Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  Winter’s hand twitched, though she had not brought a physical weapon. It would be simple, however, to take a crystal and reach out a tendron to one of these men, to make an example of him…

  “Let the woman speak,” the Spearholder said.

  A few of the other Keepers grumbled something along the lines of that not being the tradition.

  Winter had two choices. She could keep her head down and bide her time until an opportunity presented itself, or she could go on the offensive.

  Canta knew, she found the latter option more appealing. Violence was her language, too, whether she liked it or not. She was a weapon, above all else. But when she closed her eyes, the Chaos sphere was a pure, reluctant white. No violence this time, then. She would have to try something different.

  Winter bowed her head. “By your wisdom, Keepers,” she said, taking note from the way Rorie had addressed them before they’d sent her out, “I am a newcomer to Adimora and to your culture, and I do not mean to presume, but… what is the point of calling me in if you are not willing to speak directly to me? I can answer the questions you’ve asked one another, if you would allow it.”

  More grumbles from the Keepers. The Spearholder, however, stared directly at Winter, a frown on his face. He was the only one of the men at the table, Winter realized, who would meet her eyes. She wondered whether that was an internal choice or dictated by some strange culture of the Cracked Spear.

  “Go ahead, Winter,” the Spearholder finally said.

  There it was. This was her chance. Winter started walking, moving around the table. If they would not meet her eyes of their own accord, she would force them to do it.

  “You’re right about who I am and where I’ve travelled,” Winter said. “I don’t know how you know it, but you’re right. I come from Pranna. My father was killed there, and I left.”

  She moved slowly to face the first man who had spoken, the older man with his araif covering one eye. Winter put one hand on the table, leaning in close. She could smell the dust on him, the aged leather. “I left, and eventually found myself a prisoner in Roden. I did dark things there, and I saw far darker. What you’ve heard is partly correct—I killed one emperor. The other was killed by something much worse than me.” She made her voice hard as she spoke.

  She straightened and continued along the table, her side brushing against the backs of the Keepers seated around it. Her shoulder brushed against an araif, knocking it from the man’s head to reveal a balding spot amidst a mess of wiry white hair. The old man grumbled something incoherent, then bent to pick up his hat. Winter reached it before he did, and swung the rim around one of her fists as she continued walking.

  “I left Roden, hoping to find what remained of my family and friends in Pranna. They had left, because the humans there had driven them out. When I found them in Cineste, the persecution still followed them. So I led them out of the city, and crushed the City Watch that tried to stop us.”

  Winter continued slowly around the table, passing the Spearholder at the head corner. All eyes in the room were on her, now. The man whose araif she had taken glared at her, a frown wrinkling his face. Winter did not care. If this was what it took for these fools to notice her, so be it.

  “And now here I am,” Winter said. The Keepers had asked what she wanted, and now that she had their attention, she would bloody well tell them. “I want, first of all, food and shelter for the Druids—my friends, who I have brought to your city.” Rorie had assured her that her people would find enough food by hunting and fishing the surrounding area, but Winter wanted to be sure. The Druids were mostly city folk, after all. Not all of them had experience hunting and fishing.

  “But more importantly,” she said, “I want justice for the tiellan race.” She thought of Lian, and his hope and optimism. She thought of the empty tiellan huts in Pranna, and of the boy lying broken and bleeding on the floor at the Druid meeting in Cineste—how Eranda would have been next. She forced herself to remember that night in Cineste, the snowy ground cold and melting through the clothing on her back, the human heavy on top of her.

  “I want you to help me fight back. We’ve been emancipated for almost two centuries, but we have not been free. You sit here, on the eastern plains, and you fight amongst yourselves, you squabble, but you do nothing for your brothers and sisters who suffer in the west.”

  Winter made her way back to the empty side of the table. She threw the araif she’d been holding into the middle of the triangle, where it sat crumpled and untouched.

  Eranda’s words echoed in Winter’s head. The tiellans would follow you. I would follow you.

  “I want your armies,” Winter said. She looked directly at the Spearholder. “I want your assistance in finding justice for our people, in carving a place for us in the Sfaera.”

  A few of the Keepers scoffed.

  “We cannot simply give you our armies,” one of them said. “We hardly get along with one another, let alone you, an outsider.”

  “I am not an outsider,” Winter said harshly. “I am one of you.”

  “But—”

  “This is not a request,” Winter said. “This is a demand. You left out something from my history. Something you surely know. I met with a half-dozen chiefs on the plains, a few days ago. They refused me. Now Rorie, the woman you sent away a moment ago, is the only survivor. She recognized the right decision, and I’ve rewarded her for it. The same rule applies to each of you. Join me now, and I’ll reward you for that decision. Not only that, but I’ll lead our forces to victory.”

  Winter’s hand strayed to the frost at her belt. With some effort, she stopped herself from taking a crystal.

  “If you don’t join me now, there will be consequences. I will kill you, first of all. It will be quick, relatively painless, but, well, you’ll definitely be dead. I’ll take whatever forces you command as my prisoners. You’ll forfeit their lives, as well.”

  “If that is your ultimatum,” one of the Keepers said quietly, “how are you any different from the worst of the humans?”

  Winter shrugged. “Maybe I’m not.” She stepped away from the table, and leaned her back against the door to the chamber. The only door, as far as she could tell, that led in or out of the room.

  “You have a quarter of an hour to make your decision,” she said. She closed her eyes again, and this time Chaos loomed black and impenetrable in her mind.

  25

  Odenite camp, outside Kirlan

  KNOT WANDERED THROUGH THE camp searching for the last of his injured soldiers, stunned by the blinding display of light. The third Outsider was gone. None remained. The threat had passed, for now, and yet Knot still felt a twisting feeling in his gut. Something was not right.

  The column of burning light that had destroyed the last Outsider must have been called up by Jane, or perhaps Cinzia. Knot had never seen anything like it. He remembered the shining white light Jane had displayed when the cotir had attacked them at Harmoth, but this had been different. Far brighter. Far more focused. The beam lit up the night brighter than the sun ever could.

  It had destroyed a Goddess-damned Outsider, for Canta’s sake.

  He found Eward in pain with what was likely a broken arm, but otherwise unharmed. After making sure Eward and the other injured soldiers were being cared for, Knot made his way towards the center of camp, where the first Outsider had fallen, surely at Astrid’s hand.

  The center bonfire still burned brightly, and a group of charred tents nearby hurled smoke upwards.

  Lying in the grass was the dead Outsider.

  Knot circled the thing grimly. The Outsider he and Eward’s soldiers had taken down sported dozens of wounds. This one, on the other hand, showed almost no injuries at all. The Outsider’s hide was smooth blackness. A few deep gouges marked the thing’s neck. Astrid’s claws, surely. Then, Knot walked around the thing and saw its head. Or what was left of it, anyway.

  The lower jaw had been completely torn from the skull. It now
lay a few rods away from the beast, the grass beneath soaked in blood. One of the creature’s own fangs, longer than Knot’s sword, had been jammed into a big black eye.

  “She killed it by herself.”

  Knot turned to see Cavil, Ocrestia’s husband.

  “You saw it?” Knot asked.

  “It was…” Cavil looked down. “…horrifying. But Astrid killed it, on her own.”

  “Is she—”

  “She’s all right, she’s all right,” Cavil said quickly. “Guess I should’ve led with that. Leg looked a bit messed up, but she limped off that way.” He pointed in the direction of where the final Outsider had been obliterated by the beam of light, on the southern edge of camp, closest to the city.

  Knot looked at the Outsider’s body, and couldn’t help but chuckle. His girl had done this. It was odd to be proud of her for killing an Outsider on her own, but there was no mistaking the feeling that swelled in his chest.

  He looked to Cavil. “You all right?”

  Cavil shrugged. “Ain’t dead, if that’s what you mean.”

  Knot grunted.

  “Go find her,” Cavil said. “She was looking for you.”

  “Thank you,” Knot said.

  It took him a few moments to get to the edge of the camp. So many injured Odenites. He saw Ocrestia and the new disciple, Baetrissa, leading a small group administering to the injured. He had yet to glimpse Cinzia or Jane. They would have to wait until after he found Astrid.

  As Knot approached the southern edge of camp, the twisting feeling in his gut intensified. He looked around, trying to discern what might cause the sensation. At the edge of camp, he noticed a carriage.

  The Odenites had many horses among them, and a few wagons. But the people had given up any carriages they had to make the trek south. Jane had insisted on it.

  A woman in the red and white robes of a matron walked around the carriage. Astrid’s words came to mind, about who she worked for. Who owned her, as she put it.

  A specific faction of the Denomination, led by someone who calls herself the Black Matron.

  A low growl began deep in Knot’s throat. He picked up speed, moving towards the carriage. He did not see Astrid anywhere. But the carriage had bars on the windows, a strong lock on the door. Its passengers were not meant to ride in comfort; they were meant to ride to prison.

  “Stop!” Knot shouted, breaking into a sprint.

  The woman in robes looked back at him, then rushed to the front of the carriage. A Goddessguard and a half-dozen Sons of Canta were with her. They all leapt onto the carriage, and the Goddessguard snapped the reins. The carriage began moving south, towards Kirlan.

  Knot swore. He would not catch them on foot. He looked back at the camp and saw a group of horses, saddled up, tied to a set of posts hammered into the ground. They would have to do.

  He ran back to the horses. The first animal shied away at his touch.

  “Easy,” Knot coaxed. The animal looked strong, certainly the strongest of the group tied here.

  The horse sidestepped, then cocked its head in Knot’s direction.

  Good enough. Knot made sure the girth was tightened, then untied the horse.

  “I know I’m a stranger,” Knot said, his voice low and calm, “but I need you to trust me right now. Can you do that?”

  The horse stamped a hoof.

  Knot took that as a yes. He pulled himself into the saddle, and urged the animal forward. The horse fought him at first, reluctant to leave its companions, but eventually gave in, picking up speed as Knot chased after the carriage, already fading into the night.

  He had gained ground on the carriage, but the city walls already loomed over them. The gate was open, despite the late hour. The Black Matron must have arranged for the Sons of Canta to keep it open for her.

  Could she have arranged for more than that? The Black Matron’s timing, arriving at the camp right after the Outsiders attacked, could surely not be a coincidence.

  Doubt cracked through his resolve as he rode after them. Had these people even taken Astrid? But what else could they have been there to do? A matron, showing up at a time like this, shortly after Astrid had revealed what she had done, was too much.

  Astrid had to be with them. Knot knew it in his gut.

  Twenty rods out from the carriage, now. He was a single rider on a single horse, easily able to outpace the two horses ahead, weighed down by their load. He could just about make out one of the Sons sitting on the bench at the back of the carriage. The darkness made it difficult to tell, but Knot thought he saw a crossbow.

  A bolt whispering past his ear confirmed that theory.

  Knot clenched his jaw. He was getting close. Ten rods.

  The Son with the crossbow took aim, and Knot shifted at the last moment as another bolt split the air where he’d been a moment before. He regained his balance, and kicked his horse forward.

  “Come on, boy,” he said. Wasn’t sure whether the horse was male or female, now that he thought about it. Didn’t matter. “Just a little farther.”

  Five rods.

  The carriage slowed as it approached the gate, but Knot did not slow his own horse. Instead, gripping the reins, he climbed to his feet, balancing on his horse’s back, and then leapt forward. His momentum, along with the slowing carriage, caused him to crash right into the Son with the crossbow. The carriage continued to move through the city gate as Knot slammed his fist into the Son’s jaw. Knot ripped the weapon from the man’s hands, then threw him from the carriage. He pointed the crossbow at one of the other Sons standing from the bench, and fired a bolt directly into the man’s belly. Knot tossed the crossbow aside and kicked the man off the carriage. The remaining Son on the back bench drew a dagger, stabbing at Knot, but Knot deflected the attack and rammed his palm up into the man’s chin, following through with an elbow to the man’s face. Out cold, the Son toppled from the still-moving carriage.

  The Goddessguard, the matron, and another Son sat on a raised bench at the front, their heads just visible above the top of the carriage. The Son and matron looked back at him, while the Goddessguard kept his eyes on the road. They were through the gate, now, and moving into the city. More quickly than they should be, even at this late hour.

  Knot peeked through the bars into the carriage. Sure enough, he saw Astrid there, eyes wide, body frozen. There had to be nightsbane in the carriage. Either that, or Astrid had been right about the matron she served being an acumen. A powerful acumen could incapacitate even a vampire.

  “You cannot save her,” the woman said, craning her neck to look back at Knot. “She belongs to us.”

  Knot didn’t respond. Instead, he leapt onto the roof of the carriage and made his way forward. The carriage barreled through the empty streets of Kirlan, rattling over cobbled and dirt streets alike. Knot had to be sure where he placed each step.

  The Son stood, turning to face Knot, and drew his sword. That was a mistake on the Son’s part; there was not much space to swing a sword between them. The Son took an awkward defensive stance balanced on the bench as Knot approached. Glancing ahead, Knot saw the road shift from cobbles to dirt, and waited until the carriage careened over the change in terrain to lunge forward.

  The Son swung his sword in defense, but between swinging the sword and the change of terrain beneath him, he lost balance, and it was easy to give the man the extra push he needed to topple off.

  “Stop,” the matron said. The Goddessguard reined in the horses.

  “Leave the girl with me,” Knot said.

  “You still care about her, after what she did to you?” The matron raised one eyebrow. She was older than Knot had first thought, her face wrinkled and hair white under the hooded robe.

  “Ain’t your business,” Knot said. Before the Goddessguard could turn, Knot propelled himself forward on his hands, ramming his feet into the back of the Goddessguard. The man fell from the carriage and crashed to the ground, his armor clanging.

  “Get off
the carriage,” Knot said, stepping up to the bench.

  “You wouldn’t banish an old woman from—”

  Knot pushed the matron and she fell, her robes flapping around her. Knot did not wait to see her response. Instead, he shook the reins, urging the horses forward.

  “After him!” he heard the matron yell behind him.

  Knot looked back, and swore. A group of Sons on horseback turned the corner. They would easily catch him, the same way he’d caught the carriage in the first place.

  The horses picked up speed. Fortunately, the streets of Kirlan were not wide, and it would be difficult for the Sons to come up alongside him.

  Knot glanced into the cage. “Astrid!”

  The girl did not respond.

  Knot gritted his teeth. He could have at least gotten a Goddess-damned key from the matron before he’d pushed her off the carriage.

  The Sons gained ground on them, closing the distance quickly. Knot heard a thump, and looked back to see one of the Sons already on the carriage.

  Knot guided the horses around a sharp corner, feeling the wheels on one side of the carriage lift from the ground as they turned. Fortunately, they lifted just enough to knock the Son who’d just leapt onto the carriage onto the dirt road with a yell and a cloud of dust.

  The carriage barreled down a narrow road with homes on the right side, the city wall on the left—and this particular road seemed to run the entire length of the east wall.

  Two more thumps. Knot glanced back to see two more Sons had leapt onto the carriage. Two more on horseback closed in behind them. He urged the horses on, biding his time. He glanced back again; the two Sons had progressed forward enough that they’d almost reached him, and two more were close enough to make the leap onto the carriage.

  Knot took another corner, sharply, but the two Sons remained despite the wild turn. Ahead, the road was straight for a while yet. Then two more Sons leapt onto the carriage, and Knot made a snap decision.