Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (52 page)

‘Take her round to the north,’ she called to the pilot, one of the humans captured with the ship who had elected to join the lamia community. ‘Get above those Harkun in the centre!’ She glanced at Odessa D’Ark, who was revealing herself to be the scariest pregnant woman on Urte, a tempestuous Fire- and Air-witch. They shared a look of immense satisfaction –
blood-sisters again!
– then she sought Kazim. All he’d been allowed so far were a few fire-blasts, and he was visibly chafing.

She judged that the time had come for them to join the fray below.

Together they threw themselves over the side and swooped towards the ground, accompanied by a dozen more Ordo Costruo magi.

*

Hans Frikter bellowed in fury as another pile of debris came to life, rocks and rubble flowing together and forming into a twelve-foot approximately human shape: an improvised
galmi
. The Brician-discovered art of animating the inanimate could be terrifying, and it was too far off for him to be able to stop it, or affect it in any way; he could only watch as it waded towards a line of his lads, rankers from the third maniple. They were good men, but those who weren’t immediately crushed ran like panicked sheep.

‘Fall back!’ he shouted, turning to Ogdi, his aide and nephew. ‘Get Hullyn here! He can use Wizardry: we’ve got to neutralise that blasted galmi!’

‘Hullyn’s dead,’ Ogdi replied, his normally placid face completely bewildered. ‘Some Keshi bastard cut him in half, down by the canals!’

Merda!
Hans gripped his axe as he looked at the circle of men around him: his personal cohort, men of his own village, who’d been at his side most of his life. Seeing them anchored him.
We’ve got out of worse
. There were days you fought and days you ran, and this had suddenly become one of the latter. ‘Get everyone out – head for the staging point beyond the walls.’

Ogdi saluted, visibly trying to contain his own panic. He was a better soldier than mage, but he gripped his periapt, closing his eyes and straining. ‘I can’t find Eafyd,’ he groaned, then suddenly he gasped, clutching his skull. ‘My head!’

Frikter swore, gripped his nephew’s shoulder and felt the whine of some kind of psychic attack on him. ‘Hold to your wards,’ he encouraged, as his cohort shuffled anxiously, worried by the uncertainty on his face. Then a crowd of Jhafi broke from the rubble and spewed towards them.

‘Form up!’ he bellowed, though his lads didn’t need telling; they were already slamming their shields together and brandishing their axes as they shouted to Taurhan, the Argundian war-god, the
true
Bullhead.
Good lads!
Frikter raised his hand to blaze fire into the enemy charge.

But before he could strike, a torrent of rock rose like a wave and slammed into the shield-wall, smashing his men backwards like toys, wrecking armour, breaking bone and cracking skulls. Frikter shouted furiously, seeking a target, but the air was filling up with dust and the screaming of the injured. He loosed fire blindly into the space in front of his men and was rewarded by shrieks of agony and the sight of two shadowy figures going up like torches. Then blue fire slammed into his shields from two flanks, staggering him with the strength of the bolts.

That’s it, we’ve got to get out.

But the Jhafi were already on them; turning their backs would mean death. Hans looked around desperately, seeking a way to buy his lads the space to run. He blasted the nearest Jhafi off his feet, then two more of those overpowering mage-bolts hammered his shields again, one high and one low, perfectly synchronised. His shields blocked the high one, but his left leg crumpled beneath him, with searing pain following a moment later as he tasted the dust. He crawled upright and hurled a spear-waving Jhafi woman away with a gesture.

Ogdi screamed, ‘My head! My eyes!’

Frikter blanked the pain from his blackened leg and rallied, threw kinesis behind his battle-axe and hacked through a circle of Jhafi. Some of his lads were still up, but few, too few. The Jhafi swordsmen backed off, but they were replaced with archers, who were pushing their way to the front. He heard his lads furiously praying, while behind him Ogdi rolled over and fell on his face in the mud and blood.

Where the fuck is Gyle?

a woman’s voice scratched inside his head.

he sent. The old jest-name “Shit Witch”, but he meant it now. He cast about, raised his left hand and kindled fire but couldn’t see her in the dust. The Jhafi were obviously awaiting an order; they were poised ready to shoot, then charge.

One fire-blast and I’d kill half these fuckers . . .

‘Boss?’ one of his lads muttered as they edged towards him.

‘
Kill ’em all!
’
He raised his fist to pour fire on the Noories when two more mage-bolts struck him with that same deadly synchronisation: one took him square in the midriff; in the centre of his wards—

—as the other took his left hand off, in the instant before he let loose his own lethal fires. His spell fell apart as his hand became a smouldering stump. He howled as his legs went out from under him and he pitched forward, not even seeing the arrow-storm that was carving into what remained of his cohort.

The dark earth swallowed him up.

*

Kazim Makani strode through the Jhafi, who parted fearfully, clearing a path for him. He tried reassuring them, praising them, patting men on the back, but they fell over themselves to get out of reach. He wondered if he’d ever again feel the camaraderie of being one of the gang. Back in Aruna Nagar, when only kalikti games mattered, he’d been part of a close-knit group of young men who crowed and joked and laughed at the epic feats and ridiculous failures, the mighty hits and the dropped catches.

He felt so isolated now.

And I am sick of war . . .

Elena sent. She was bent over the fallen mercenary commander, the Argundian – another of her old comrades, no doubt. She seemed to know everyone they were killing.

The fighting was done here. With their magi either dead or fled, the Argundians were running, chased by the victorious Jhafi, who were butchering the wounded and anyone stupid enough to surrender.

‘Is he dead?’ he asked, peering over Elena’s shoulder. The soot on her face and the ash in her hair made her look older than her years.

‘He’s alive. I’ve Chained him, and Cardien is sending someone to pick him up. I want him kept safe.’

‘Who is he to you?’ It came out tense and jealous.

‘Hansi?’ Elena shrugged. ‘No one much. We’ve shared a few pints. What’s wrong, Kaz?’

‘Nothing!’ He stamped away, and she didn’t follow.

It was hard to explain his feelings, even to himself. Right now, all he was thinking was what a
disappointment
war had turned out to be. All his life, he’d dreamed of battle, as all young men did: war was how the great won eternal fame; it was the pinnacle, the ultimate test of manhood, for which even his beloved kalikiti was a poor substitute. He and his friends had
longed
for war, seeing themselves striding across the battlefield seeking out the enemy heroes and slaying them in epic hand-to-hand combat, demonstrating their superior prowess and worth, creating legends . . .

But from the moment of his first kill – the execution of a helpless old man – he’d tasted nothing but sourness. He’d come to loathe the whole thing, the driving of steel into flesh, cutting sinews and carving muscles, slicing veins, and the myriad ways that wounding could lead to death: the ruination of bodies and the emptying of eyes, it all haunted him. The sickening stench of blood and the reek of voided bowels and bladders wouldn’t leave his nostrils. All he kept thinking was,
So much waste
.

His wandering took him to the old outer wall, which had been breached and broken down in half a dozen places. He climbed a battered turret and gazed blankly towards the Argundians’ rearguard, protecting their wagons as they rolled away. The Jhafi, realising they’d gone past their own mage-support, were content to pepper them with arrows and abuse.

I could go down there
, he thought.
I could break that shield-wall, let them through so they could slaughter the women and children in the mercenary camp. That’s what a
hero
would do.

The idea sickened him.

To his right, the Harkun were pouring out of the city too, driven by a moving wave of fire and archery. He listened in with his gnostic senses and heard the Ordo Costruo coordinating their attack, moving the Jhafi archers into positions on either side so they could trap the nomads and unleash Justiano di Kestria’s mounted knights on flat and open ground. He could taste the hatred in the air between the Jhafi and the Harkun. It was nothing to do with him, he decided, so he sat and stared with empty eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before that familiar linkage tightened. Elena was coming, climbing the turret. The boy in him wanted to keep on sulking on his own, but the man lifted his head.

‘Hello love,’ she said, topping the stairs and joining him, climbing up behind him on his perch and wrapping her arms about him from behind. He laid his head back against her shoulder and blanked all else out.

At last he sighed deeply, and admitted quietly, ‘I’m sick of killing.’

‘I know. So am I, and I’ve been doing it a lot longer than you.’

‘But it’s all we’re good at, isn’t it?’

She flinched. ‘No! No, we could do so many things. Anything we want. And we will, once this is all done.’

‘Anything?’

She hesitated, clearly unsure what he was thinking, then said, ‘Anything.’

He looked up at her as the quite unexpected answer fell into his mouth. ‘I want us to have a baby.’

*

Cera Nesti watched proudly as her little brother walked onto the royal balcony of the Krak al-Farada, the place from where for centuries the Nesti kings had addressed their people. He looked scared, clutching the sheath of papers in his hand too tightly. The crown on his head was still too big, despite all the padding they’d used. She was standing with the rest of the Regency Council: an honour-guard for the young king-in-waiting as he delivered his first proper speech. She blinked back tears, feeling the unseen eyes of her father and mother, her elder brother and her sister, all casualties of this war: ghosts now, but never forgotten.

She looked down the line to her left, where Elena was watching, her tanned face grim and distant. Her lover Kazim was nowhere to be seen. Beyond her were a group of Ordo Costruo, the legendary Builder-Mages. In the flesh they were strangely ordinary, though their eyes looked haunted – but then, they too had seen their world torn apart. Each of the women was with child, raped and impregnated by Hadishah. The few surviving men looked brittle, their habitual pride obliterated by all they’d been through; everything they’d failed to do. They had been made to serve as well. In a different way, they too had been violated.

These wars must stop. They’re destroying us all.

The young heir stepped onto his stool, and the hordes below erupted with cries of victory and welcome.

The plaza was packed with people, like straws in a haystack, barely able to move or breathe. Tears stung every eye. Those who fainted were passed back on a sea of hands. Bells rang, and songs to Ahm and Pater Sol and Mater Lune rolled through the heavy air. But as Timori raised his hand, a hush fell across the masses.

‘My people . . .’ Timi began in Jhafi, his high-pitched, boyish voice ringing out as he cried, ‘We have been victorious! People of Forensa – and our brothers of Loctis, who came to our aid!
Beloved
people—!’

The surge in sound washed his voice away as the entire populace shouted their lungs out in sheer relief and triumph. This was
their
victory, each and every one of them had taken part, not just the soldiers, but every single person had given their courage and endurance, their muscle and their skill, and their blood and their lives, to the defence of the city.

It took several minutes before Timori could resume, but now he was bouncing with excitement, caught up in the energy of the crowd. ‘We give thanks! We give thanks to Ahm. Praise to Him on high! Ahm has seen our suffering and given us succour! Ahm saw our need and sent us allies! Ahm saw the destruction, and sent us Builders!’

He switched to Rimoni and repeated the first few lines, then said, ‘We give thanks to Pater Sol and Mater Lune, for through the light of their wisdom we have found allies to bring us succour, and Builders to alleviate the destruction that has been visited upon our land!’

Those clad in violet in the crowds below – scarcely a tenth, but equally loud – waved their pennants and cheered, as he added, ‘Through the chaos, Pater Sol and Mater Lune have shone above, lighting our path to freedom.’

Cera and the council had worked hard on this speech, up half the night finding ways to give thanks to all the diverse factions who’d come together to save the city, and to bind them closer. She bit her lip, waiting to see how the Jhafi and Rimoni would respond.

The people could not help seeing the Ordo Costruo arrayed about the king, clad in their pale blue robes, but their mood was all jubilation – whatever their fears about magi, they all knew what the Ordo Costruo had done, how the warbird had brought the Builder-Magi who had turned defeat to victory.

Then Timori reverted to Jhafi and shouted, ‘Most of all, we give praise to
ourselves
! It is written that the gods help those who help themselves: this we have done! You have all put their shoulder to the wheel! Whether you fought, or laboured, or treated the wounded, or cooked, or ran messages, you are each and every one a part of this victory! You
are
this victory!’

He said it all again, in Rimoni, and everyone cheered again. Cera was almost overcome with pride. It was asking a lot of a nine-year-old boy to make any kind of speech, but it was important that he was seen. The people had to be reminded that he was their king; in anticipation of the day his regents stepped aside.
Including me.