Glenda Larke - The Heart of the mirage

Pinar's grave had disappeared. In its place, another foul green-black sore. The Ravage had evidently searched for the source of its doom-bringer, traced her – and found her already dead. It had erupted in a baffled magma of rage, swallowed her remains and grave into a new seething inflammation in the skin of its host. Now I felt its delight in its consumption of dead flesh; I felt its rejoicing in the silent agony of the Mirage Makers.

I could feel it casting around for me, the one who had brought its doom into the weave of the Mirage. It was a disease in search of a victim, an assassin in search of its supposed nemesis: in search of me. Damn them to Acheron's deepest hell, I hadn't solved my problem at all. " ^

Brand looked over my shoulder at the place where the grave had been. 'Ah,' he said, in that thoughtful way of his. 'I think perhaps you were right, Ligea. About • the reason for the Mirage Makers wanting a Magor baby, I mean. I don't think the Ravage liked what happened one little bit.'

i

A

Brand and I sat on our shleths at the top of an escarpment and looked across at the Alps. Neither of us had ever seen anything like these mountains before. Ragged peaks scarified the sky, ploughs to snag and shred the wisps of clouds forming there. Mountainsides plunged down, sheer-walled, into shadowed canyons. Snow whipped away from crests in wind-blasted flurries. A landscape of extremes, ruggedly beautiful or grimly forbidding, scenery to be enjoyed – or a barrier to be conquered.

'They crossed those?' Brand asked. 'On gorclaks? By all that's holy, how was it possible?'

'Vortex knows. Yet they are here.' I looked down on the narrow alluvial plain below me. Unlike the Alps, the plains were clearly still part of the Mirage. The grass glittered with silver as if it had been sprinkled with mica; the wind played across it to make waves. Grass crests broke in splatters of silver only to swell, whole again, a moment later. I scarcely noticed. I was gazing at the legionnaire camp erected on the plains, next to the snow-fed river dividing Mirage from alpine foothills. I now had no problem using my enhanced _„

sight to scan the army camp; I may have been thinner than before, but otherwise I'd recovered the strength drained from me several weeks earlier. 'Holy Goddess,' I whispered. 'Favonius said a legion – three thousand men or more.'

'There's not three thousand there, surely.'

'There's not half that number. Vortex, but they are battered, Brand. Some are barely hobbling. Frostbite perhaps? They seem to have most of their gorclaks, though. But where are the camp followers? The support people? These are all soldiers!' I could see no proper kitchen tents set up, no blacksmith's travelling forge, no store, no slaves. I shook my head. 'They have had a hard time, artd yet they are here.'

'Can you see Favonius?' Brand could not make out any detail at all, but he no longer questioned my ability to do so.

'Not from this distance. Let's ride down.'

He was surprised. 'Just like that?'

'Just like that.' I set my shleth at the slope.

'Ocrastes' balls, are you sure, Ligea?'

I grinned at him. I was beginning to feel like my old self again.

There were guards, of course. We were challenged long before we reached the camp, but I spoke to them and one deferentially escorted us to the verandahed tent of the commanding officer, Legate Kilmar. There we dismounted and waited while Kilmar was informed of our arrival. A moment later, we were ushered inside.

The interior had none of the usual luxury of an officer's tent. There was no furniture, just a few cushions and saddle pelts on the floor. The Legate lounged back on some of these, a goblet in one hand and the remains of a meal spread out on a pelt in front

of him. He was a man of fifty, thick and muscular and tough-skinned, his face rough and scarred by a lifetime of campaigns. One of his ankles was bandaged; blood seeped through.

Behind him and to one side stood Favonius, his blue eyes startled, the slant of his nose accentuated by the increased leanness of liis face. His tunic was ragged, his cuirass and greaves scored, but apart from that he appeared unhurt. Military protocol permitted him nothing more than a suggestion of a smile in my direction, but his amazement, his tender regard, the quick climb of his desire were all as obvious to me as if he'd shouted them to the world. I nodded slightly, then ignored him, turning all my attention to the Legate.

'Legate Kilmar? I am Legata Ligea Gayed, Compeer of the Brotherhood.' I did not introduce Brand; to the Legate, a free Altani could never have been anything more than a minor servant. Brand remained by the entrance with his hands clasped behind his back and his face expressionless. Favonius stared at his bare neck and gave a wondering frown.

'Greetings, Legata,' the Legate said. 'It is indeed an honour to receive you. You will please forgive my reluctance to rise. As you can see, I had a slight mishap – a rockfall.' He dismissed the injury with a wave. 'Please be seated. Can I offer you a meal?'

'I have not long eaten,' I said politely. 'A drink would not go amiss, however.'

The Legate nodded to Favonius, who poured some wine from a skin. It had been well watered down and splashed pinkly into a dented goblet. Legionnaires were not known for the moderation of their drinking habits; I could only assume they were low on supplies. 'You know the Tribune, T"believe?' he asked.

'I've had the pleasure. Well met, Tribune Favonius.'

'Well met indeed, Legata. It seems you found a way to cross the Shiver Barrens after all?'

'And you found a way to cross the Alps. Not without cost, though, I think.'

The Legate grimaced. 'There was an avalanche. Those at the back of the column were cut off. More than two thousand men are behind us somewhere, together with the camp followers, most of our supplies and our support slaves. It will take them weeks to clear the route. And that will mean they will have to send back for more supplies before they can join us.' He looked at his foot ruefully. 'There have also been injuries. And deaths. But even a weakened Stalwart legion is better than a legion of ordinary men. We have our gorclaks and our weapons; that's all we need. We can pillage on our way across the Mirage.'

'Perhaps. But you have a bare quarter of a legion, I think. Will you allow me to look at your injury, Legate? I have some experience with doctoring.'

'I would be grateful.' His face tautened, belying his words. He knew any unwrapping of his bandages would hurt him. 'Neither of our physicians made it this far,' he added.

'Get some clean bandages from our pack, Brand,' I said and knelt beside the Legate. I began to unwind the bloodied cloth.

'What brought you here, Legata?' Kilmar asked, gripping his leg above the knee in a valiant effort not to show his pain.

'A warning. You must not proceed. I have come to tell you there is no question of victory here: you must turn back.'

The Legate gave a harsh laugh. 'Legata, I'm certain I couldn't persuade my men to cross the Alps again! i

Besides, the Stalwarts do not turn back, especially when they have not yet seen the enemy.'

'You will see them, and soon. This is a war you cannot win. Legate, the Kardi people of the Mirage make a practice of sorcery. Proceed and the death that awaits you, all of you, is the death of nightmares.'

'Sorcery? Legata, since when has the Brotherhood x believed in sorcery?'

'Since we have come to Kardiastan. You've heard stories, I feel sure. Legate, have you ever known the information of the Brotherhood to be false in concept? A detail here and there, perhaps, but always the basis is correct. Ah, you have broken some bones, I think. Can I have that wineskin, Tribune? I need to wash away some of the infection in the wound.'