Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (93 page)

‘Plans don’t always work.’ Lukaz shrugged. ‘We’ll hold our lines. Tell those bastards flanking us to hold theirs.’

Ramon stood. ‘Good on you, lads. I’d like to say you’re the best men I’ve served with, but as you’re the only ones I’ve served with, it’s a bit hollow. But still true! Good luck tomorrow – I’ll rejoin you as soon as I’m able.’

He took their salutes and offhand good wishes in return and walked away into the rear of the camp. The mood was quite different where the Khotri woman were gathered amongst the wagons. Most were pregnant or bearing newborns. They’d gathered in a large circle about a bonfire, and Ramon noticed many of their husbands had slipped from the lines to see them. They were singing a mournful song in their native tongue; it was both melancholic and longing, quite lovely, but very foreign. Then his ears pricked up as the Rondian men raised their own chorus, an old Brevian folk song:

Under forest, under sky, walking home to you;

Through winter snow, ice and rain, coming home to you.

The women’s eerie voices wove around the song perfectly, enhancing the hoarse, ragged chorus of male voices. He wondered how many of the women had even seen ice or snow. This army was creating something new, born of both northern forests and eastern deserts, as fragile as any windblown weed, desperately thin and scrawny, struggling to take root, faced with the reaper’s scythe and fire. The burden of responsibility bit him deeper. He’d brought these people together, however unwittingly, and they were his to see safe, if it could be done.

He moved on, beyond the sentries posted in case the Rondians were trying anything sneaky themselves, though Seth swore his father disliked what he always called ‘chicanery’, preferring ‘victory with honour’. It was the sort of luxury a man who had always commanded the most powerful army could afford.

Delta slid impassively out of the darkness. ‘Magister Sensini?’

‘Call me Ramon. Are you ready?’

The shaven-headed man rubbed at the ugly brand on his forehead and set his jaw. ‘Yes, Ramon. I’m ready.’

‘You know most of my fellow magi believe you’ll betray us, don’t you?’

Delta smiled his lugubrious smile. ‘Ramon, they can believe what they like. But you know what I am. My kindred and I have this “condition” that is inhuman. We have had that condition exploited by your “Holy” Inquisition. Your people might think us monsters, but we have consciences; we want it to stop. We desire revenge. I pray we can take this chance.’

Ramon clasped the Dokken’s hand, the first time they’d made physical contact. His inner eye engaged and he got a queasy feeling watching the way their auras exchanged a
frisson
of energy. They both pulled away nervously. ‘I’ve not seen that before,’ Delta mused, ‘though you are the first mage I have met in friendship.’

Ramon’s hand still tingled. ‘Interesting. If we get the chance later, let’s talk.’

Later . . . as if there will be a later . . .

Jelaska appeared, wraithlike in her black robes and pallor. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yeah, I’m pooty,’ Ramon replied.

‘Eh?’

‘Never mind. Let’s go.’

They skirted the dung-trenches and rubbish heaps and found their objective, a windskiff Chaplain Gerdhart was recharging. ‘I don’t like this,’ he muttered in Ramon’s ear. ‘I don’t trust that Dokken.’
Or you, entirely
, his eyes added.

‘I do. He hates them more than we do. That’s good enough for me.’

Gerdhart inclined his head. ‘I’ll pray for you, Sensini.’

‘Tell the healers to look after my daughter,’ he told him. He clambered in, taking the tiller, and Jelaska and Delta followed. Delta moved to the prow, where he could work unimpeded. They wrapped themselves in blankets to trap the heat and a minute later they were rising through the darkness. Delta went into a meditative trance, while Jelaska snuggled against Ramon’s side and promptly began to snore.

Ramon’s plan required elevation to widen the reach of Delta’s spell-work, and to give themselves as much time as possible before any Rondian windcraft reached them. Initially they drifted on breezes from the northeast, quickly leaving the occupied areas behind them. He worked the tiller gently, subtly extending his senses. There were Rondian skiffs patrolling above their lines, and venators too, although they were all far to the north.

By midnight they were some twenty miles south of the crossroads. Now the real work began. He found an updraft and slowly climbed into the sky whilst tacking across the wind, working his way steadily back towards the armies. His plan required them to return to the air above the Bassaz crossroads an hour before dawn, undetected, and high up, just below the point where altitude sickness and the freezing temperatures became deadly. Windcraft seldom went so high, and Ramon hoped that would mean the Rondian air-patrols wouldn’t be looking upwards.

As they neared the crossroads again, it became apparent that Kaltus Korion’s army were far from complacent. Ramon counted six pairs of windskiffs and venators aloft at a thousand yards or so, more than three thousand yards below them. The air up here was bitingly cold, even wrapped up as they were. All of their blankets were now coated in frost and their breath was streaming out in clouds.

Jelaska roused herself. ‘Getting too old for this sort of shit,’ she grumbled cheerily. ‘My arse is frozen solid.’

‘Then bring it here and I’ll warm it for you.’ Ramon winked.

She snorted tartly. ‘Got your spirits back again, have you?’

‘It’s the danger,
amica
,’ he replied, not entirely jesting. ‘This is what it is to be alive.’ He looked beyond her to Delta, whose fleshy face was impassive. ‘Over to you,’ he called softly.

The Dokken reached inside his robes and drew out the cluster-crystal he wore instead of a periapt. At once it kindled, but only dully; he wasn’t yet fully exerting. He raised his hands from the blankets and began to call names, those of his kindred, and the air about him began to glow.

*

Kaltus Korion always slept poorly before engagements, though battle seemed unlikely today, and in any case would be brief and one-sided. He was a professional, and took nothing for granted. He’d ordered a full quarter of his magi to stay awake listening to the aether, scrying the enemy or on patrol above, or pre-enchanting ballistae shafts and crossbow bolts for use against important foes. He kept himself busy with correspondence, and dealing with a never-ending stream of gnostic contacts from far afield: nobles and courtiers wishing him well. After the disaster in the north they were anxious; rumours were flying of a renegade Inquisitor and a daemon army. It all sounded preposterous, but he couldn’t make contact with anyone among the magi he’d left in the north, and all kinds of rumours were flying about. Clearly the sooner he returned to Ebensar and retook command the better.

Today’s operation was complicated because of Seth’s presence in the other army. It would be intolerable for anything to happen that his rivals could interpret as father-son collusion. The Imperial Court was full of mediocre men with clever, spiteful tongues: he refused to give them anything to work with. Victory had to be total.

After tomorrow, I’ll have the only intact army in the field and all the gold for a march on Pallas . . . all unwittingly presented to me by my former son, and the bastard of one of my chief rivals. Perfect . . .

Eventually Kaltus went and lay down, drifting in and out of sleep. Mater-Imperia Lucia had contacted him in the evening, worried about the money again – she’d finally got wind of the bullion these ‘Lost Legions’ supposedly carried, and she wanted it, desperately. He was getting tired of swearing protestations of ignorance, but his army was filled with her spies and he didn’t know what she believed. He’d begun to wonder if the pending destruction of the Bridge was designed to handicap him more than any other purpose.

Damn this
. Realising he was wide awake and unlikely to sleep again that night, he clambered off his pallet, still the same fold-up cot he’d been issued as a junior tribune all those years ago – all part of the myth he cultivated, that he was just a common soldier at heart. The men liked it, and it was a small enough discomfort. He found a flask of strong Brician brandy and went looking for someone to share the vigil. There was light in the officers’ mess, and inside he found Arch-Legate Hestan Milius of the Imperial Treasury, writing. The Arch-Legate looked up. ‘Ah, General Korion. You too cannot sleep?’

The arch-legate wasn’t the company Kaltus would have chosen, but he poured a couple of measures and sat with him. Milius looked as wise as Kore and he knew all the court gossip; perhaps he’d let something useful slip.

‘So, Arch-Legate,’ he began, ‘what’s going on inside the Treasury? And what’s Dubrayle’s bastard got to do with it?’

Milius took a sip of the brandy and purred, ‘General, Lord Dubrayle is angry that his bastard is involved, like you are yourself. He is revoking his acknowledgment of the little ingrate, and is relying on you to be rid of him more permanently.’

‘I want to see both bastards eliminated and forgotten, I assure you.’

‘Then we’re of one mind on that matter, at the least.’

‘The harder question will be the alleged bullion,’ Kaltus said carefully. ‘It seems to me that whoever gains it will hold great power when this promissory note scandal collapses half the noble Houses, pushing them into penury.’ He topped up Milius’ cup. ‘I have Inquisitors and Treasury-men hovering like vultures.’

‘Many Inquisitors, perhaps,’ Milius replied, ‘but I’m the only Treasury-man who matters.’

‘Hmm. Where does the Church sit in this matter? Would they use the bullion to stabilise the empire, or to shift its control from the palace to the prelature?’

‘I rather think you can guess.’ Milius raised his cup. ‘This is good brandy, Kaltus.’

‘I only deal in the best. And I think only of the empire’s safety, which I feel is threatened most if the Church gains this bullion. Grand Prelate Wurther is an ignoble creature, and canonical rule would hurt us all.’

Milius stroked his white beard. ‘The army is the Treasury’s preferred partner. We would use this wealth to stabilise the empire, and ensure the Imperial Legions continue to be funded.’

I think I could work with this man, if not Dubrayle. I need allies in the Treasury, at the least
. ‘Do you speak for Lord Dubrayle in this?’

‘Of course, as in all things.’

‘He places great trust in you.’

‘Rightly.’ Milius looked mildly affronted. ‘I’m an extremely loyal person.’

While it remains profitable, no doubt
. ‘It’s my intention to hold the Inquisition Fists in reserve,’ Kaltus said. ‘My own men will be first into the deserters’ baggage area. There’s no guarantee that’s where this mythic gold is though; we must react first once we know.’ He fixed Milius with a firm eye. ‘I know all there is to know about winning in battle, but I am not a money man. You are. Can we work together on this?’

Milius returned his gaze steadily. ‘I believe we can.’

They toasted the agreement with more brandy, while outside dawn approached and the first stirrings of the army began. The cavalrymen were rising to ready their steeds: khurnes needed as much tending as any horse, and their heightened intellect meant they could be temperamental if neglected. Kaltus went to the flap of the tent and looked outside, savouring the pre-battle tension like the bouquet of a fine chardo.

It was still an hour till sunrise, and Luna was in the western skies. Staring up at her face always brought out the pagan in him, reminding him that Kore had once been a northern incarnation of the Sollan god, Pater Sol, before the rise of the magi, though Mater Lune had never been brought into the Rondian religion. There was something stirring about gazing up at that cratered, broken face, every shape on it alive in some myth or other. He toasted her silently.

Then the night shivered, and he heard a low, eerie sound. All over the camp, the warhounds began to bay, the khurnes whinnied and reared and the venators began to keen, as if every construct-beast in the army had suddenly woken and scented blood.

Pallas, Rondelmar, on the continent of Yuros

Aprafor 930

22
^nd
month of the Moontide

One of the oldest rites of the Church of Kore was that of Absolution: the supplicant brought a coin for every sin they wished absolved, and then confessed it privately to the priest. The means of depositing the coin varied from region to region, from discreetly sliding it through the grille of the curtained booth, to placing it ostentatiously on the altar or into the font in the atrium. However, the need was universal: to lift the burden of guilt, and purify one’s soul anew.

It was also an excellent source of revenue for the Church. But it came with responsibilities, and one of those was the very delicate matter of dealing with the Absolution of the noble House of Sacrecour. The role of Imperial Confessor was one of the duties of the Grand Prelate of the Kore, and on it hung the delicate relationship between Church and Throne. Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther had risen to the Arch-Prelature in early 921, just in time to marry young Constant Sacrecour to his ill-fated wife, Tarya, who’d borne him two children, then died. It had been a heady start to his tenure, but he’d enjoyed a long career in the Church prior to that; one didn’t simply fall into the Arch-Prelature! One plotted and backstabbed and bribed, and whatever else it took. The struggle didn’t stop then, either: it became a rearguard action against jealous rivals and the march of time.

The relationship with the Imperial Palace was the most decisive front on which Wurther fought. The Royal House and the Church were locked in an eternal struggle for the hearts and minds of the common people, but they had to maintain a front of unity, lest faith in either be shaken. So his mind was sharply focused as Lucia Sacrecour entered the Absolution Chamber in the Imperial Chapel at the appointed hour and knelt before the grille.