by Jay Kristoff
“DEAD AHEAD.
“Ashdrinker was a heavy comfort on my hip. The thought of the blood I’d milked from that fledgling’s heart was a greater comfort still. The thirst was already creeping back on me with red and slippered feet. Night drifted closer, I heard the rush of the Ūmdir ahead. And squinting through the darkness, I felt my heart sink.
“‘Facefuckery…’”
“Allow me to guess,” Jean-François ventured. “The folk of Dhahaeth had destroyed the bridge.”
“Oui,” Gabriel scowled. “That prick of a bishop could have warned me at least. As I reached the riverbank, I saw only mooring stones and a few broken archways midstream. I’d come across no wretched on the road, so cutting off the crossings was obviously helping to keep the Dead out of the province. But the river was too fast and deep for Jez to cross.
“And to top it all off, it started snowing.
“I pulled my tricorn lower, gave Jez a mournful pat. ‘Sorry, girl. Should’ve warned you that the Almighty enjoys shitting in my brisket at every opportunity.’
“The mare nickered in response.
“There was no sign of Chloe and her band. I checked my map for the closest crossing and rode on, following a dirt track up into a deadwood hill as dark deepened. Picturing the holy sister’s face from the night before. Her whisper as she squeezed my hand.
“It’s the Grail, Gabriel. I’m talking about the bloody Grail.
“I’d been a prick to her, and I knew it. Justice’s death had been weighing heavy, and I’d been tired and drunk. But that wasn’t the whole truth of it. Truth was, the sight of my old friend had dredged up a flood of memories I’d thought long buried. And now the past was rising again, just like the Dead.
“What the hell did Danton want that boy for?
“The blackened sun had slunk below the horizon, and the snow was falling heavy as I rode into the long-dead woods. I managed to get my lantern lit, hung it from Jez’s saddle. But I knew we were one stumble away from a repeat of yesterday’s funeral.
“‘Might be time to call it a night, girl.’
“A sound pierced the storm then. Blinking snow from my eyes, I tilted my head. A shot from a wheellock, I swore it. Another sound followed—a long note, high and muffled, the kind that had once borne me on silver wings into the jaws of hell. And I remembered Chloe in the pub last night. A rifle at her shoulder. And a silver-trimmed horn at her belt.
“‘Shit,’ I hissed.
“I slapped Jez’s rump, and we were charging up the jagged hillside. The dray wasn’t spry, but she had grit, galloping headlong into the dark. I heard the horn again, adrenaline souring my tongue, a rush of memories from nights in San Michon—the vow on my lips, my brothers around me, love my shield and faith my sword.
“And in sight of God and his Seven Martyrs, I do here vow; Let the dark know my name and despair. So long as it burns, I am the flame. So long as it bleeds, I am the blade. So long as it sins, I am the saint.
“And I am silver.
“I heard a distant cry, saw the ruined watchtower rising before me. Dark shapes were moving toward it through the deadwood, lifeless eyes and sharp fangs. The horn blew again, a silver-sharp note rising above the thudding footfalls of the Dead. Because the Dead were here, and running quick—at least a dozen wretched drawn toward the figures I now saw through the falling snow.
“I drew Ashdrinker in one hand, my other fist wrapped in Jez’s reins.
“Where are w-we, Gabriel?
“‘We’re in shit, Ash,’ I hissed.
“Ohhh. Just another day, another d-day, then?
“I could see Chloe standing at the base of the ruined tower, sword in hand, hacking at an oncoming wretched like a lumberjack at a tree. She fought with all hell’s fury, but she was a nun, after all, and that sword was far too big for her. The soothsinger stood beside her, stubble crusted with snow, a burning brand in one hand, a steel longblade in the other. Behind them, pressed against the tower’s broken walls, stood the boy Dior. He had a silvered dagger in his fist, an unlit cigarelle hanging from his lips, cold rage in his eyes.
“‘Get back, you unholy bastards!’ the soothsinger yelled.
“‘Chloe!’ I bellowed.
“I’d no idea where the Ossian lass or her lioness were, nor the old priest. But these three were in the deepest kind of shite. The soothsinger was quick with that torch of his, catching a wretched across the skull and setting its head ablaze with a cry of triumph. Chloe lashed out with her longblade at anything that strayed too close, and the silversteel ripped through Dead flesh like rotten straw. But the wretched were too many.
“Jez was brave or stupid, or just moving too fast to slow down. We ploughed into one wretched, knocked it flying. But as the other Dead turned on us and bared their rancid fangs, the mare lost her nerve, rearing up so hard she almost threw me.
“Ashdrinker at least seemed to have her head in the game now.
“She be not a warhorse, shitwit, what in name of Gods do ye play at?
“I kicked loose from my stirrups just as another wretched came at me out of the dark. The thirst was back on me, the lanternlight wild and strobing. This was a bad wager and I knew it, but I’d little choice now save roll hard or die.
“‘Gabe, look out!’ Chloe roared.
“Behind! Ashdrinker warned.
“I spun in time to fend off clawing hands, the coldblood flailing as I split its chest apart. Even with odds like these, I wasn’t without a trick or three. I snapped the seal on a glass phial and tossed it. Two wretched toppled in a blast of silver caustic, their skin blackened, eyes bubbling as the silverbomb ripped the air.
“These were only fledgling Dead, but enough ants can slay a lion. Ashdrinker whispered warning as another wretched lunged through the dark—an old man with gore-matted hair. He should’ve died in his bed, this fellow, surrounded by loved ones. Instead, he ended beneath some broken tower south of the Ūmdir, his head sailing free as my sword flashed in the dark. I tossed a phial of holy water, heard another peal from Chloe’s horn as glass shattered and Dead flesh sizzled.
“A wild-eyed man with bloody hands made it past the soothsinger’s torch and struck Chloe from the side. She cried out, silversteel blade sailing from her hand, screaming as the thing plunged its fangs into her arm.
“‘Chloe!’ Dior cried.
“‘Sister!’ the ’singer roared.
“The man lunged to save her, only to have another wretched strike him from behind. Dior picked up the fallen torch, stabbed at the flailing coldblood. A soulless screech of pain rang through the woods as the monster went up in flames, arms pinwheeling as it fell, and as I watched in astonishment, the boy spun the torch between his fingers and lit his fucking cigarelle. I hurled my last phial of holy water, emptied my wheellock into another wretched’s face. But that many foes, my thirst burning brighter, I was beginning to suspect we might be proper fucked.
“And then, I heard a whisper. Saw a flash of midnight-blue, a ribbon of red. One wretched collapsed headless, another fell back convulsing, crimson steam rising from its eyes. A figure moved among the monsters now, sharp as the north wind, quick as the lightning in an Eversea storm. Long black hair and a red sword, cutting through those wretched like a dose of bad medicine.
“Stand n-not amazed, Gabriel, fight!
“I set about it, hacking at the coldbloods as this newcomer flickered among the dead trees, scattering the wretched like flower petals about its feet. And as we dispatched the last of the monsters together, I knew what kind of monster it was.
“The highblood stood now among the scattered corpses. Not sweating. Not breathing. She was dressed in a long red frockcoat and black leathers, a silken shirt parted from her bare and bone-white chest, throat wrapped in a red silk scarf. She had the body of a maid, though I knew she was nothing close. The sword in her hand was as tall and graceful as she was, gleaming red and dripping onto the bloodied snow at her feet. Her hair was the blue-black of midnight, running down
to her waist, parted like curtains from a dead thing’s eyes. But her face was covered in a pale porcelain mask, painted like a madame at winter court—black lips and dark kohled eyes.
“I glanced over my shoulder to a gasping, bleeding Chloe. ‘She with you?’
“‘God Almighty, no,’ she replied, retrieving her fallen blade.
“The newcomer offered one slender hand to Dior. Her voice was soft as pipe smoke, but she spoke with a strange, hissing lisp. ‘Come with usss, child. Or die.’
“’Ware this one, Gabriel. She f-feels … wrong.
“Ashdrinker’s whisper rang in my mind as I stepped between the vampire and the others. For the first time, the highblood turned eyes toward me. Her irises were bleached like old linen. The air around us was freezing, my breath spilling over my lips in pale clouds.
“‘Stay back,’ I warned.
“‘Ssstep assside,’ she commanded, soft and venomous.
“But even as her will came down on my shoulders like lead, I stood my ground. ‘I’ve hunted your kind since I was a boy, leech. You’re going to have to try harder than that.’
“Her eyes roamed my body then, lingering on the broken blade in my hands. ‘We heard you were dead, Silversssaint.’
“‘Who’s we, you unholy bitch?’
“The highblood scoffed softly, as if I’d said something amusing. She turned dead eyes back to Dior, sharp fingernails glinting as she beckoned. ‘Come with uss, ch—’
“A fierce light stabbed through the trees. Ghostly and bright. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the old priest stumbling toward us, the wheel he’d worn around his neck now in his fist. He held the holy symbol aloft, spitting scripture like a sailor spat curses.
“‘I am come among thee as a lion among lambs!’
“Light was spilling from his wheel as if from a mirrored lantern. The highblood flinched as it struck her, death-pale eyes narrowed against the flare. I was awed for a moment, remembering the nights when my faith shone as bright as this priest’s did, when the sight of the ink on my skin was enough to burn the Dead blind. And as the old man ran toward us, a roar rang through the woods. I saw that red lioness from the taverne barrel out of the darkness, scarred face twisted as she bared her fangs. The Ossian slayer ran through the snow behind, antlered helm on her head, that beautiful battleaxe in her fists.
“At the sight of the she-lion, the priest’s burning light, the highblood hissed. Her pale gaze was still fixed on Dior, but fear of that holy man was overcoming her will, the chill in the air fading as the priest finally crashed into the clearing, wheel held high.
“‘I banish you!’ the old man bellowed. ‘In the Almighty’s name, away!’
“‘Wretched priessst,’ the thing spat, hand up against the light. ‘You d—’
“‘And I say to you, my children, I am the light and the truth!’ The old man stepped forward with the wheel in his wrinkled fist. ‘You have no power here!’
“Another hiss spilled from behind that cold, painted mask. The lioness roared again, charging closer, and the coldblood’s body seemed to tremble at its edges. And as the beast leapt toward her, claws outstretched, the vampire swept her coat about her and dissipated into a storm of tiny wings—a thousand blood-red moths spilling into the darkness and vanishing up into the falling snows.
“I swallowed hard, the taste of dust and bones in my mouth.
“It was over.
“I looked around the gathering. Chloe clutched her arm where the wretched had bitten her, face twisted with pain. The soothsinger knelt beside her, pale with worry. The slayer stared at me, her axe glinting in the fading light of the old priest’s wheel.
“But I had eyes only for the boy. He was crouched in the muck, his burning brand still held in one white-knuckled fist, a smoking cigarelle hanging from his lips.
“Lack-witted strumpet-stain, ye almost s-saw us killed. What in Gods’ names w—
“I slipped Ashdrinker into her scabbard to quiet her. Looked the lad up and down. There seemed nothing particularly odd about him. But still, and despite what my blade might have said, I was no one’s fool.
“‘So what’s your fucking story?’”
XI
OUT OF THE STORM
“‘SAY NOTHIN’, DIOR,’ the clanswoman warned.
“‘I’d no plans to, Saoirse,’ the boy replied, scowling at me.
“‘Sister, are you aright?’ The young soothsinger knelt at Chloe’s side. ‘Is it deep?’
“‘It’s fine, Bellamy,’ she replied, lifting her blood-soaked sleeve. ‘A scratch.’
“One glance told me the wound was anything but. Chloe’s bicep was bleeding from a vicious bite, skin already bruising from that monster’s unholy strength.
“‘Wretched mouths are rife with rot,’ I said. ‘That’ll fester if we don’t treat it. I’ve some kingshield and gut in my saddlebags. Strong spirits too.’
“Dior dragged on his smoke. ‘We’d hate to part you from your revels, hero.’
“‘It’s medicinal alcohol, boy. You’d have to be thick as pigshit to drink it.’
“‘You just leave the door wide open, don’t you?’
“‘Look, who the fuck are you?’
“‘Perhaps introductions can wait?’ Chloe winced, waving at the storm and carnage about us. ‘Stench of dismembered corpses notwithstanding, it’s getting worse out here.’
“‘A brave woman enjoys the wild’s kiss on her skin, Sister,’ the slayer said.
“‘And a wise man knows to come in from the rain,’ the priest smiled.
“The soothsinger nodded to the ruined tower. ‘Let’s shelter inside.’
“The company gathered their possessions, the rake helping Chloe stand while I went to fetch Jezebel. I found the mare a few hundred yards away, standing in the lee of a naked elm. I gave her a soft pat and a thorough looking over, but luckily, she seemed none the worse for wear. And taking her reins, I led her back to the tower.
“I got a better look at the ruin as I approached—three stories high, dark stone, crowned with broken battlements. The walls were crawling with old lichen and new fungus, the mortar crumbling to dust. It’d stood for centuries, mostlike—built by Sūdhaemis back when Elidaen was still five feuding kingdoms, and San Michon began her crusade to bring the One Faith to every corner of the land.
“The company was gathered within, sheltered from the rain as best they could. The slayer glowered in the shadows, twin interwoven lines inked down her brow and right cheek, clawing the braided hair from her face as that she-lion curled about her feet. Dior was brushing the snow from his fine stolen coat. The priest and rake gathered around Chloe, cleaning her bloodied arm. I shooed the pair away, knelt beside my old friend, placing a small bottle of pure spirits and a phial of pale yellow powder on the stone.
“‘This’ll burn like a strumpet’s nethers when the fleet is in town,’ I warned. ‘But it’s a fucksight better than gangrene.’
“‘Merci, mon ami,’ Chloe nodded.
“I set about the wound, my hands quick and sure, washing and sterilizing as Chloe hissed in soft agony. ‘Right, so who are you lot? Aside from a lodestone for the Dead?’
“‘F-friends,’ Chloe winced.
“‘Chosen,’ the slayer replied.
“‘Believers,’ the priest murmured.
“‘Oh, Seven Martyrs save me,’ I sighed.
“‘My name is Bellamy Bouchette,’ the young rake declared with a small bow. ‘Soothsinger, adventurer, lover of women, and songsmith to emperors.’ He flipped damp brown curls from sparkling blue eyes. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Silversaint. I’ve heard your exploits sung all the way from Asheve to the shores of the Mothersea. I fear your legend does your reality … no justice at all.’
“Oui, I thought to myself. Definitely a wanker.
“‘This is good Père Rafa Sa-Araki,’ Bellamy said, nodding to the Sūdhaemi priest. ‘Scholar, astrologer, and devout member of the Order of San Guillaume. Never was t
here a man under heaven more in need of having his lute professionally strummed, but he’s a splendid fellow beneath the repression, really.’
“The old priest spoke with a voice that would’ve sounded like music on any pulpit in the land. ‘My thanks for your aid, Chevalier. Seven Martyrs bless you.’
“‘Our resident butcher, baker, and candlestick maker,’ Bellamy said, waving to the Ossian lass. ‘Mlle Saoirse á Rígan. She’s terrible at baking and candles, by the by, but her skill at butchery more than makes up for it. Her four-legged companion there is Phoebe. I’d advise against trying to pat the little scamp if you’re at all fond of your fingers.’
“The lass just stared at me, hands on her axe, while the lioness licked her chops.
“‘Our good Sœur Sauvage, you already know,’ Bellamy continued. ‘Which leaves the youngest of our band.’ The soothsinger waved to the ashen-haired boy. ‘Gabriel de León, may I present Dior Lachance, Prince of Thieves, Lord of Liars, and incorrigible little bastard.’
“‘You forgot whoreson,’ the boy muttered around his smoke.
“‘Dior, a gentleman never refers to a lady plying honest trade as a whore.’
“‘My mother was no lady. And you’re no gentleman, Bellamy.’
“‘You wound me, monsieur,’ the fellow grinned, tipping his idiotic hat.
“I finished cleaning Chloe’s wound, a steel needle between my teeth as I fetched my spool of gut. ‘So now I’ve your names. But I still don’t know who the fuck you are.’ I cast my eyes over the group, settling at last on the boy. ‘You in particular.’
“‘I’m no one special.’
“‘Is that so?’ I looked to Chloe, hoping to slice through the bullshit. ‘Someone came to Dhahaeth looking for Monsieur Nobody Special after you left. And they’d have run through that town like a dose of the scratch if I hadn’t been there to stop them.’
