known world by their apocalyptic final battle, raising great charnel fortresses to securely store the hoard. Lynx glanced down at the cartridge box at his waist. Each glass core inside the cartridges was charged with magic, each one of those had been created using a god-fragment to focus the power.
‘Looks like they caught a sparrow,’ Teshen commented as the column moved on. ‘Who are they? Knights-Charnel of the Long Dusk? Could be worse, I guess.’
Lynx craned to see over the heads in front of him as a party of horsemen trotted towards them. There were six in the party, four men and two women; five wearing the quartered black and white livery of their order, with a shield device on their chest bearing a spear and a red setting sun. It was a sight Lynx knew well enough. The other rider was a small shape in a grey shawl, her bowed head covered by a white scarf. Barely more than a girl by her size, she rode at the centre of the knights – an escort of some form, but she didn’t look rich enough for the better sort.
The Knights-Charnel of the Long Dusk were one of the largest of all the Militant Orders. Cities had built up around their three principal fastnesses, which were now hubs in the production of mage-guns and cartridges, and many of the roads Lynx had walked in his life were thanks to their wealth. Most likely half of Lynx’s own ammunition had come from a Knights-Charnel sanctuary, the walled and guarded heart of their cities where mages lived under the generous protection of the Knights-Charnel.
‘Better or worse than other prisons,’ Lynx muttered, ‘that ain’t much of a ringing endorsement.’
Teshen shrugged. ‘I’ve seen inside one. They might not live like kings, but they do better’n you and I.’
Lynx snorted. ‘While they make their masters rich.’
‘True enough.’ Teshen seemed disinclined to say more on the subject; after all, they both knew it had been an old argument long before either of them were born.
The knights wore long coats down to their knees, asymmetrical so the badge stood centrally on their chest, and fastened with fat brass clasps down one side. Wide-brimmed hats kept the rain off and conspicuously decorated gun holsters hung at their horses’ flanks, while each soldier wore a plain rapier on their hip.
The young captive straightened a little as they passed the mercenaries, finally lifting her head from its weary slump. Despite her white scarf, Lynx could see she had trails of brown hair, darkened in the rain and plastered across her face. She couldn’t have been much more than fifteen or sixteen, taller than most perhaps, but Lynx realised with a jolt that was down to her parentage. Whatever the colour of her hair, her features dragged him straight back to his homeland – memories of girls he’d kissed in his youth or just passed in the street every day of his early life.
The girl’s eyes widened as she saw him too, recognising something in him, and her lips parted to croak words Lynx couldn’t make out. The knight at her side grabbed her arm and shook it angrily, but though she cringed she repeated her words and this time he heard it clear enough.
‘Tau-na-se.’
Save me.
Lynx hesitated mid-step. Hair stuck across her face by the rain. Anyone with their hands free would’ve moved it.
‘Sorry,’ he said in a low voice to Teshen.
‘Huh? Oh shitting hells …’
Lynx had already stepped back and slipped between the last few mercenaries behind him, an icer flipped from the ready-pouch at the front of his cartridge box. In one movement he drew his mage-gun and slipped the cartridge into the chamber.
‘’Scuse me, gents,’ he called out, casually holding the gun out with one hand so it pressed again the belly of the last rider.
The lead knight, already past him, glanced back and saw the weapon. He yanked hard on his reins to bring the horse round as his comrade stopped dead, looking with horror at the gun at his belly.
‘What’s the meaning of
‘Looks like they caught a sparrow,’ Teshen commented as the column moved on. ‘Who are they? Knights-Charnel of the Long Dusk? Could be worse, I guess.’
Lynx craned to see over the heads in front of him as a party of horsemen trotted towards them. There were six in the party, four men and two women; five wearing the quartered black and white livery of their order, with a shield device on their chest bearing a spear and a red setting sun. It was a sight Lynx knew well enough. The other rider was a small shape in a grey shawl, her bowed head covered by a white scarf. Barely more than a girl by her size, she rode at the centre of the knights – an escort of some form, but she didn’t look rich enough for the better sort.
The Knights-Charnel of the Long Dusk were one of the largest of all the Militant Orders. Cities had built up around their three principal fastnesses, which were now hubs in the production of mage-guns and cartridges, and many of the roads Lynx had walked in his life were thanks to their wealth. Most likely half of Lynx’s own ammunition had come from a Knights-Charnel sanctuary, the walled and guarded heart of their cities where mages lived under the generous protection of the Knights-Charnel.
‘Better or worse than other prisons,’ Lynx muttered, ‘that ain’t much of a ringing endorsement.’
Teshen shrugged. ‘I’ve seen inside one. They might not live like kings, but they do better’n you and I.’
Lynx snorted. ‘While they make their masters rich.’
‘True enough.’ Teshen seemed disinclined to say more on the subject; after all, they both knew it had been an old argument long before either of them were born.
The knights wore long coats down to their knees, asymmetrical so the badge stood centrally on their chest, and fastened with fat brass clasps down one side. Wide-brimmed hats kept the rain off and conspicuously decorated gun holsters hung at their horses’ flanks, while each soldier wore a plain rapier on their hip.
The young captive straightened a little as they passed the mercenaries, finally lifting her head from its weary slump. Despite her white scarf, Lynx could see she had trails of brown hair, darkened in the rain and plastered across her face. She couldn’t have been much more than fifteen or sixteen, taller than most perhaps, but Lynx realised with a jolt that was down to her parentage. Whatever the colour of her hair, her features dragged him straight back to his homeland – memories of girls he’d kissed in his youth or just passed in the street every day of his early life.
The girl’s eyes widened as she saw him too, recognising something in him, and her lips parted to croak words Lynx couldn’t make out. The knight at her side grabbed her arm and shook it angrily, but though she cringed she repeated her words and this time he heard it clear enough.
‘Tau-na-se.’
Save me.
Lynx hesitated mid-step. Hair stuck across her face by the rain. Anyone with their hands free would’ve moved it.
‘Sorry,’ he said in a low voice to Teshen.
‘Huh? Oh shitting hells …’
Lynx had already stepped back and slipped between the last few mercenaries behind him, an icer flipped from the ready-pouch at the front of his cartridge box. In one movement he drew his mage-gun and slipped the cartridge into the chamber.
‘’Scuse me, gents,’ he called out, casually holding the gun out with one hand so it pressed again the belly of the last rider.
The lead knight, already past him, glanced back and saw the weapon. He yanked hard on his reins to bring the horse round as his comrade stopped dead, looking with horror at the gun at his belly.
‘What’s the meaning of
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