Unholy War (44 page)

‘Can’t you—?’ Bowe waved his hands in a mystic way.

‘Waste of energy.’ Ramon turned to Lukaz. ‘Smash it. I’m going to use that back stair. Who can you spare?’

‘Harmon, Ollyd, Tolomon.’ Lukaz pointed. ‘Follow the boss. Keep together, stay alive.’

Ramon sprinted back into the courtyard above while the men began to batter at the double-doors with axes. The archers on the neighbouring rooftops had to be busy elsewhere, as they traversed the garden without a shaft coming their way. Ramon dealt with the lock and the door flew open to reveal a circular stone stairwell.

‘I’ll take the lead, Magister,’ Harmon said instantly, his usually bland expression animated as he darted past, followed by Ollyd and then Ramon, with Tolomon bringing up the rear. At the first landing the door opened onto a long corridor. There was noise from both directions and the legionaries looked at Ramon questioningly.

He probed in both directions, seeking the mental touch of the mage who had warded the doors holding back Lukaz’s men. After a moment he had him: somewhere below.
This house belongs to someone important
, he thought to himself.
It was the biggest building inside the walls and it’s got a well-tended roof garden.
He thought for a moment, then ordered, ‘You three: find the doors the others are trying to break through and join them. I’m going below to find the mage who set those wards.’

‘What if they’re still there by the doors?’ young Tolomon asked nervously.

‘Don’t worry, he’s underneath us.’ He looked at Harmon. ‘Take the lead, hit them hard – and shout if you need me.’ The legionaries saluted with varying degrees of formality, then ghosted away down the corridor.

Ramon took a deep breath and headed down the tower staircase into the darkness.

*

Kaltus Korion always said that timing was paramount. Seth remembered everything his father had ever said to him – every slight and condemnation as well as every opinion or fragment of advice – and those words popped into his mind now because at the moment he staggered forward, clutching the battle-standard like a crutch, a windskiff flashed over the top of the gate-tower and a burst of fire engulfed one of the four ballistae. The craft was almost instantly peppered with mage-bolts, but it burst through unscathed, with the counter-fire doing nothing more than illuminating the night sky behind it. He was sure he heard Baltus Prenton whooping joyously, even as half a dozen Dokken became giant rooks and launched themselves in his wake.

The skiff’s attack was enough to disrupt the fire from above –
timing!
– and Seth found himself running towards the gates, hurdling dead bodies under virtually no fire. The next wave, mostly Pallacians of his own maniple, swarmed after him, roaring his name as they slammed their ladders against the walls and swarmed upwards like beetles. He blasted the first archer he saw with mage-fire, then another, and another, trying to make the defenders keep their heads down. He dimly recalled that this attack was supposed to be a feint, but he wasn’t really sure what that actually meant when it came to it and Sigurd Vaas was gone so there was no one to ask. The rankers themselves were pushing the action forward and he was so astounded and impressed by their reckless courage that he wouldn’t have called them off even if he’d known how.

It was almost frightening how skilled the rankers were at dealing with magi. The Dokken Fire- and Earth-magi were hurling flame and boulders, doing awful damage, but the legionaries locked their big shields together, braced against the ground and hurled their spears and javelins and arrows, forcing the magi to defend themselves from physical missiles and trying to wear down their shields, all the while having to deal with direct gnostic attack. It was attritional: to fight like this took took real,
knowing
sacrifice: the men went into this accepting that the first two or three waves would almost certainly die to create the chance for those behind to get close enough to kill.

But it was working. He saw one Fire-mage spitted on javelins, then an animage with a jackal head fell, pierced simultaneously by three arrows.

As the first men began to pour up the ladders, Seth engaged his Air-gnosis and soared to the top of the battlements. He landed awkwardly, the arrow in his thigh jarring agonisingly as he hit the ground, but that discomfort was overridden by a surge of adrenalin and terror as he found himself confronting the vulture-faced Zsdryk, fresh from pulverising three legionaries with a hail of bricks snatched from a pile of broken masonry.

Zsdryk saw Seth and his face contorted ferociously. Purple light swirled in his hands and something like mist swirled towards Seth. At its ‘head’ was a skull-like white face with crystalline teeth.

Necromancy!
Seth’s eyes widened and his brain completely failed to deal with this unexpected manifestation. That an Earth-mage might also know some necromancy was really not that hard to predict, but he’d seen nothing to suggest these Dokken had such arcane knowledge or experience.

He would have died instantly had not the legionary behind him, a homely, middle-aged man who looked like a farmer, thrown himself in the way. Through his gnostic sight Seth saw the ghostly mist-creature shred the man’s soul, though his body, when it fell, was unmarked other than the scream of agony and dread on the soldier’s face.

That image was imprinted on Seth’s brain too as he was flung aside.

Then the ghost-creature came straight at him. The soldier’s sacrifice had bought him about two seconds.

*

Progress in the streets of Ardijah’s northern keep slowed to a crawl as the trapped Keshi archers realised the trap closing around them and began to pour back from the walls, seeking some way to safety. Fridryk Kippenegger’s shield-wards were just about stretched to the limit – he was only a sixteenth-blood, the weakest gnosis possible, and his meagre powers were almost exhausted. But he was young and strong, and he had all the native ferocity of his people, so he stormed onwards, only using his gnosis to shield for those vital seconds that it took to get him within striking range – and from there, his big zweihandle did the rest. The Keshi all used light weapons: their scimitars broke on his massive blade as if they were made of clay.

Fighting with concentrated ferocity, he drove one cluster of Keshi into an alley, turning away their clumsy parries and hacking straight through their poor armour into flesh and bone. The last group of enemy soldiers at the end of the alley wailed their off-key ululations and fled. Alone for a moment he leaned against the wall and caught his breath, winded from the intensity of the fighting.

He straightened and turned, zweihandle raised and ready as booted feet ran up behind him, but it was only Wilbrecht, who waved as he passed and said, ‘Bruda,’ grinning savagely.
Brother
. There was nothing like fighting together to make brothers of men. Kip gripped his sword and went to follow, but as Wilbrecht rounded the corner, an unseen force hammered into him, lifting him from his feet and slamming him into the wall so hard it partially caved in. Kip caught the edge of the force and found himself spinning round like a top before being dumped in the mud. Through blurred eyes he saw Wilbrecht’s bloody form unpeel bonelessly from the dented wall and flop to the ground. A shadow cast by the torches stretched longer as someone approached.

Kip tried to find his feet as
something
behind him hissed with a chilling eagerness that sent a shiver through his heart. He threw a look back over his shoulder and blanched.

Minaus, save us!

He pressed himself against the wall as a glowing thing with too many teeth and claws swooped along the alley from the direction he’d come. He half-raised his blade, but the thing ignored him, flowing straight past him and vanishing around the corner. A second later light exploded from there, followed by the concussive blasts of powerful gnosis-discharges at close range.

He dimly sensed another of the things stalking closer, and heard it calling softly, ‘
Hecatta! Hecatta!
’ as it passed. It had reptile eyes and oily skin that constantly changed hue, and he was too frightened to breathe lest it notice him. It too went around the corner, shrieking triumphantly as if it had found its life’s true purpose.

He would not have followed it for all the beer in Schlessen.

Another figure entered the alley as he managed to clamber to his feet. ‘Kippenegger,’ Jelaska greeted him amiably, her eyes glowing purple. ‘How do you fare?’

‘Alive,’ he panted. He looked at poor Wilbrecht.
Poor bastard, chose the wrong god.

‘Good for you.’ She reached up and patted his cheek affectionately, then continued past. ‘Keep it that way: don’t follow me.’ Her hands suddenly sprouted a mesh of violet skeins of light like puppet-strings that extended into the darkness around the corner. ‘Find another way.’

He gratefully took her advice.

*

The moments bought by the legionary’s death saved Seth’s life: those two seconds were long enough to pull him out of the paralysis of terror. He felt his limbs and his brain unlock with an almost audible click, and then he was able to retrieve the information: it was an eidolon, a spectral being of the aether, like Magister Fyrell used to summon in his classes. They weren’t hard to deal with, as long as you didn’t let sheer terror freeze you. They were insubstantial and they preyed on the spirit, but they were ‘only as deadly as you allow them to be’ – now he remembered the magister’s very words. Malevorn had always dealt with them easily in class, but then, he was a sorcerer and good at
everything
. For non-sorcerers, banishing this sort of monster required a combination of the gnosis and combat …

Seth gripped his periapt and conjured white fire along the blade of his sword. As the eidolon closed on him, it fixed its ice-like gaze on him, seeking to paralyse him with fear. But he was well past terror now and as he stabbed his glowing blade into the spectral flesh, he started pouring energy into it – and the thing fell apart almost instantly, flailing about impotently, then vanishing with a tortured howl.
Life-energy … not so useless as my classmates thought …

Zsdryk swore in his own tongue and Seth braced himself for a gnostic duel – but the Souldrinker just turned and dived from the walls. A black winged shape emerged from his cloak and vanished into the darkness. Seth tried to blast it with mage-fire, but it was too quick for him; before he’d readied his hands it had flashed away into the dark and was gone.

And then the shock of the arrow protruding from the scabbed-over hole in his thigh hit him. He wobbled and nearly fell over, but the legionaries clambering over the walls spotted his wavering body and a couple of them grabbed him. This time he let them. The immediate peril was gone – and anyway, there was suddenly nothing left in his legs. He slumped between the two men and darkness hit him between the eyes like a giant black pillow.

*

Ramon plummeted down the tower stairs and at the next landing he blasted open the door – there was no time for subtlety – and braced himself for a retaliation that didn’t come. The spiral stairs continued downwards, but this was the level he needed, he was sure of it. He took the corridor into the heart of the building. It wasn’t that huge – no bigger than a well-to-do merchant’s house in Norostein – but it was well-lit with oil-lamps, and when he peered through the first door his guess that someone important lived here was confirmed. The dining room might be small, but judging by the table set with silver goblets and platters, an intimate meal had been interrupted. He passed on, slipping silently through the shadows to the next room.

There was a large painting on the wall of the bedroom, of a massively obese man with huge moustaches, like a walrus in silks. Sitting at his knees was a richly dressed, serious-looking young woman, thin as a spear-shaft, with a round, practical face and a small mouth.
The caliph and his wife?
The four-poster bed was unmade, and the lingering scent of a woman’s perfume wafted past his nose. The clothing in the closets had been strewn across the room, as if someone had tried on and discarded everything in some frivolous inspection.

These are the calipha’s rooms
, he guessed,
but someone’s been playing in here.

None of this was helping the assault. He turned, and hurried back to the corridor, stepping through the door …

… and then freezing.

There was a woman in a bekira-shroud with her back to him, creeping cautiously towards the door he’d smashed open. She must have heard the noise and come to investigate. Her greying hair was tied in a ponytail, and her earrings suggested she was Lantric. His gnostic sight revealed her nature instantly: she was Dokken, and just as appallingly, pregnant.

He glanced back to ensure no one was coming at him from behind, but all he could hear was a loud hammering: that, no doubt, was Lukaz and the cohort smashing their way into the level above. Several floors below, he could make out the bustle and noise of household staff scurrying to obey a male voice bellowing instructions.

At Turm Zauberin, the ethics tutor – sweet old Agnes Yune – had given them all manner of scenarios which were designed to reveal character and guide them in behaviour to ensure that they all emerged as Kore-fearing Emperor Constant-loving true servants of the Rondian Empire. Not that that had ever been Ramon’s goal …

Aggy, you’d have loved this – you might even have posed this exact question! As I recall, the pure-bloods knocked her out, then delivered her to the Inquisition to do their murdering for them. Alaron – bless him – let her go. But me …

He’d come last in ethics – not just last, he’d actually scored zero. It had become a game: to always chose the most reprehensible course of action, to wilfully destroy Aggy Yune’s prissy little passion plays.

He drew his stiletto.
Just below the left shoulder, level with the armpit. The blade punctures the heart, it stops, and she has about three seconds before everything stops. When my time comes, I hope it’s that easy …