Ahriman: Exile by John French

and rammed his weight forwards, trying to free his knife. Astraeos twisted his sword and the force flicked Thidias from his feet as he gripped the knife. He hit the metal floor then began to rise. Astraeos let the tip of his sword raise a droplet of blood from Thidias’s neck, and looked into his brother’s face. A cold grey eye looked back at him from beside a glowing indigo lens set in a moulded brass fitting.
    ‘Mine is the failing,’ said Thidias, his voice a low rasp. Blood trickled down the warrior’s face, following the old pattern of scars that crossed his lean features. Astraeos nodded slowly, and moved the sword tip from Thidias’s throat.
    At the gloomy margins of the chamber Kadin gave a mirthless chuckle as he paced forwards. Like Astraeos and Thidias, Kadin wore a loose tabard of grey fabric, the exposed flesh of his arms flowing with muscle beneath a network of scars. He was younger than Astraeos, but the scar tissue that covered his skin made him seem weathered and old, like a tree that has survived many storms. His face was broad, his features lost under the glossy skin of burn tissue. Kadin held a short sword loose in his left hand, the edges of its broad blade glinting with fresh sharpness. It was a blade for fighting close, where you could see the fear and fury in an enemy’s eye, and smell his blood as he died. A green lens shone from Kadin’s left eye socket, its setting clicking as it narrowed its focus. Carmenta had given each of them a machine eye to replace those taken by Maroth. Astraeos had been strangely reluctant to accept, as if part of him wanted to leave the empty hole as a reminder.
    Astraeos took a breath. They had been keeping the council of blades for six hours. The fighting chamber was a long, low-ceilinged hold crammed between the engine and weapon decks. Weapons and armour lined the walls; some had been smashed to ruin by the Harrowing, but some gleamed as new. Huge cages of coals burned at the hold corners, filling the hold with heat, smoke and a dim red light.
    ‘You wish for rest, brother,’ said Kadin. He might have been smiling, but old scars twisted his mouth and his voice was as cold as snowfall. Astraeos shook his head. Kadin nodded.
    Kadin lunged, whip-fast. Astraeos was not even aware of raising his blade but somehow he deflected the blow. Kadin was already out and circling. Two more cuts lashed out, low and fast, and Astraeos had to step back as the broad blade slit the air where his leg had been.
    ‘You trust him?’ said Kadin as he circled. Astraeos watched his brother’s green eyes, one true and one false, ignoring the fluid movements of the blade in Kadin’s left hand.
    ‘No,’ said Astraeos, trying to focus on angles of cut as the words of the debate boiled through his mind. The image in his own new augmetic was almost perfect.
    Almost. Kadin’s blow whipped across from the right and he barely caught the movement in time. He flinched back and the blade ripped open his right shoulder.
    ‘You gave him our oaths but you do not trust him,’ growled Kadin. Astraeos focused on Kadin’s constantly moving shape. His right arm felt slow and weak as he raised his sword.
    ‘He gave us our lives,’ Astraeos said levelly, and cut as he spoke. The blow would have opened Kadin from neck to thigh but he was already spinning past the descending sword. Blood ran down Astraeos’s right arm. He had not even seen the cut. If it had been battle he would have sensed the blow without needing to see it, but the council of blades denied him his powers as it denied him his armour. ‘He freed us. It is the way of things. Salvation demands loyalty.’ Kadin lunged, his face twisted into a wolf snarl. Astraeos flicked his sword out to parry, but the scarred warrior had switched the blade between his hands as he moved. The true cut opened a red grin across his left thigh. Numbness spread down Astraeos’s leg.
    ‘He is a sorcerer,’ spat Kadin, ‘a witch in the service of