Unholy War (28 page)

She glowered at his brusque tone, but reluctantly followed, wrapped in her blanket. ‘Tell me,’ she said, keeping her tone businesslike as she joined him before the fire, which he kindled with a gesture.

‘Tonight the pack will mark out a large territory, roughly square-shaped and at least a mile wide. Each participant starts in a corner, diagonally opposite their partner. At dawn, when the sun rises, you are free to move anywhere inside the square. Any who leave it while an enemy lives forfeits the challenge and is killed. The objective is to kill your enemies. You get no weapons, but can use anything you find that was not forged by men. Tooth and claw, the gnosis, and perhaps a rock or stick: these are the only permissible weapons. It is as much a hunt as a fight. The deadliest strikes are those you do not see.’

Cym sucked in her breath. She’d barely begun to learn the gnosis, and Wornu and Hessaz had years of experience. She’d never really hunted in her life, except on the road through Sydia and that had been a disaster. ‘Why is it called the Noose?’

‘Because an hour after it begins, the pack will begin walking inwards, constricting the arena until the combatants are forced together. Tightening like a noose.’

Sol et Lune …
‘Can’t you just resign, if he wants the job so badly?’

‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘To take the leadership is for life. “Until death I will serve”: that is the oath. And I never said that I don’t want the leadership: I do. Huriya is taking this pack into disaster and Wornu will only speed that.’ He set his jaw, his voice intent. ‘Wornu and I are both the equivalent of a pure-blood mage. Hessaz is the equivalent of a half-blood, like you. But both are experienced fighters, and you are not. Your gnosis is no more than I would expect from a yearling.’

‘My father was rich by Rimoni standards, but not enough to afford an Arcanum education for me.’

‘That’s irrelevant. Wornu and Hessaz will show no mercy. But think on this: Souldrinkers group together, like with like, birds of a feather. It is how we teach each other, as we have no colleges. But you’re an outsider, with an outsider’s affinities. Neither Wornu or Hessaz have wide experience in fighting the likes of you. I am a match for Wornu or Hessaz alone, but not them both. We must find a way to use your skills to surprise them. You are the key to our survival.’

Cym felt goosebumps rise at the thought. ‘I’m mostly Hermetic and Air … but my training was secondhand, and erratic at best so I’m mostly self-taught. Morphic-gnosis, healing, illusion … And I can fly in human form, but that’s incredibly tiring. I once crossed forty miles of sea, but it nearly killed me.’ She paused. ‘And I can manage a little spiritualism.’

‘Spiritualism?’ Zaqri looked interested. ‘I have heard of it, but never seen it. How does it work?’

‘You separate soul from body: it’s the strangest sensation, really creepy. You can use the gnosis while in spirit form, but your body is vulnerable, and so are you. It’s really dangerous and I’m not good at it.’

‘But it’s something our opponents cannot do – I doubt they even know about it, let alone have ever seen it. It may give us an opportunity.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Let us explore that.’

*

Cym did not think she would sleep, not with all she’d been through and what was to come. She wanted to flee, but she knew she wouldn’t get far. Flying with Air-gnosis was no match to shapeshifters in bird form. In the end it came down to winning or dying, and with that simple thought came resignation and, after that, sleep.

Zaqri shook her awake, his heavy hand warm on her shoulder. It was dark, and the silence of the night was oppressive, but there was a faint, pale glow in the east. ‘It’s time,’ was all he said.

She came awake immediately and stretched awkwardly. Her loins felt uncomfortably tender, and she smelled of him. She wrinkled her nose as she rose, then found water and washed before shrugging on her thin shift. Zaqri put a bowl in front of her filled with meat and rice in a wet curry gravy and using her fingers, she wolfed it down. She pulled her tangled hair into a ponytail and tried to slow her breathing. To her faint surprise she wasn’t trembling, though she was very much afraid – not of death, but of the bits before, the
losing.
There would be pain, of course, and the looks of gloating triumph on her enemies’ faces, and she dreaded those most of all.

Around her, the land and sky seemed to bloom into vivid life, from the glow of impending dawn to the kiss of the cool air. Then her stomach churned and her bowels clenched and she had to blink back sudden tears at the terror that these were among her last minutes when there was so much more she wanted from life.

‘Purge yourself,’ Zaqri urged. ‘Do it before the contest, so you do not have to in the Noose. You don’t wish to leave spore. And as you purge the waste, purge your fear – they are both just shit you don’t need.’

Feeling like there was a python wriggling in her guts, she fled for the dung hole beyond the camp, squatted and shat while tears stung her eyes. When she returned on shaky legs, Zaqri gave her a calm look. ‘Good. You will be fine now.’ His hand felt strong and solid on her arm. For a second she wished she could just cling to him and hide from the world. He was as solid as the stone beneath her feet as he led her to the middle of the camp. A few of the pack murmured encouragement to him, but no one said a word to her at all.

Wornu and Hessaz waited in the midst of their followers, wearing nothing but loinclothes. They were caked in wet mud from head to foot and were limbering up, breathing deeply, their faces taut but expressionless. Hessaz’s face flared into momentary malice when her eyes met Cym’s, but apart from that she gave little sign that she or Zaqri even existed. But Wornu strode over to Zaqri. Though Zaqri was over six foot and well-built, Wornu, massive and thickly muscled, dwarfed him.

‘My time has come,’ he proclaimed loudly.

Zaqri met him head-on and the two giants started squaring off, eyeball to eyeball.

Cym glanced at Hessaz, who spat in her direction. Cym poked her tongue back at her, then turned away, keenly aware of the eyes on her. A rat-faced woman called Fasha scuttled towards her, dropped to her haunches and sniffed her groin, smirking. ‘They have mated,’ she told the pack. A few whooped, but most sneered.

‘Hope your first and last time was good for you, honey,’ big Darice rumbled.

Huriya appeared, looking smugly pleased with life as she surveyed the four rivals. ‘Are we all ready then? I look forward to seeing this resolved so that we can resume our hunt.’

‘I am ready,’ Wornu rumbled. He reached out as if to touch Zaqri’s chest with his finger, but Zaqri smacked his hand away and they scuffled until all four combatants were suddenly being pulled away in different directions. There was no chance for final words.

Cym stared at Zaqri as she was hauled off.

he sent before he was lost in the pre-dawn darkness. A hand wrapped about her forearm and she looked around to see the greybeard, Tomacz. She straightened and tossed her head.

Tomacz nodded approvingly. ‘That’s the way, lass. Show no fear.’ He led her through the darkness, heading southeast towards the line of hills. It was undulating ground, filled with steep hillocks and gullies, where visibility would be short. Fine stalking territory.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Not far.’ He gestured about him and those of the pack trailing them fell away. ‘Each of the four in the contest gets a second, to guide them to their starting point. Zaqri drew the furthest station, two miles away, which means you have the nearest, opposite him in the square.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’re no warrior, girl. Have you killed before?’

She thought of lying, then admitted, ‘No. Never.’

‘I thought not. But you’re a survivor, I can sense that. Here’s my advice: don’t try to flee the contest. That is suicide. Don’t try to hide – Hessaz could track a bird, let alone a babe in the woods like you. Get to Zaqri’s side as quickly as you can and help him. He’s a match for Wornu.’

She and Zaqri had discussed and discarded this option during the night. ‘How do Wornu and Hessaz fight?’ she asked, to see whether he echoed Zaqri’s views.

Tomacz glanced sideways at her. ‘Wornu is as powerful as a pure-blood mage, but he is not skilled or refined in his gnosis. He uses shapechanging and Earth. He likes to burrow deep and ambush from close range from below. He’s also fond of hurling boulders. He’s almost blind to illusion.’

‘Zaqri thought the same.’

‘Hessaz is primarily a shapechanger, animal or human form, but she has a brain and she is strong in illusion. Zaqri has hinted that you also have skill in that area, but you’ll struggle to beguile her. Her weakness is in Sorcery – anything you know in that field has the best odds.’

She nodded gloomily. It pained her to be the weak link, but she gritted her teeth.
I will get through this. Zaqri will keep – for now I need to keep him alive and myself too
. ‘How long have we got?’

‘The pack will walk inwards at a slow gait after an hour, shrinking the Noose. By midday, you’ll be contained in a circle one hundred yards in diameter. Few of these contests last long after that.’ Tomacz looked at her hard. ‘Don’t let Zaqri down, girl.’

‘He killed my mother.’

‘You cannot fight well together when you are not in harmony. You should have made peace with him. You should have demanded a Weyrgild, like the Schlessen do. Life is too short to wallow in vendetta.’

‘Barbarians might sell their honour for gifts, but I’m Rimoni. It’s blood for blood, that’s all there is to it.’

‘Foolishness. We’re not meant to deal in absolutes. Even the Kore preach forgiveness over revenge.’

‘The Kore have been exacting punishment on my people for centuries,’ she retorted. ‘If you can’t tell me anything that might help me win, then shut up.’

Tomacz sniffed. ‘He should have married Hessaz and fed you to a youngling.’

Rukka te, old man.

They went on in silence until they reached a small dale. A pile of three stones marked her starting point. ‘This is the place.’ Tomacz turned to her and made one last exhortation. ‘Girl, we are not monsters. We have only ever desired the right to live free. But
that one
is pulling us into a conflict that will destroy us all. Wornu is her cat’s-paw. Be victorious and you will break us free of her hold on us. Wornu’s followers will be forced to bend the knee to Zaqri anew, and Huriya will have to go on alone. Fail, and she will drag us all to destruction.’ He glanced towards the east again. ‘You have ten minutes. Make yourself ready.’ He withdrew to watch from a nearby hillock.

She let her night sight fade to adjust for the coming dawn. The faint wind kissed her cheeks as she pulled her gnosis to the surface, warded herself from scrying and primed her shields. Her hand trembled despite anything she did, and the thought that she was going to die very soon overwhelmed her and wouldn’t go away.

Then the glow in the east became a light that stabbed across the plains and shadows sprang aside like night spirits afraid of the sun’s fire. For a few more seconds she was in shadow herself, then as the first rays of light struck her, she leaped into movement, streaming towards her right – towards where Wornu would also be in motion, a mile away across the broken ground.

*

The sun rose, driving the darkness west with swift strokes, and the shafts of light glittered on the raised blades of the Inquisitors in their morning prayer. Adamus Crozier led the
Invocation for Battle
in his clear voice:

Each line was echoed by the kneeling Acolytes of the Fist, some mumbling, others speaking clearly, according to their nature. Malevorn mouthed the prayers silently, his mind on the carnage to come.
Is Mercer here? Or the Scytale? How strong are these Dokken?
He looked sideways at Raine. Her eyes were closed as she prayed aloud. She was a true believer, or she faked it well. Religion was their profession so it paid to look devout. He copied her and raised his voice.
Who knows who is listening?

When he opened his eyes again, Adamus Crozier was looking straight at him. He nodded once and turned away. What it meant, Malevorn couldn’t tell.

One of Quintius’ men had scouted the camp and reported maybe a hundred of the creatures, a formidable number – but many were women, or children not blooded into the gnosis. For fifteen Inquisitors, it was no easy fight, but they would be fine provided they held together and fought as a unit. At Meiros’ island they had discovered that the Dokken were sometimes powerful, but they were poorly armed and barely trained.

They finished their prayers and stood, kissed their blades and sheathed them, then mounted up. ‘Walk silently until I signal,’ Malevorn told his mount as he slid into the saddle. It whickered softly, its ‘assent’ sound.
These things could probably speak if they had a human tongue.
Khurnes were clearly a huge advance on ordinary horses, but they were somewhat unnerving too. But as they wound along what looked like a long-dry riverbed he forgot the matter and let the mission take over.

They were expecting to have to take down perimeter guards, but encountered none: apparently the Dokken thought themselves safe.
No one’s beyond our reach.
He glanced about him, taking stock of his fellows, the remnants of the Eighteenth Fist. Elath Dranid was a shadow ahead. Beside him Raine’s sallow face puckered as she chewed on beef jerky. Most men Malevorn knew didn’t eat before battle, but she was nerveless. Beyond her was Dominic, lost in his own misery, just as he had been since the Isle of Glass. Malevorn felt nothing but contempt for his former closest friend – Dominic was weak, his innocence broken by defeat and death.
And being rogered up the arse by Adamus, of course …