someone who’d more than likely saved Ramita’s life and the lives of her babies, but the words came out unchecked nonetheless. ‘Must be nice. Who provides your food and clothing?’
Puravai looked at him wryly. ‘The nearby villages barter with us.’
‘What do you trade them? Prayers?’
‘We share our knowledge and wisdom.’
Alaron raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I bet. That’s why you live so close to them, I expect.’
Puravai frowned slightly, but his eyes sparkled a little, as if he liked a good debate. ‘Let me tell you a tale of Attiya Zai. He was very rich, the son of a noble, but he took off his gold and fine silks and went to Imuna, the holy river. He wished only to empty himself of all his cares. He meditated for days, oblivious to all discomfort. His rivals at court came to jeer, but he gave no sign that he even heard their cruel words. One man struck him, and he gave no sign of feeling the blow. Eventually they grew bored and left him there, thinking him mad. Days passed, and only one thing sustained his life: a young boy, who brought him water and a little rice. The boy asked nothing in return, and Attiya Zai had no coins to reward him, so instead he told the boy a great secret.
The boy listened, and as he grew up, he used this secret knowledge and became wealthy beyond all measure. And yet in his last years, he put aside his wealth and after telling his son Attiya’s secret, he retreated to a distant monastery to see out his last days. That boy was born as a peasant, but he died as the Emir of Khotriawal.’ Puravai bowed his head. ‘Wisdom is power, Alaron Mercer. Priests often say that this world has no value, that only the next life is worthy of attention, but Attiya Zai knew that this life is equally as vital.’
‘So you people secretly rule the world?’ Alaron asked lightly.
Puravai laughed. ‘The villagers bring us food and water and we teach their young to read and write, and to count. We study things that take our interest. We prize knowledge, but we also share it. Zain monks advise all the great rulers of Lakh.’
‘What do you tell them?’
‘How to be the best version of themselves they can.’
Alaron was impressed despite himself.
The best version of myself … would I even know what that is?
‘Do you think magi worship demons?’ he asked.
Puravai chuckled. ‘No, I do not. Magisters of the Ordo Costruo have walked these very halls. Antonin Meiros himself has stood where you now stand.’
Alaron swallowed. ‘Really? Antonin Meiros!’ He almost blurted that the great man’s wife was in the room below, but just in time he checked himself. ‘Er … can I ask, is that how you know Rondian?’
‘Indeed you may. Knowledge was shared, and both parties enriched.’ Puravai looked sideways at Alaron. ‘We are isolated here, but news does reach us. We are saddened by that noble lord’s death.’ He touched Alaron’s shoulder. ‘Tell me of you and that poor child.’
‘You mean Ramita?’
‘Yes. What is the true nature of your relationship?’ Puravai’s voice took on a steely tone. ‘Did you force her? Or beguile her with your gnosis? And before you answer, you should know that our observations of the human body and mind have made us particularly aware of the nuances of truth and deception.’
‘No! I would never do such a thing!’ Alaron looked away, trying to frame his story. ‘She was abandoned and alone. I felt sorry for her,’ he started, then, looking at Puravai’s face, he gave up any attempt at lying – though he still resolved not to mention the Scytale. ‘She’s not my wife, but I will protect her as if she is,’ he said firmly.
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘A place Antonin Meiros built: a hideaway. She’s Lakh, but he brought her north.’
‘I am not surprised: he stopped here on his journey south.’
Alaron felt his eyebrows go up. ‘Really?’
What does he know?
He tried to slide a probe into the man’s brain, but to his shock the old man blocked him easily. He turned to face him warily, in case this old man revealed other surprises. ‘The Ordo Costruo taught you.’
‘They did, but we are not magi,’ Puravai said carefully. ‘Lord Meiros found that his ideals had much in common with ours. His people taught us skills to better equip us for the royal courts, where lies and deceits are common. This relationship of monk and mage began many years ago, before even the completion of the great bridge.’
Alaron felt a weird sense of Destiny, whatever that might be, unfolding before him.
To be here, with Antonin Meiros’ widow, at a place her husband has stood …
It made all his questions feel wrong, and for a long time he just stood there, stunned into silence.
The Zain master waited silently with him, unperturbed. ‘How did you come to these mountains?’ Puravai asked eventually.
‘I was trying to take her home,’ Alaron answered, which wasn’t too far from the truth. ‘How do you make people the best they can be?’ he asked, trying to sound sceptical, though it felt important for him to know.
Puravai looked him up and down. ‘By breaking them down and then remaking them, piece by piece.’
‘Even magi?’
‘Most magi believe they are already perfect.’ Puravai’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you?’
Hardly.
Alaron swallowed. ‘I’m going back to Ramita now.’
Puravai smiled, and let him go.
Theurgy: Mesmerism
Do not meet an enchanter’s eyes. Recite prayers or mantras inside your head. Repeat your own name internally, or concentrate deeply on a single thought. Your mind is the king in an elaborate game of tabula. Protect it well.
J
ULIANO DI
T
RATO
, S
ILACIA 555
Eastern Dhassa, on the continent of Antiopia
Safar (Febreux) 929
8
th
month of the Moontide
From his vantage place at the door Malevorn Andevarion stared down at the hunched form strapped to the chair, then looked away, out across the rocky ground and waste-heaps. The Fist had arrived in another Dhassan town that was trying to scratch out an existence in a desert. What passed for the rainy season here was already over: a few weeks of light rain that vanished into the parched earth. Salty haze filled the air from the ocean, a good sixty miles west – it was all that allowed the main crop, some type of peppercorn, to grow at all. Deep wells provided what little fresh water they had, and the villagers spent most nights hauling it up in buckets to feed their straggle-leafed crops. The amount of labour required just to survive was appalling.
Why do they bother with these pointless bloody lives?
he wondered.
Surely even slavery in Pallas would be preferable to this.
The arrival of the Fist’s windship had paralysed the village. The warbird dwarfed even the largest houses and left the villagers awestruck and unresisting. The Inquisitors had taken all their food and as much water as they could carry.
The villagers will have to move or die soon, in all likelihood
, Malevorn thought. From what he could see, that was a kindness.
‘Well?’ he heard Adamus Crozier ask, and he returned his attention to the room. Raine Caladryn was bending over a Rondian captive, her hand on the prisoner’s forehead. Beside her stood Commandant Fronck Quintius and a battle-mage from the local garrison, a stupid young Pallacian named Enott. Enott had been alternately questioning and pummelling the prisoner for a week now.
‘He’s alive, and still shielding his mind,’ Raine reported. She sounded faintly impressed. ‘I could break it down, but it’ll take time and leave him mentally damaged.’
Quintius considered. ‘Is he a mage?’
‘No, but someone has taught him how to protect himself.’ She glanced at Enott, her ugly face contemptuous. ‘This cretin could’ve killed him.’
Enott ducked his head, humiliated before the Crozier and his Inquisitors.
The Fist had arrived at the village that afternoon, summoned by a patrol which had detained a trader who claimed to know a person of interest to their hunt: Vannaton Mercer. Discreet offers of reward had lured the man out from behind the curtain of silence the Merchants’ Guild usually erected to protect their own – typical of the breed, in Malevorn’s view. Enott had decided to start the interrogation early – no doubt hoping for the glory if he’d managed to crack the informant before the Fist had arrived.
We’re lucky he’s alive at all.
Malevorn vaguely remembered Vann Mercer, who’d always attended the family events at Turm Zauberin. Once he’d even brought his wife, who was the mage of the family. She had been left hideously burned from her military service and remained veiled throughout, but Malevorn had glimpsed her arm: the mess of mottled scar tissue made it look as if she’d melted. He remembered how he and his cronies had joked about the unlikely couple, wondering how any man could bear to lie with such a benighted hag, how the Hel he had ever brought himself to mount her. No wonder Alaron had turned out such an imbecile, with parents like that.
Vann Mercer was part of the Noros Revolt. He was traitor-scum and we should’ve hanged the lot of them.
Adamus Crozier stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Sister Raine, we need to know where Mercer is now. Extract what we need, as swiftly as possible.’
Raine’s eyes lit up, though she hesitated a moment. ‘This man is a Guild trader, sir. The Guild—’
‘Let me worry about that, Sister,’ Adamus said airily. ‘Brother Malevorn will assist you.’
Raine ceased protesting. ‘At once, sir.’
‘Meanwhile, get this imbecile out of my sight,’ he added, turning to Enott, ‘before I flog him.’
The Crozier waited until Quintius and Enott were gone, then turned to Malevorn and Raine. ‘Brother, Sister, this is our first lead in six weeks. Every day the danger increases that the prize we seek will show up in the hands of someone who is a genuine danger to the Empire.’
‘Is that likely?’ Raine asked.
‘It is possible. The Scytale must be understood to be used, and there are few who have the required knowledge.’ He preened slightly. ‘I do, of course. But we have no idea what these Dokken might know – and there are Ordo Costruo traitors fighting for the enemy too.’ He looked down at the unnamed trader. ‘Find out what he knows of Mercer. I don’t care how.’
As soon as he’d gone, Raine went to the door, locked and warded it, then pulled the thin curtains across the small window. Malevorn followed her, caught her from behind and clasped her to him. Their steel armour ground together as he nuzzled her neck; she turned in his grasp and her hot mouth enveloped his. They kissed fiercely while his heart began to pump with increasing urgency.
‘Kore’s Blood, I’ve been longing for you,’ she gasped. ‘It’s been weeks.’
They crashed to the floor, still kissing even as they were hiking chainmail skirts and hauling down breeches. He rammed himself into her, grunting and scrabbling on the wooden floor, every thrust making the floorboards rattle, and came swiftly, the pent-up need impossible to deny. But he used his gnosis to keep his cock hard, hammering into her, all need, no finesse, until she came too, her body going rigid and her eyes glassy as she convulsed, panting and groaning, in his arms.
They lay uncomfortably entwined on the floor until they noticed the trader staring at them with equally glassy eyes.
Raine gave a throaty laugh. ‘Ah well. Playtime’s over. I suppose we should get on with it.’
*
An hour later, with the room hastily freshened and their uniforms restored, Malevorn opened the door to admit Adamus and Quintius. They marched in and peered indifferently at the unconscious trader. ‘Well?’ Quintius asked. He prodded at the body, but there was no reaction. Raine had torn his mind apart and he would likely never regain consciousness.
Raine lifted her chin. ‘I am sorry, Holiness. He knows nothing of where Mercer is, or the prize we seek.’ She looked ready to be berated for her failure.
‘You’re certain?’ Quintius asked angrily.
‘He knows nothing, sir.’
Quintius jabbed a finger at her. ‘Your skills have been highly praised, Caladryn. This is a grave failure—!’
Adamus tutted vexedly. ‘Oh, come down off your pony, Quintius. If the man knows nothing, he knows nothing. Would you rather the Acolyte invented something just to keep you happy?’ He smiled indulgently at Raine and Malevorn. ‘This pair are two of our best, Commandant.’
Quintius wrinkled his nose, but he bowed his head faintly, the closest thing to an apology Raine was ever likely to get. ‘Then now what?’
‘Mercer must have been tipped off,’ Adamus murmured. ‘Orders to detain him have been circulating through Verelon, Pontus and Dhassa for months now and nothing. So someone is hiding him.’
‘Jean Benoit?’ Quintius growled.
‘Most likely,’ Adamus agreed, prodding at the broken trader. ‘Kill this fool and burn the body. Hang a few villagers and put it about that they murdered him. I want us gone before sundown.’
‘Where?’ Quintius sounded dispirited, already feeling the weight of blame settling on his shoulders. The Inquisition did not brook failure.
‘South. The Dokken we’re trailing are moving that way so all we can do is follow them, and hope.’
Malevorn looked at Raine.
*
Hopeful or not, the Fist continued the pursuit southwards, seeking anything in the arid landscape that might put them back on the trail of Alaron Mercer and the Scytale of Corineus. By the time they were southwest of Hebusalim, it was as if the Third Crusade did not even exist, and the trail was not just cold: it had vanished completely.
But their luck finally changed somewhere west of Bassaz. Quintius’ farseer detected a flare of gnosis where there should be none, discharged as if in distress, and immediately swung the windship towards it. They found a cohort of Rondian cavalry, out on wide patrol from Bassaz, who’d caught something in their steel traps far stranger than a jackal or a desert lion. The beast lay there trembling: a naked figure, half man, half antelope, caught in mid-transformation. His broken leg was still clenched in the vicious jaws of the trap.
The Dokken’s mind was warded, but he wasn’t Arcanum-trained, and the Inquisition had much experience in such skills. This time the crozier oversaw the task personally, leaving Malevorn and Raine to assist, and the Dokken broke quickly, barely needing the hideous medley of physical and mental agony Adamus had prepared to open the mind of the antelope-man. The Souldrinker was Brician, a strange mixture of feral youth and innocence, as if he were more animal than human and could not believe that one creature could so cruelly use another. He broke swiftly and completely, his mind and body ruined past even gnostic redemption.
‘The Dokken travel in similarly skilled packs,’ Adamus reported to Commandant Quintius. ‘His are all shapechangers. They have a Seeress guiding them, but there are tensions in the pack.’ He grinned widely. ‘This is clearly the right group: they are hunting a Lakh female – and a Rondian male!’
‘Do you recall the Rimoni bint we saw at the island?’ Raine added. ‘They have her in their hands, and she’s the source of a lot of dissent. The prisoner says their packleader is protecting her, and probably rutting her. Apparently these animals don’t like any of theirs mating outside the pack.’
‘More importantly,’ Adamus announced, ‘we know where the pack are gathering next.’ He looked at Raine and handed her his dagger. ‘Well done, Sister Raine. You are commended. You may finish the interrogation.’ Raine bowed over the blade, kissed it then carefully pushed it into the Souldrinker’s heart, while Adamus turned to Quintius and said, ‘We will need steeds for a land attack.’
‘And more men?’ Quintius asked.
‘We have enough for the task. I don’t want others involved in this mission, not when our task is so sensitive.’
Malevorn met Raine’s eyes. The dead Dokken had spoken of almost a hundred of his kindred gathering.
Is just one Fist truly enough?
But the greed in the air was as palpable as the stink of blood, and he knew that no help would be summoned.
*
Malevorn and Raine were on deck, standing just out of touching reach, by mutual agreement – there were too many hostile eyes about. Dominic was with them, his eyes downcast, exuding his usual faint reek of shame. They’d been on the Dokken trail for two more days now, flying southeast. Southern Dhassa was spread below, flat and brown and featureless.
They were flying lower than usual, as if seeking a specific place, and Malevorn was contemplating asking Adamus outright what was going on when Artus Leblanc swaggered past, eying the three of them disdainfully and smirking when Malevorn met his stare. There was something in Leblanc’s manner recently that he didn’t like – it was as if he knew something that pleased him immensely, something that wasn’t going to be good for Malevorn.
Then a lookout shouted, pointing towards the ground, ‘There, Captain – we’ve found it!’
Within minutes the ship was landing beside a large corral. As they descended, the creatures in the pen became clearer. ‘Great Kore,’ Malevorn breathed, feeling a
frisson
of excitement. ‘Khurnes!’
The new intelligent horned steeds had been a cause of much excitement in the Inquisition, but Malevorn’s Fist had not yet been assigned theirs, so it was a genuine boost to land and be given his new mount. The khurne he was assigned was a bay, with a bronze-coloured twisted horn emerging from its forehead, just above the eyes. The horn was wickedly sharp, but it was the eyes that drew him: they were strangely alert and focused. Around them, the rest of the Fist were making themselves known to their new steeds. Raine’s was black with white socks and a blaze, and she was looking at the creature with something like lust in her eyes. He felt the same: the beasts were power and grace embodied.
going to happen.
> She glanced at Artus Leblanc, standing on the other side of the corral next to a white khurne.
‘Be careful around him,’ he warned her softly.
‘I can handle him,’ Raine replied. ‘No problem at all. You watch me.’
*
They rode out the next day. Windships were a magnificent weapon of war, but they were hard to hide, and Adamus wanted to take the Dokken by surprise. The Souldrinkers’ rendezvous point was near the southern coastal range, a week’s ride away; that would give them all time to bond with their new mounts. The khurnes were a delight to ride, with a powerful, flowing gait, and they were capable of following even complex mental instructions. There was something disturbing about their intellect, but their obedience was absolute.
Quintius’ Fist still treated the survivors of the Eighteenth as outsiders, and Leblanc was wearing that irritating smirk whenever he looked Malevorn’s way, but Adamus obviously favoured them still, which gave Malevorn heart as the Fist closed in on the place the Souldrinker prisoner had told them about. They found the shanty he’d spoken of deserted, but filled with signs of recent habitation – by both humans and jackals, the spore so fresh that they could almost smell their prey.
