War Master's Gate (94 page)

And he was almost there.

When the edge of the dais was creeping into his sight he gave in, and lifted his head to the throne.

Above it was another suit of armour, though none that the hand of man had ever made. The vacant, slightly translucent carapace of a mantis hung there, great arms gaping wide. One of its eyes was
a fractured ruin, but the damage looked centuries old, as antique as the desiccated carcass itself.

The throne, an age-weathered lump of stone that barely seemed a seat at all, was still just about empty, but Corver could see a darkness gathering there, proof against the unhealthy light that
fell on everything else and came from nowhere at all.

At his side, Vrant gave a long sigh and fell away, kneeling awkwardly, his strength spent. Corver sensed Sandric and Sterro at his back, pressing close as the darkness closed in, but he could
not take his eyes off the throne.

First there was just the one, the scuttling shadow of a tiny woodlouse disfiguring the pristine grey, but then his eyes were pulled left and right, the creatures seeming to emerge from the very
stone itself: worms and millipedes, deathwatch beetles and their fat, white larvae, all the things of rot and reclamation that had infested the Mantis-kinden icons, fed upon the Collegiate scholar
and seethed from the material of the gates. Spiders descended on filaments picked out by that bleached light, blood-coloured centipedes coiled and reared, and all of them, every mote of that host,
coming together in a nest of twisting bodies and sheets of dirty silk, until something mounded and composed itself upon the throne, weaving itself into the form of a man, building and anatomizing
from the inside out, bones, organs, thoughts and all. Then one by one the little architects were gone, and Corver found himself meeting the blank white gaze of a Moth-kinden man.

Corver thought he knew Moths: they were the pale, effeminate bookish creatures, comically superstitious and fearful, whose world had been taken from them centuries before by strong, Apt kinden
like Wasps and Ants and Beetles. They were tatty fortunetellers, beggars promising blessings or threatening empty curses, or figures of ridicule in a hundred jokes and stories. The few he had ever
seen had been weak, starveling-thin, bewildered almost to death by the technological world the Apt were building.

This man –
Argastos
, Corver’s mind insisted – was not the same. He had the broad frame of a warrior, and beneath his open-fronted robe he wore armour of leather and
chitin, and if that mail was enamelled in black and edged with gold, Corver knew for a certainty that the man had taken those colours for his own long before there ever
was
an Empire to
contest them with him.

His lean, hollow-cheeked face was grey, the eyes the featureless white of his kind, His chin was spiked with a sharply pointed beard such as Corver had not seen anyone wear in his lifetime, and
the Moth’s pale hair fell long onto his shoulders. He seemed a figure from an ancient portrait, a statue of the Bad Old Days brought to life . . . or perhaps not life, for Corver was bitterly
sure that this revenant before him had surely not drawn breath these five centuries or more.

‘Keep close now,’ he whispered, ostensibly for the benefit of his men, but mostly because he had hoped that the sound of his own voice would banish some of the crippling fear that
was running wild through him. Any temporary relief was dispelled when the Moth’s own voice came to him.

I have waited for you.

Corver’s lips moved, but no further sounds came from them. It was the same voice that had been murmuring just beneath the threshold of hearing ever since they left their crash site. It had
been the same voice that . . .

In the Commonweal, yes.
The voice of Argastos did not require anything so mundane as lungs or breath, but gusted about the great space, making the standing armour shiver and rustle.
There was less humanity in his gaunt, grey face than there was in the chitin mask of the great mantis mounted above him.

I have brought you here to bear a message for me back to your Empire, warrior.

And a wretched little croak of laughter finally escaped from Corver, because the thought that he might ever return to the Empire, in whatever capacity, was surely nonsense. He, whose disbelief
had been stabbed at and stabbed at until it lay dying on the floor, could not bring himself to credit that.

Oh, fear not; nothing will harm you when you leave this place
, came the icy voice of Argastos.
No beast of the forest, no ghost or spectre, most especially not the Mantis-kinden,
who will know well whose mark you bear. I lay the way open for you all the way to the edge of the trees, and from there you will have to find your own way home.

‘And my men?’ Corver whispered, and when there was no response he repeated himself, almost boldly, almost desperately. ‘And my men? What of them?’

Oh, warrior . . .
Those blind-seeming eyes might have been looking anywhere, but the man’s head tilted, ever so slightly, and dragged Corver’s own gaze onto the nearest
armour trees.

Ragged aviators’ leathers, he saw there; a tattered robe hanging from one stand, cut in the Collegiate fashion; buckled mail in the black and gold bands of the Light Airborne; a cuirass
with an Imperial pilot’s insignia; a Consortium greatcoat with its pockets still leaking stolen Imperial gold: all rusty with blood from the wounds that had done for their owners.

Corver’s hand came up to sting, but shaking so badly that he could not aim. Instead he brought it back until it was before his face. His Art was locked within it, that had killed the
Empire’s enemies since he had first donned the black and gold. He reached for it, felt the warmth of his sting building, staring into his own hand, willing it to become his executioner.

But:
Oh, warrior
, whispered Argastos’s voice once more, and Corver knew that he did not have the will. He was no tragic Mantis hero to die on his own blade. All his human
sensibilities could not eclipse that animal part of him that desired life, at whatever cost.

Go to your Empress
, Argastos instructed him – and despite it all Corver found himself echoing,
Empress? –
but Argastos was continuing, that dry voice etching the
words on his mind,
Go to her and tell her: I am here, and ready for her. When she seeks me, she shall find me waiting.

Who knows? Perhaps she will bring you with her, when she comes.

Praise for
Shadows of the Apt

‘A novel brimming with imagination and execution’

SciFiNow

‘Epic fantasy at its best. Gripping, original and multi-layered storytelling from a writer bursting with lots of fascinating ideas’

WalkerofWorlds.com

‘Superb world building, great characters and extreme inventiveness’

FantasyBookCritic
blog

‘Adrian is continuing to go from strength to strength. Magic’

FalcataTimes
blog

‘Reminiscent of much that’s gone before from the likes of Gemmel, Erikson, Sanderson and Cook but with its own unique and clever touch, this is another terrific
outing from Mr Tchaikovsky’

Sci-Fi-London.com

‘I still cannot deny the greatness of Adrian Tchaikovsky’s books . . . a glorious success of fantasy literature’

LECBookReviews.com

‘Tchaikovsky’s series is a pretty great one – he has taken some classic fantasy elements and added a unique (as far as I’m aware) twist and element to
his characters and the world . . . Tchaikovsky has created a world that blends epic fantasy and technology’

CivilianReader
blog

‘Tchaikovsky manages to blend these insect characteristics with human traits convincingly, giving a fresh slant to the inhabitants of his classic tale’

SFReader.com

Adrian Tchaikovsky was born in Woodhall Spa, Lincolnshire before heading off to Reading to study psychology and zoology. For reasons unclear even to himself he subsequently
ended up in law and has worked as a legal executive in both Reading and Leeds, where he now lives. Married, he is a keen live role-player and occasional amateur actor, has trained in
stage-fighting, and keeps no exotic or dangerous pets of any kind, possibly excepting his son.

Catch up with Adrian at www.shadowsoftheapt.com for further information plus bonus material including short stories and artwork.

War Master’s Gate
is the ninth novel in the Shadows of the Apt series.

The same giants whose shoulders I have clambered up for previous volumes remain very much in support for this one: Annie, my wife; Simon Kavanagh, my agent; Peter Lavery, my
line editor; and all the many useful people at Tor. I would also like to thank Keris McDonald for getting me and the Second Army out of a bit of a tactical dilemma partway into the plot.

At this stage, though, drawing towards the conclusion of a series, I sometimes feel that the people I need to thank the most are the characters themselves, who by now are
really writing large swathes of the plot without much intervention needed by me. For which their reward, all too often, is a final one.

BY ADRIAN TCHAIKOVSKY

Shadows of the Apt

Empire in Black and Gold

Dragonfly Falling

Blood of the Mantis

Salute the Dark

The Scarab Path

The Sea Watch

Heirs of the Blade

The Air War

War Master’s Gate

First published in 2013 by Tor

This electronic edition published 2013 by Tor
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
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ISBN 978-0-230-77140-6

Copyright © Adrian Czajkowski 2013
Map artwork © Hemesh Alles

The right of Adrian Czajkowski to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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