Cadman's Gambit Read online

  No matter, he thought, even the imponderables of the universe would be unwoven with the rest of creation, leaving him free to start from first principles with his own elements and his own precise imprint of perfection.

  He almost sighed with boredom as he once more scanned the stationary Kryeh monitoring the screens.

  One of you make a sound. Anything to end the interminable silence. Anything to—

  ‘Caw.’

  Sektis Gandaw stopped mid-thought, ears buzzing as the aural implants filtered out the humming of machinery and homed in on the frequencies of the sound just emitted…by one of the Kryeh.

  Mephesch was watching him, head to one side, black eyes glinting with either excitement or mischief. In response to Sektis Gandaw’s unasked question, Mephesch indicated the Kryeh stationed at screen 37 on the second tier. The circle of flooring beneath Sektis Gandaw’s shiny shoes detached itself and bore him upwards until he levitated just behind the creature. Mephesch seemed to merge with the wall and then reappeared beside the offending Kryeh. Sektis Gandaw shook his head. How did he do that?

  The satellite was aimed at the northwest coast of Sahul, the troublesome last refuge of opposition to his Global Technocracy on Earth in the days before the Reckoning. The image was unfocused, showing only a blurry, indistinguishable landmass. A node pushed through Sektis Gandaw’s scalp, microfilaments whipping out like the tentacles of a fluorescent jellyfish and inserting into receptors on the edge of the screen. He zoomed in upon a city tucked away within the northern jungle, attenuated his trackers and expanded a section of the road leading south along the coast. There was a momentary flare of amber light.

  ‘Caw,’ screeched the Kryeh, a little louder this time. It opened its razor-lined jaw to squawk again and then clamped it shut. The light had vanished.

  Mephesch shrugged.

  Sektis Gandaw became aware that he was gritting his teeth and he once more felt the calming fluids entering his body. He glared at the screen.

  ‘Where does that road lead?’ His voice sounded cold and indifferent, just the way he liked it.

  Mephesch punched keys on a console and threw a look over his shoulder. ‘The city of Sarum.’

  Sektis Gandaw retracted his microfilaments and threw up a map on his vambrace, the terrain etched in sharp green lines, the data overlaid in red.

  Sarum was the largest city in the midwest, and virtually on top of the last place to register a reading: the village of Oakendale. He’d sent mawgs to investigate that one, but before they’d located the source, they’d been driven back by some religious maniac wielding a sword. After that, he’d lost all trace of the emission.

  ‘This is a different piece,’ Mephesch said, running some calculations on the keypad.

  Two pieces in such close proximity? Someone was being careless. Either that, or the savage, Huntsman, was growing weaker. In any case, this was too good an opportunity to miss. With two pieces of the Statue of Eingana, Sektis Gandaw might be able to use them to locate the others. He glanced at Mephesch, but the homunculus was oblivious, still tapping out numbers. An indicator winked on Sektis Gandaw’s vambrace. His heart rate was ever-so-slightly elevated, but not for long.

  ‘Get me Krylyrd,’ he said in a voice of utmost calm.

  Mephesch hit some more keys and the images on all the screens merged into one enormous picture of a rough amphitheatre hewn from dried mud.

  The mawg stepped into view, hunched and tuberous, part wolf, part reptile, a string of skulls adorning its sinewy neck. Krylryd’s image loomed from the walls, yellow eyes feverous, black lips curling away from the rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth lining its jutting maw and extending all the way to its gullet. If Sektis Gandaw recollected correctly, that was the result of throwing in the genes of some carnivorous plant or other. The mawgs had also been imbued with a semblance of the collective intelligence he’d observed in ants. He’d never have created such a mixed bag these days, but back then he was still learning, and besides, the mawgs had proven a valuable tool. With the disappearance of the last planeship, they were his sole presence on Earth—his hands and feet, you might say, complementing the eyes and ears he had orbiting the planet.

  ‘Krylyrd.’ He loathed addressing the gibbering creature.

  The mawg threw itself on the ground and started contorting and foaming at the mouth, obviously convinced it was entering some mystical state from which to commune with a god. Either that or it was just putting on a show for the rest of the hive, ensuring they were awestruck enough to accept its leadership rather than devouring its flesh and then, as was their custom, disgorging it.

  ‘Someone has used the power of Eingana. Send scouts to the city of Sarum in Sahul. Tell them, if they find the statue they will be infinitely rewarded.’

  Actually, he’d un-create them along with the rest of the imperfect universe, but Krylyrd didn’t need to know that.

  The mawg’s jaws parted in an exultant roar, and in the background, Sektis Gandaw could hear the howls of the hive growing to a frenzy in the anticipation of blood.

  THE SWORD OF THE ARCHON

  The whole world reduced to a point between the eyes of his opponent. The roaring of the crowd keeping beat with the pounding of blood in his veins. His sword dancing the tune of the flesh without the buffer of thought. Shader revelled in the ecstasy of combat but couldn’t wait to see the back of it.

  Galen’s eyes flicked to the right as he feigned a thrust, turned his wrist and struck at Shader’s unprotected left—just as he was meant to. Shader parried and touched the tip of his blade to Galen’s chin. The big man fell back, wiping the blood from his dimple and muttering beneath his moustache. First nick he’d had, Shader reckoned. Had to hurt his pride. Shouldn’t have boasted, then he wouldn’t have so far to fall.

  He waited, sword loose at his side, as Galen tugged his uniform straight and puffed out his chest. The red jacket of the Templum Dragoons could get a whole lot redder yet if the bluff old sod didn’t yield. Galen frowned, raised his sabre and eyed Shader like he meant to hack the head from his shoulders. Some people never learn.

  The attack was sudden—a flurry of jabs, an eviscerating slash, a butcher’s hack, all deftly blocked or slicing air.

  ‘Stay still you ruddy blackguard!’

  The crowd laughed. Galen scowled. Shader lifted his blade in salute.

  Scratching his whiskers, Galen began to circle him, thin strands of hair standing to attention over his great pink head. Shader had to give him credit: he was no coward and no mean fighter too. He’d watched him come up through the rounds, bashing aside the competition with a combination of skill and brute force. Good qualities for a swordsman; the kind that led to fame. Shame he was horribly outclassed.

  Galen bellowed and charged. Shader swayed aside and scratched the back of his thighs as he passed. Could have hamstringed the idiot, but that would have been taking the contest a little too seriously. Galen spun and swiped, kicking, stabbing, spitting his frustration. Shader gave ground, rode out the storm and then broke off, resuming the en garde stance. Galen sucked in air, mopped sweat from his brow, and advanced. Shader stamped his lead foot, half-stepped, and then jump-lunged, jabbing him below an epaulette. Galen roared. His sabre arced down and Shader ducked, coming up straight into the path of a fist. His sword thrust on instinct and exited through the back of Galen’s hand. The big man yelped and then squealed as the blade tore free.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Shader put up his sword and took a step towards him.

  Galen screamed and hacked with all his might. Shader deflected the blow but numbness shot through his arm. He switched the sword to his left hand, the blade twirling and glittering, sliding between Galen’s basket-hilt and fingers to send his sabre clattering to the floor. Shader pressed the point of his sword into Galen’s nostril.

  ‘I think you’re beaten.’

  Galen went rigid, scarcely daring to breathe. His eyes flicked from Shader’s blade to his own.

  ‘You fought well,
Galen, but it’s over.’

  The big man’s chest heaved, threatening to pop the polished buttons from his jacket and rip the brocading. His head pulled carefully away from the tip of Shader’s sword, a finger probing inside his nostril to gauge the damage. Blood pooled from his pierced hand, dripping down his fingers and spattering his boots.

  ‘Do you yield?’

  The crowd had gone deathly quiet. Galen scanned the Coliseum, face flushing as he acknowledged his supporters.

  ‘Yes, I bloody yield!’ He snatched up his sabre and stormed from the arena.

  Shader spotted a dash of purple hurrying through the crowd and smiled. Adeptus Ludo scurried down the concourse, one hand flapping, the other holding his spectacles on his nose as he chased after Galen. Shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and affection, Shader bowed to the crowd, only now becoming aware of their sheer numbers. They filled tier upon tier of bleachers set between fluted columns and gaping arches. The applause fuddled his thoughts, burying them like an avalanche. He swayed as the sky lurched, stumbled, and would have fallen had strong hands not steadied him.

  ‘A disorienting feeling—giving up the focus of combat for the baying of the mob.’ A clipped voice, measured and familiar. Ignatius Grymm.

  The Grand Master led him by the shoulder towards the clerical enclosure, ramrod straight, one hand resting on the pommel of his dress-sword. Ignatius was everything the Elect were created to be: immaculate, efficient, and utterly obedient to the Ipsissimus. The old knight genuflected, bald patch an island amidst iron-grey hair as clipped as his voice. He lifted one arm to receive the benediction, sunlight glinting from mailed sleeves, the Monas symbol bleeding from his surcoat like a mortal wound.

  ‘Who do you present to the First of the Servants of Ain?’ asked Exemptus Cane, trembling with infirmity, clutching tight to the handle of his stick, a thin line of spittle glistening in the crease of his chin.

  ‘I present,’ Ignatius declaimed for the entire crowd to hear, ‘Deacon Shader, former Captain of the Seventh Horse, leader of the charge that broke the Verusian line at Trajinot, and now Keeper,’ he turned to take in the Coliseum, ‘of the Sword of the Archon.’

  Give a blade a legendary name, Shader thought, and men would do anything to win it. Men like Galen. Men like all the others he’d beaten on his way to the final. If the Archon wasn’t just a myth, the last thing he’d need was a sword, and it wasn’t very likely he’d approve of such a brutal display in order to claim it. The Templum was many things to many people, but for Shader it was consistent only in one: the paradox of a brotherhood of love, born from the ashes of the Old World and enforced by the legions.

  Exemptus Cane nodded, licking his lips, wet and rheumy eyes sliding to appraise Shader.

  ‘Are you consecrated?’

  ‘I am, your Eminence.’ Had the senile old fool forgotten that he’d been the one doing the anointing? That was the sad truth about the Templum, Shader thought: all that talk about the uniqueness of each and every Nousian, but in reality they were just numbers drifting down the stream of obscurity.

  ‘Good, good.’ The Exemptus seemed to have run out of things to say, his tongue clicking as he looked over his shoulder towards the supreme ruler of the Nousian Theocracy.

  Ipsissimus Theodore was seated like a god, white robes perfectly contiguous with the gleaming throne, a huge leather bound Liber open on his lap, giving the impression he continually meditated upon the scriptures, that he was in fact their human embodiment. He was a small man, gaunt and deathly pale, the white biretta perched perilously too far to one side of his head. Bright eyes stabbed at Shader from within sunken sockets. Eyes full of vitality and the rumour of a quick mind.

  The Ipsissimus lifted his hand and Shader knelt to kiss his ring. A glint of gold caught his eye: a pendant hanging from a heavy chain. The Monas, the symbol of Ain the Infinitely Concealed. It was comprised of a horned circle surmounting a cruciform body. Two conjoined curves formed the legs, and an amber stone glinted within the head—a single all-seeing eye.

  ‘You accept the Sword of the Archon?’ The Ipsissimus’s voice was thin and rasping. He gave a delicate cough, the merest hint of a wince.

  ‘If that is your will, Divinity.’

  The Ipsissimus nodded to Exemptus Cane who wagged his stick at the two Exempti standing to the right of the throne. They held a velvet cushion between them, upon which was a covering of white silk. They bowed and held out the cushion to the Ipsissimus, who whisked away the cloth to reveal a dull blade: a double-edged shortsword with a tapered tip for thrusting, a knobbed hilt and ridges for the grip. The Ipsissimus passed the sword to Shader, etchings on the blade shimmering in the sun’s rays. Hands shaking, Shader mouthed the words as he read them: ‘Vade in pace?’ He glanced at the Ipsissimus.

  ‘Go in peace. Beautiful irony, don’t you think?’ He gave a little wave of his hand and Shader backed away. ‘Vade in pace!’ Shader could almost hear Adeptus Ludo’s voice drilling the point home: Imperative sense. A command not a noun. Some things you never forget, no matter how dull and pointless. Maybe it had all been in preparation for understanding the Ipsissimus’s jokes.

  ‘Show the crowd,’ Ignatius whispered in his ear.

  Walking back to the centre of the arena, Shader held the sword aloft, the cheers deafening like cascading water. The sword seemed to like it, odd as it sounded. He shifted his grip on the handle, momentarily shocked. He was certain the thing had trembled. No, more than that: the sword was purring.

  ***

  ‘Gladius,’ Ignatius said, filling Shader’s glass. ‘A weapon of the finest pedigree, old before even the time of the Ancients.’

  Shader spun the sword on the tabletop, light from the oil lamps dancing along the blade and picking out the inscription. It read like an invitation to return to Sahul, to put away the trappings of the Elect and enter the contemplative life of Pardes. He wondered what the Ipsissimus would think of that. Leaving the consecrated knighthood was not exactly encouraged, and the Keeper of the Archon’s Sword setting foot outside the city of Aeterna—that didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Our illustrious founders used them.’ Ignatius waved a hand around. ‘Aeterna was built on the strength of weapons like this. Quick, efficient stabs between a wall of advancing shields. Whole empires swept aside. Brutal men. Clever men. Ruthless.’

  The Grand Master was obviously quite taken with them, which wasn’t exactly a surprise.

  ‘It’s yours, if you want it.’

  Ignatius spluttered into his wine and nearly choked. ‘You can’t give it away. You swore to serve.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘You accepted, remember. Just as Erlstein did, and Baladin before him.’

  An unbroken line of champions serving unto death; bound to the heart of the Templum, the last guardians against an imaginary threat. If the Archon’s brother, the Demiurgos, was such a menace, what was keeping him?

  ‘You know I didn’t come back for this.’

  Ignatius frowned and set down his glass. ‘Then why? Surely you knew no one could beat you, least of all that oaf Galen.’

  Shader laughed. ‘He was pretty good. He’d have given you a run for your money.’

  ‘If I had no arms, perhaps,’ Ignatius picked up his wine, ‘and was blind, and sitting on a field chair.’ His expression became suddenly serious. ‘Still torn?’

  Shader let out a long sigh. Ignatius couldn’t possibly know about the conflict that had sent him running for cover back to the abbey: the disarming feelings that he’d felt for Rhiannon ever since he’d found her mauled by mawgs on the edge of Oakendale. He’d been under no illusions about her. She was your typical Sahulian lass—coarse and feisty and more than a match for the men; but her appearance had never quite fitted her manner. She was wan and willowy, the sheen of her long black hair off-setting her milky skin. Not at all the bronzed look you’d expect of a rancher’s daughter from Western Sahul. Her eyes were a little too deep-set, her lips slightly cur
led, sneering at the absurdity of things. Shader had been fascinated by her; reckoned he knew her better than she knew herself. Thought she was one step through the veil between the world and the eternal paradise of Araboth. He had to laugh now, though. Distance put a different hue on things. The otherworldly appearance could just as easily have been consumption, and the sneering was most likely aimed at him. He suspected, not for the first time, that Rhiannon Kwane was an enigma of his own making.

  He studied his glass for a moment, twisting the stem on the table. ‘Am I really sworn? The Grey Abbot’s expecting me back.’

  ‘If I were caught between two masters, I know which one I’d be obeying,’ Ignatius said.

  ‘The one all in white and with the biggest army in Nousia to back him?’

  Ignatius’ brows knitted and he leaned across the table.

  ‘Sorry, Grand Master.’ Shader lowered his eyes and flinched.

  The silence hung heavy between them. The waiting was excruciating. Couldn’t he just get on with it? The usual dressing down for irreverence? The speech about faith and duty?

  Ignatius seemed to catch his thoughts and chuckled. ‘What would be the point?’ He sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Even when you were under my command you never took a blind bit of notice of anything I said.’

  ‘That’s not—‘

  ‘Deacon, I’ve known you a long time. I consider you my friend. You don’t need me to tell you the right thing to do. Think about it. All that training, all that prayer, the battles—don’t forget the battles. How else can Ain test us in the world? You’ve proven yourself a hundred times over. Except to one person.’ Ignatius rocked forward and touched his palm to Shader’s chest.

  ‘But Verusia…’ Shader pinched the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I know,’ Ignatius’ voice had softened. ‘I was there. The things we saw in those forests would have corroded the faith of lesser men, but not you. Ain’s blood, Deacon, you led the charge that won the day.’