Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  “As you wish, Captain.” The soldier gathered a small team of riders. Soon, they were galloping off towards the neighboring hill.

  “Captain, where is General Kyfer?”

  Razzo turned to see a courier approaching.

  “He… he should return soon,” Razzo said, hoping the statement was true.

  “Someone just arrived to see the general. Should I bring him to you?”

  Razzo sighed. He was long past wishing he’d never joined the bloody Legion—he’d passed that point before the battle of the Canaian Fields was halfway over.

  He just wanted a rest, for Canta’s sake.

  With great effort, Razzo nodded his head. “Bring him to me.”

  Soon the courier returned, two men with him. One was a tall man, in the plate mail and white-and-red tabard of a Goddessguard, helm in the crook of one arm, sword sheathed at his side.

  The other was Grand Marshal Carrieri.

  Razzo straightened, sheathing his sword before saluting the Grand Marshal.

  “Captain Razzo. Where is Kyfer?” Carrieri demanded.

  Razzo gulped down the phlegm suddenly coating his throat. “He should return any moment, Grand Marshal.”

  The Goddessguard coughed expectantly.

  “Captain Razzo, this is High Cleric Butarian,” Carrieri said. “He has graciously offered his support in our hour of need.”

  Razzo looked from the High Cleric to Carrieri and back again. A High Cleric was a general of the Sons of Canta. There were only a handful in the entire Denomination. The Sons were a completely separate body from the Khalic Legion; Razzo did not have to salute the man, but he did it anyway. He’d left his pride in the pool of blood on the Canaian Fields.

  Butarian returned the salute, though his face was creased with disdain.

  Razzo cleared his throat. “How can I be of service?”

  * * *

  Carrieri was pacing back and forth as Razzo and Butarian stood before him when Kyfer finally strode into the tent later that night.

  Razzo’s normally imposing frame was hunched over, as if he were carrying massive weights in each arm and around his neck. He looked about to collapse, he was so exhausted. Butarian actually looked bored. It was Kyfer, however, who filled Carrieri with a rage he had not known in many, many years. Somehow, the general looked fresh as a Goddess-damned spring flower as he entered the tent, stronger and more healthy than Carrieri ever remembered seeing him. It was infuriating.

  “General,” Razzo said, saluting, “are you well? We heard a scream earlier and I thought it might be where you—”

  “I’m fine, clearly,” Kyfer said. “I see I have guests. Welcome, Grand Marshal.” Kyfer offered his own salute to Carrieri, who reluctantly returned it.

  Carrieri glared at Kyfer. “Twelve thousand…”

  He couldn’t continue, and just kept pacing until he calmed down enough to speak again. Such rage was not common for Carrieri, but these circumstances were far from common.

  Finally, when he felt ready, he stopped in front of Kyfer.

  “You realize,” he said, doing his best to keep his breathing even and his teeth from grating, “that no army has suffered such a defeat in the history of Khale. No army has suffered such a defeat in the history of the Sfaera.”

  “It was the last victory the tiellans will see,” Kyfer said. He didn’t smile, but, Canta rising, it looked like he wanted to. There was no twitch at the corners of Kyfer’s mouth, no creasing around the man’s eyes, but Kyfer might as well be grinning ear to ear as far as Carrieri was concerned.

  “You’d better hope, for the sake of our nation, that you’re right,” Carrieri said.

  He took a few more deep breaths to compose himself. Despite the circumstances, he could not believe the insatiable anger that boiled inside of him. The mistake of acting out of anger, even in the worst of times, was a lesson Carrieri had learned years and years ago. He refused to do so again now, no matter how foolish Kyfer had been.

  “Forgive me, Grand Marshal,” Kyfer said, inclining his head, “but you still haven’t told me why you’ve come.”

  Carrieri resisted the urge to draw his sword and stab the man on the spot. It was a reasonable question. Carrieri would never have believed he would be here, of all places, just a few days ago.

  “Shortly after I sent the Legion to reinforce you,” the Legion that has now been crushed under your command, “Rune came to visit me.” Rune was the third member of the Triad, the ruling body of the Nazaniin, along with Kosarin Lothgarde and Sirana Aqilla. He was a voyant—one of the few people on the Sfaera who could use the form of psimancy called clairvoyance to prophesy and discern future events. Carrieri could still see Rune’s face when he answered the man’s summons, as white as pure snow.

  “He told me the Legion would suffer a devastating defeat,” Carrieri continued, “and that if I did not ride out to meet what remained of the soldiers under your command, our whole nation would be at risk. I left Triah, against my better judgment, to come to your aid, Kyfer.”

  Carrieri glanced at Butarian. “I could not afford to take any more of the Legion away from Triah,” he said, “not with the threat of Roden growing on the northern horizon. But the Denomination was generous enough to lend me High Cleric Butarian and the soldiers under his command. Five thousand Sons of Canta and five Cantic psimancers ride behind us.”

  Kyfer shook his head. “Five thousand? That gives us just over ten thousand, total. Even with the psimancers, that will not be enough to make a dent in the tiellan forces, let alone defeat them.”

  “You could not defeat them with twenty thousand soldiers,” Carrieri said. “But let me remind you, General, I am not you.”

  “Then you mean for us to attack the tiellans again?” Razzo said. The fear in his eyes was palpable.

  “We’re going to defeat them,” Carrieri said, “or die trying.”

  PART IV

  IT’S ALWAYS BLOOD

  38

  The Coastal Road, somewhere between Kirlan and Triah

  KNOT TRIED TO SLEEP as best he could, arms chained up above his head to either side of him, feet chained to the floor below, as he sat on the bench of a carriage very much like the one the Black Matron had taken Astrid in—barred, locked, and meant for transporting a prisoner. At least he wasn’t in that damn cell anymore.

  Outside, he could hear whispering.

  The first voice, full of frustration, Knot recognized as that of Harak, one of the Black Matron’s Goddessguards.

  “I thought he wanted us to wait until we arrived in Triah.”

  “I do not dictate his will,” the Black Matron replied. “I only carry it out. And we need to do it now. Open the Goddess-damned carriage.”

  Knot squirmed in his chains. Whatever they intended, he didn’t like the sound of it. And he definitely didn’t like the sound of this nameless “he” they referred to.

  Harak took a deep breath. “You are sure this is his will?”

  “I am sure, Harak. Now open the carriage.”

  The lock clanked, then clicked, and the door swung open. The Black Matron looked in at him, Harak at her side.

  Rage boiled through Knot’s veins at the sight of the woman. The last time he’d seen her had been in Astrid’s memories. He knew what she’d done to the girl, now. He could not wait for the opportunity to kill her.

  “The time has come, my dear,” the Black Matron said, a smile spreading across her face.

  “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me which time has come, exactly,” Knot said, looking at her flatly. “Supper time, maybe? I’m starving.”

  The Black Matron’s lips formed into a wide, thin line. “Get him out of there,” she said to Harak.

  Harak was a large man, but as he unlocked the chain that held Knot’s right hand to the roof of the carriage, Knot swung at the man’s face. His fist connected, but Harak hardly flinched. He glared at Knot, gripping Knot’s fist in his own, and squeezed.

  Knot cursed. “Can’t blame me f
or trying,” he said through gritted teeth. Harak’s hand was massive; it almost enveloped Knot’s entire fist, and Knot could feel the bones in his hand straining. If Knot hadn’t been chained up, he’d have been able to stand against Harak. But just as Knot knew instinctively what to do in a fight, he also knew instinctively when to stop.

  “Harak. We don’t have time for this.”

  Harak grumbled something, but unlocked Knot’s other hand. He yanked Knot out of the carriage, and dragged him across the ground to a wooden chair standing near the small fire. Two other priestesses waited, and a dozen Sons of Canta stood a few rods back. Two more Goddessguards stood with the priestesses.

  Harak slammed Knot down onto the chair and chained his arms, then his legs.

  “Means a lot that you’re willing to lavish all this attention on me,” Knot said, looking around at the people staring down at him, “but it really ain’t necessary. I do much better without it.”

  The Black Matron glared at him. “I’ve only been around you for a few hours and I’m already tired of your commentary. Thankfully, we’ll be free of that soon enough.”

  “I’m hurt,” Knot said, struggling against his chains, trying for weaknesses. “All this time I thought you liked my commentary.” He might be able to slam himself down on the chair hard enough to break it, but his feet would still be chained, and he’d have Harak to deal with. Not to mention it would bloody hurt.

  That said, the Black Matron was talking in absolutes here, and he wasn’t interested in seeing things through.

  “Please. You’re almost as bad as that ridiculous vampire.”

  Knot was silent at that. He had nothing to say to this woman about Astrid.

  “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you’re about to do with me?” Knot asked, changing the subject. If anything, he hoped to keep her talking.

  “No,” the Black Matron said, “don’t suppose I will.” She turned to the priestesses. “Anoint him.”

  The two priestesses approached, each with a dagger in one hand. Simultaneously, they raised their hands above Knot’s head, and then he felt warm liquid drip into his hair and down his face.

  It’s always blood.

  The Black Matron placed her hands on his head, and the world around Knot went black.

  * * *

  As quickly as his world went black, it exploded again with lights and color, and Knot found himself once again in the Void. The real Void, not Astrid’s voidstone, and this time he wasn’t alone.

  “Hello, Knot.”

  The speaker looked very much like he did.

  “Shit,” Knot murmured. “You’re—”

  “Lathe. I suppose you could say I’m also you, technically.” Lathe took a step towards Knot. Ripples of color echoed outward as his feet touched the empty blackness. “But I think we can both agree that you have something that belongs to me.”

  “You’re dead,” Knot said, stepping back as Lathe advanced on him. But even as he said the words, he knew they could not be completely true. And he had to admit, he did have something of Lathe’s—Lathe’s own body. And when Knot really thought about it, what right did he have to stop Lathe from taking it back?

  “Do you really think that?” Lathe asked.

  Knot didn’t respond. A shadow flickered at the corner of his eye, and he turned to see what it was. Nothing was there, just like the strange thing he’d seen—or hadn’t seen—when using Astrid’s voidstone months ago.

  “No matter,” Lathe said. “They made a deal with me. Said they’d help restore me to my body if I then chose to become the avatar to some Daemon. Doesn’t sound like the best deal, I’ll admit, but it sounds infinitely better than Oblivion.”

  “A Daemon,” Knot said slowly. The Black Matron wanted his body… so that she could give it to a Daemon? “The Black Matron ain’t talking about some little daemon, Lathe. She’s talking about one of the Nine.”

  “I don’t care who she’s talking about,” Lathe said coldly. “I just want my life back.”

  Lathe charged the last few paces towards Knot, leaping through the Void, and through Knot.

  Then, Knot was alone in the Void, and Lathe was gone.

  39

  South of the Eastmaw Mountains

  WINTER WOKE WITH A start, sitting up straight in her cot. She was covered in sweat, shivering, with a headache strong enough to split a mountain.

  Someone was outside her tent.

  She was terrified of the presence, whatever it was, but at the same time she felt drawn towards it. Slowly, she crept out of her cot. Her breath came fast and shallow, but she tried to keep it quiet. She reached down for her sword, and moved to the tent opening. Peeking out the partially open door, she saw nothing outside except the night sky.

  Winter slipped out, sword at the ready.

  There were no other tents around hers. No campfires. No Rangers, no Khalic prisoners. She was alone in a great field, the night sky above her.

  Winter looked down, and saw her legs in a pool of dark blood up to her knees.

  The blood crept up her legs, soaking her, staining her a dark, blackish red.

  “Hello, Winter.”

  Winter looked up sharply. She knew that voice. Dark, deep, rolled in flame.

  Azael stood before her.

  Black cloak, ragged and worn, fading into coils of mist where it met the ground. Hood drawn low over his face, and nothing inside it but darkness.

  “What do you want?” she asked. The blood continued to creep up her body, and with it a panicked, obliviating fear. The higher the blood rose, the more helpless she felt, the more fear consumed her.

  “I want you to be my avatar,” Azael said. “We can help one another.”

  The blood had reached her chest, now, and soaked slowly higher. Winter fought the feeling that accompanied it, pushing the panic and terror down deep inside of her.

  “I do not need your help.”

  “Your body cannot sustain itself for long without frost,” Azael said. “But I can strengthen you. I can take away this sickness, and make you mighty.”

  “I… I…”

  The blood had reached her neck.

  I am mighty, Winter wanted to say.

  “I am nothing without faltira,” is what she said instead.

  “Then you will join with me?” Azael asked, his voice rising.

  “No—” Winter managed, but then the blood reached her mouth, filled it, warm and thick. Winter choked on it, spluttering it up, but it kept coming.

  “No matter,” Azael said. “There is another.”

  * * *

  Winter woke with a start, sitting up straight in her cot. She was covered in sweat, shivering, with a headache strong enough to split a mountain. She was sick and weak as Oblivion.

  But at least this time, she was alone.

  There is another, Azael had said. Another body he could possess?

  “Commander.”

  Winter coughed violently, rising to her feet. She steadied herself on a tent pole. She had hoped to plunder faltira from the slain, but her people had not been able to identify the psimancers among the dead at the Canaian Fields. Their bodies had been there, Winter had been sure of that, but it was not easy to find a half-dozen psimancers among twelve thousand dead. Impossible, in fact. She had sent riders to the nearest cities to procure more faltira for her, but they might not return for days, perhaps weeks.

  Between her withdrawal from faltira and the node of pain that still pulsed between her ear and her temple, her head felt as if it might split open with every sudden movement. Her shoulder was healing, but it still hurt, and she would have limited use of that arm for the next few weeks, the healers told her. Her only consolation was that she’d taken the wound on the shoulder of her non-dominant hand; she could at least still use a sword relatively effectively.

  “A moment,” she said, between coughs. She dressed quickly—as quickly as her lethargic limbs would allow, anyway—and strapped her sword to her waist. Then, she walked outs
ide. The gray sky above threatened rain. They had made their camp north of the Canaian Fields, near the Eastmaw Mountains. Trees spotted the land here, growing thicker closer to the mountain range. They’d found one grove to serve as their base camp for now, Ranger tents spilling out of the copse and into the plains beyond. There were a surprising number of rihnemin in the area. Nothing like the great monolith at Adimora, but a dozen or so great stones roughly the size of horses, and a few as large as a building, dotted the landscape, covered in tiellan runes. Her Rangers took courage at the sight of so many relics of their people, but Winter was more cautious. She had yet to see a rihnemin do anything to actually help her people.

  Selldor, Urstadt, and Ghian were waiting for her.

  “Are you all right, Commander?” Urstadt asked.

  She, too, had taken to calling Winter commander since the battle at the Canaian Fields. Winter did not like it; she felt as if she had lost a friend, despite no other discernible change in their relationship.

  “Fine,” Winter said, coughing again, but she got a hold of herself more quickly this time. Pain branched through her skull with every cough. “Are we ready to make the exchange?”

  “We are ready,” Selldor said. “The Khalic contingent waits for us just over the hill.”

  “There is other news,” Ghian said.

  Everyone looked at the Druid leader. Winter wondered what news Ghian could possibly have that she wouldn’t already be privy to.

  “Some of our scouts returned early this morning,” Ghian said, looking straight at Winter. “They discovered a hidden force not far off.”

  “A hidden force?” Winter asked. “More Khalic soldiers?”

  “Not Khalic,” Ghian said. “Cantic.”

  “The Sons of Canta,” Winter said quietly. Whatever business the Sons had here, it surely could not be in her favor. While the Denomination claimed to treat humans and tiellans equally, their actual practice made their opinion quite clear. And Winter’s tiellan force now threatened the very existence of the government that sustained the Denomination.