Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (105 page)

In other words, sacrifice the weak, and push on . . .

He hated himself, but Kippenegger nodded grimly and began reeling off names. ‘Go! Go!’ he finished, ‘Minaus is watching!’

While they prepared, Seth closed his eyes and reached with his mind, found the crossbowmen, a dozen frightened men reloading under the eyes of three silver-masked magi. Then he reached further inside himself for something he’d never really used before: battle-divination. He had the training, but had never been able to use it, because fighting scared him.

I’m beyond scared now. So I may as well give it a try.

Using Divination to skim the subconscious minds of enemies as you fought them enabled the mage to read their intentions. Instinctive fighters – men like Harmon and Vidran – did it subconsciously, reading the way an opponent moved, anticipating their actions, but the gnosis offered advantages to those with the right affinities.

He shared a look with Kip. The giant Schlessen reached out, clasped his hand and said ‘Bruder.’ Then he bellowed his orders and the first of his Bullheads tore around the bend into a storm and were battered and thrown backwards in torn heaps – but Seth flung himself around the corner too, screaming ‘A Korion!
A Korion!
’

The second rank of crossbowmen all fired at once, triggers jerked in reflex, and the bolts rained onto Seth’s shields or against the wall, but by then he was already at the far wall, where his Divination showed fewer bolts would strike. One grazed his thigh, then his shields reformed and he fired off a mage-bolt. Someone howled and clattered to the stone. Then with a huge roar Kip led more Bullheads barrelling around the corner, driving Seth on into the ranks of crossbowmen. Mage-bolts flashed and a torrent of flames poured over the first men, charring the unprotected, and Kip, shielding to the edge of his ability and beyond, was flung backwards. Those who followed him screamed as if berserk, taking advantage of the respite won them by the front rank to reach their foes and start hacking them apart with axes.

‘Kip?’

Seth hurried to the giant Schlessen. His whole face was burned raw, his leather armour charred brittle, but he grinned fiercely. Then he swore, launched himself at Seth and bore him backwards as the roof fell in.

Seth cried aloud as he felt the men above – from both sides – die, crushed by falling stone. Then the smoke and dust billowed and engulfed them, choking, so that they had to crawl lower, seeking air.

When they’d managed to find a place where they could breathe, their plight was revealed: the way forward was blocked with debris and crushed bodies, their blood bonding the dust like cement in the cracks. Seth looked up, then lowered his eyes, feeling as crushed as those beneath the rubble. Beside him, Kip sank to his knees.

There’s no way forward. We can’t go on.

*

‘Ramon,’ Vann Mercer said quietly, ‘thank you for being a friend to Alaron.’

Nudged from his reverie, Ramon looked sideways. ‘It was my privilege,’ he replied.
At least Alaron’s in Javon, out of the danger area
. He
felt lightheaded, strangely disconnected, constantly distracted by strange perceptions. The aftermath of the poison made it an effort to just stay still and listen, even in this situation.

‘Did Alaron know your parentage?’ Vann asked. ‘Your real father?’

‘Sol et Lune, no!’ Ramon snorted. ‘I couldn’t trust him not to blurt it out in class.’

They were chained to the rails of the Imperial Flagship by both wrists, so they couldn’t turn away. He guessed closing his eyes was always an option, but when he did, faces swam into his mind: Julietta, Seth, Sevvie, Lanna, Kip, Lukaz, Jelaska and all the rest. It was easier to just watch the tiny shapes below and pretend he didn’t know them. He’d been seeking some way to intervene, but nothing came to mind.

‘We should have stayed in Dhassa,’ he muttered.

‘Gyle boasts that this will destroy all of Dhassa and Pontus,’ Vann reminded him.

‘Si. Well, we should have stayed in Ardijah then. We were welcome there.’ He thought regretfully of Amiza al’Calipha.
I should have stayed with her and our child.

Which of the tiny dots below was Julietta? Where was Seth? Was it possible some would survive? The Air- or Water-magi, perhaps? Was there
anything
he could do to help them?

Imperial windskiffs were swooping over the column, randomly blasting
his people
for the fun of it: a new variant of ‘braffing’ – shooting birds – for the young mage-nobles to play. Meanwhile, the whole Bridge appeared about to be engulfed by the storm waves. He felt so helpless it made him want to scream.

Pater Sol, I don’t really pray, because you’re just make-believe. But if you want to prove you are real, do something! Prove me wrong! Give me a chance here . . .

The solarus crystals gleamed brighter still, and suddenly beams of light shot out from four points of the compass and locked on Midpoint Tower, forming a horizontal ‘X’. The countdown to destruction had begun.

‘Ah!’ a woman sighed, behind Ramon’s ear. ‘See that, Dubrayle?’

‘My name is Sensini,’ he retorted dully.

Mater-Imperia Lucia waved her hand in merry dismissal. ‘Call yourself what you like.’ She pointed at the bolts of light, visibly excited. ‘It’s irrevocable now: the Bridge is coming down.’ She smiled musingly. ‘My foolish son wanted to see it all from close up, but he’ll be disembarking from the tower any moment now.’ She turned to face Ramon. ‘Enjoy the spectacle,
Sensini
.’

It was all he could do at that moment not to lash out, but this still wasn’t the moment he sought . . .

She walked away towards the forecastle and its viewing platform, calling out to all aboard, the flocks of Imperial courtiers and churchmen on this and all the dozens of other windships in the sky, amplifying her voice into every mind in reach.

Southpoint Tower, Dhassa

Junesse (Akhira) 930

24
^th
and last month of the Moontide

Alaron saw the blast coming; he was already ducking and weaving as his shields deflected the masked woman’s mage-fire. He reached her, slammed his staff through her shields, battering her backwards into the room she’d left. He followed her through as she clutched at her blackened clothing and chest.

The large circular chamber was filled with rows of bunks and racks of weapons. Two dozen men turned at her cry, but Alaron was inside and moving. She kindled yellow light in her eyes, mesmeric-gnosis, trying to snare his gaze, and he let her, opening up his mental shields, then slamming them closed again: Ascendant-strength battled against her lesser pure-blood powers and she flailed blindly as he tore the linkages between her eyes and her brain, then drove the staff up under her chin, snapping her neck.

The men came at him from all sides, but he’d fallen into his state of trance-fighting where the gnosis came as easily as breathing. He threw the central weapons rack into a cluster of men with devastating power, spearing them with a wall of metal, then caught up a bunk bed with kinesis and sent it spinning into the next group, breaking bones and skulls. Thrown weapons spun from his shields and he spewed fire from the tip of his staff into the next group, dropping three and giving him a clear path to the left. Then Ramita entered, hurling the men on the right backwards against the wall, where they slumped, broken or dazed.

It was like bullying children, and left a nasty taste. He spoke to those still conscious. ‘Here’s the choice: stay in this room and don’t come out until someone comes for you, or we’ll have to deal with you.’

Please just stay out of our way.

To his relief, the remaining men who still could fled to the corner and turned their backs. He and Ramita passed, sealed the doors behind them, and found the stairs. They climbed, hurrying, but with heightened caution: there was a sense of gnostic pressure building above, and they felt little life here now that the armed men had been left behind. Southpoint probably didn’t need a lot of guarding usually.

‘What is this for?’ Ramita wondered, brandishing the silver mask that the woman mage had worn.

‘I don’t know, Alaron replied, ‘but I’ve heard the solarus crystals are deadly, so perhaps it protects from that?’

Ramita frowned, then drew the cord over her head and left the face-piece perched on top of her hair. ‘We will need one for you, then.’

They went onwards, through a deserted landing and up a narrow stair, then Alaron sensed life again. He reached ahead with his inner eye, then poked two fingers forwards. ‘Guards,’ he whispered. ‘Give me a moment.’

He reached out and encountered shielded minds:
magi
. They were both young battle-magi, one dark-haired, the other bald, both tense and curious, their attention on what was happening behind the door they guarded. That would change the moment he came into view, of course.

Then Ramita walked past him, robed in black and wearing the silver mask over her face. The two young men turned to her, saw the mask and relaxed. A second later she’d gripped them with kinesis and slammed their heads together. She plucked a mask from one of the unconscious men and handed it to Alaron.

He put it on, then examined the door. The feeling of gnostic pressure beyond was immense. He took a deep breath, and faced her. ‘Ramita, this is it.’ He swallowed. ‘I wish we’d had longer,’ he blurted.

‘We will, my love. Years and years.’

He stared into her eyes, drank her in. Then there was a sudden, hair-lifting shiver of power that radiated from the next room, dragging them back to the present. The realisation hit him that there might never be another shared look, another kiss, another morning waking in each other’s arms. It almost took the strength from his legs.

He put a hand to the door, vaguely surprised but thankful to find it unlocked, because the three days of flight and the latest exertions had left him hollowed out.

All right. This is where we find out all the answers.

He took a moment to marshal his forces anew: the sixteen arms of the gnosis, waiting for him. He took stock: he wasn’t the world’s best mage or warrior. He’d stumbled into this place in time. But there were moments when he’d touched his potential and done things he’d never dreamed he was capable of. That fortified him, as did his purpose: he had a wife to protect and love, so they could grow old together.

He burst through into a blur of brilliant light, as a dozen masks turned his way, but his eyes went instantly to the centre of the dome, where a man was lying on a reclining throne, his mask upturned to the ceiling of crystals that glowed like clustered stars. His arms were raised and crackling with static lightning, gnosis energy spilling from eyes and mouth.

Alaron smashed his staff into the face of the first mask and it crumpled inwards, the skull of the black-robed wearer shattering. Lines of force linking him to the throne frayed and flashed, and every other masked mage in the chamber shrieked in unison.

Then all Hel was here.

*

Ramita Ankesharan could feel the presence of her gods: Vishnarayan the Protector’s hand was on Al’Rhon now, his armour and his weapon, but Sivraman was there too, in his wild, graceful movements as he struck down one masked man, then another, spiralling around the room.

She waited a moment, letting these magi see her as another masked face and turn away again, their eyes instead drawn to Alaron’s violence. She spent those seconds taking their measure, just as Corinea had taught her, until . . .

Now!

The first of the mages to strike at Alaron used fire: as he evaded, she conjured water inside that mage’s mouth, then rammed it down his throat, leaving him choking for breath, drowning on the floor. She went into the centre, to the nexus, while all eyes were still on Alaron.

Alaron was moving in a blur, striking while the Keepers were still locked within the destructive spell and unable to give themselves wholly to defence. He cut down a middle-aged female with just an empowered staff blow, then another with fire. As one tried to change shape, Ramita intervened, ghosting a long spiratus arm through his shields and a finger into his skull. He screamed and collapsed, then she hurled another Keeper aside, a bent woman with a shrill, imperious voice who tried to conjure a daemon. On the far side of the circle, Alaron countered Necromancy with healing-gnosis, then zeroed in on weakness: drawing the air from the lungs of the Earth-sorcerer then slamming him against the wall, broken.

The throne swivelled, the Keeper in the seat flailing his arms as his helpers were slain or stunned, unable to intervene while he was in the throes of this web of powers. Ramita lit the dagger in her hand and sent it flying at him, impelled by kinesis and alive with energies. It pierced the enthroned Keeper’s shields as if they were gauze and plunged to the hilt into his chest. He choked, bewildered, and in his agony lost control of the forces he wielded. Light blasted in every direction, along the threads of power that bound him to his fellows.

With a hideous, multi-voiced shriek, the remaining masked magi were thrown aside like toys, hammering into the walls and dropping, broken, to the stone floor. The man on the throne writhed and gibbered, sliding from the seat as he clawed at the knife. Healing-gnosis kindled and she snuffed it out, then Alaron slammed his staff across the man’s throat.

‘What do we do to stop this?’ Alaron demanded.

The man on the ground looked up at him, bewildered. ‘Who are you?’

‘
How do we make it stop?
’

‘You can’t – you’re too late. This tower’s going to explode in five minutes and the whole Bridge is going down.’ He coughed blood. ‘Please, get me out of here! There’s a windship moored to the outside, waiting! Please—’ Then he fainted.

Alaron looked at Ramita, then the throne. ‘We may be too late . . .’