Godblind

by Anna Stephens

  There were murmurs as servants brought in platters of roasted mountain goat in bloody gravy, along with hot bread and boiled turnips and jugs of ale and liquor.

  ‘Third moon is only a few weeks away, Sire, and the Gil-beside is treacherous even at midsummer. Would the Blood Pass not be an easier route?’ Fost asked as he passed the platter to Corvus. ‘We risk the snowmelt.’

  In answer, Corvus set aside the platter and took the skin Lanta proffered. He cleared a space on the table and Fost, his second, and the war chiefs from the other villages he’d brought with him clustered close.

  ‘The Gil-beside, Blood Pass, the West Forts, Watchtown, the River Gil, Rilporin.’ He tapped each point in turn. ‘The Rilporian intends for us to die in the first battle, here,’ he said, indicating on the map, ‘and while we will spill as much blood as necessary to tear the veil, I don’t intend to win Prince Rivil’s war for him and then go quietly to the Afterworld. The promise of the warm lands is one you have waited for over generations. This year, the year of the gods’ return, I intend that you get what you have been promised. So this is what’s going to happen …’

  Dust shivered from the rafters at the cheering and stamping of feet as the warriors understood the plan and made sense of the map. Corvus stood and raised his cup. The longhouse’s occupants did the same. ‘Drink your ale and fuck your women,’ he shouted. ‘Soon enough we go to war.’

  DURDIL

  First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  Commander’s wing, the palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  ‘Captains, this is Major Wheeler – Tailorson, I assume you remember your commanding officer? – and the court physician, Hallos. They both know everything I know, and I trust them without reservation. There are some anomalies in the report Prince Rivil gave us, and we’re hoping you can help clear those up.’

  Durdil couldn’t decide what would be better, for Crys to prove or disprove Rivil’s story. Maybe if I’d never asked Hallos to examine the body, I could’ve just pretended everything was normal. A tragic accident.

  ‘The report from General Mace Koridam supports Captain Tailorson’s story inasmuch as it can. We recovered evidence at the scene of the heir’s death,’ Tara said and swallowed. ‘It’s probably best for me to explain after Crys has told you what he witnessed.’

  Durdil looked between them, and then he gestured for Crys to speak. It took a long time, and there were many interruptions, and by the end Durdil was fervently wishing he’d never decided to look into it.

  ‘You’re aware this is the worst possible thing you could have told me?’ he said eventually, slumping in his seat. ‘And I don’t even mean the details of the torture.’

  ‘Sacrifice, sir, not torture. Well, torture in the form of sacrifice,’ Crys pointed out. ‘This was all done to consolidate Rivil’s and Galtas’s journey on to the Dark Path. The only good thing to come out of it is I was able to overhear some of their plans. The Mireces will attack within weeks, and try to wipe out the West Rank. Your son already knows this, is doubling patrols and stockpiling weapons and food. The Wolves are aware too. In fact, we brought one with us.’

  ‘A Wolf in Rilporin,’ Wheeler muttered. ‘Wonder if he’s started a fight yet.’

  ‘Probably,’ Tara said. ‘Commander, about the evidence I said we’d recovered. It’s – I don’t really know how to phrase this delicately – it’s a pair of severed legs, cut just above the knee and nailed to a scaffold. Crys’s story was so outrageous that the general sent a patrol to the location he’d given us.’

  ‘Theoretically, we can’t prove they belong to the prince,’ Crys began.

  ‘Oh, I could do that if I had them here,’ Hallos interjected. ‘I made a thorough study of the cut marks on Janis’s legs, produced some drawings. I’m sure I could match the splintering of the bones.’ He frowned at the grimaces around the table.

  ‘I think it’s safe to assume they’re a match,’ Durdil said heavily. ‘The question is what we do now.’

  ‘Rivil is arrested and tried for treason, heresy and regicide,’ Crys said. ‘Commander, speak to the council, present your evidence, get a bill or a motion or whatever to put to the king, and get Rivil locked up. We don’t have much time.’

  Durdil leant his chin on his hand and studied Crys. ‘It’s not that simple,’ he said. ‘First we must tell the king, make him understand his son is not fit to rule. Then we must try him and while we do that we must find a new heir to the throne.’

  Hallos was shaking his head. ‘Durdil, I don’t think Rastoth would understand, let alone believe you, if you told him what Rivil’s done. The chances of him remarrying and getting another heir are negligible, and his health is deteriorating fast. I’d have given him a year or two at most before this. Now, seeing his fragility in the wake of Janis’s death, I fear telling him of Rivil will kill him on the spot.’

  ‘A sick king, a traitorous heir and a Mireces invasion,’ Wheeler pronounced. ‘We’ve already lost.’

  ‘Then name someone on the council,’ Crys said, his voice tinged with desperation. ‘Someone respected, someone strong … What?’

  Durdil stifled his laughter. ‘The nobles on the council are sycophants and morons to a man. Lord Hardoc? Lord Silais? Lord Galtas Morellis, perhaps?’

  ‘Why do we have to tell the king?’ Tara said. The others turned shocked faces in her direction. ‘What? Come on, why? You’re Commander of the Ranks, charged with the safety of the realm. You know this is the best and only option we have. Arrest Rivil, have him quietly executed, and tell the king and the court he’s gone away somewhere, to manage his estates or put his brother’s affairs in order. Anything. Then we take the body west and put it on display for the Mireces king. They cancel the invasion: job done.’

  ‘He doesn’t even have to be dead,’ Crys added. ‘Take him west as a prisoner, show him to Corvus, tell him there are no reinforcements coming and all the Ranks are ranged against him. Once the war is over – or better still, has never begun – we can work out what to do with Rivil.’

  Durdil pursed his lips and met Wheeler’s eyes. The major lifted one shoulder and gave a slight nod. ‘Him being alive is better than him being dead, at least for now,’ he said.

  ‘Hallos?’

  ‘If we could keep the circumstances of his travel west secret from the king, we might be able to manage His Majesty’s health long enough to find an alternate heir.’

  ‘About that,’ Tara said and Durdil held up a finger.

  ‘Aren’t you full of ideas?’ he said and Tara shut her mouth, dropping her gaze. Durdil huffed. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I was going to suggest you, sir,’ Tara said quietly. Durdil’s eyebrows shot up his head. ‘You’re young enough, a proven warrior, a proven negotiator; you have an heir in place already who is also young and a proven warrior. The dedication of the Koridams to Rilpor is well established. Your good name goes back generations and you have extensive lands and holdings. You’re a nobleman. If Rastoth were to honour anyone, you’re the obvious choice. In my opinion.’

  Durdil raised his finger again and then pushed away from the table and stalked to the windows. Cold radiated from the glass on to his hot face and he stared unseeing out on to a small courtyard. Pear trees grew in stone troughs around the perimeter, their twisted branches stark against a cloudy sky. It was Durdil’s secret vice that he enjoyed cultivating them, whiling away many an afternoon while he dictated his reports to a scribe.

  Now their branches were knuckly fingers accusing him, lamenting his hubris while the hairs stood up on his arms. His mouth was dry as Tara’s words ran around inside his skull, banging excitedly on his brain while the rational rest of him dismissed them as fantasy.

  ‘Captain Tailorson,’ he croaked, ‘a room will be made available to you down the corridor. You are to stay in there at all times, do you understand? If Prince Rivil gets word you’re in the palace, I will not be able to vouch for your safety. Captain Carter, find your Wolf friend and ma
ke sure he doesn’t spill any secrets. Keep a low profile. Wheeler, Hallos, about your duties, please. We’ll reconvene tomorrow.’ He faced into the room and swept it with a stern glare. ‘I will draw up a list of potential heirs to Rastoth’s throne,’ he said. ‘I will not be on it.’

  DOM

  First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  Dancer’s temple, Watchtown, Western Plain

  Dom tried. With every ounce of will he had left he forced his eyelids apart, and then had to blink to convince himself they were open. It was black. Unremitting black. The echo of his breathing told him where he was and he tensed, tried to roll over, failed. Red torchlight flickered into existence, its source invisible, and he made out the stalactites poised above him, dagger tips pointing at his heart.

  ‘Hello, my love,’ She whispered. ‘Hello, my young calestar.’

  ‘Lady Dancer, sweet and true, bless me with Your guiding hand, let Your Light shine on me,’ Dom recited, stumbling over the words in his haste to get them out. Please, no, not again.

  The Dark Lady’s lips curled into a sneer.

  ‘Lady Dancer, bountiful Goddess, Whose Light is eternal dawn and endless noon and infinite sunset, Who brings us the seasons and the birthing and the dying times, I ask for Your aid,’ he tried again.

  The Dark Lady paused, one hand cupped to Her ear. ‘Maybe She’s out,’ She mocked. ‘Or maybe She doesn’t believe in you. But I do, my love, I believe in you, and it pains me that I have to come to you each time. When will you come to me?’

  ‘Never,’ Dom grated, jerking at the bonds he couldn’t see that held him on the slab.

  The Dark Lady laughed. ‘You tease,’ She said and then Her eyes flashed with fury. ‘I don’t like being teased. Tell me, my love, have you met my brother, Gosfath?’ A shape loomed behind Her, its deformed head weaving amongst the stalactites. It reached down a hand of immense proportions and stroked a finger across the Goddess’s belly. She shuddered.

  ‘Later, my love,’ She murmured. ‘For now, slake yourself on this man. Show him a small taste of what we will do if he continues to refuse to comply.’

  Dom lifted his head from the stone. ‘You should be careful, you know,’ he said, reckless with fear. ‘All these little visits teach me about you, too. I know your plans now, and I’ll tell them. I’ll tell everything. I know about the veil, about how you’re trapped behind it like a rabbit in a snare. And—’

  Gosfath, God of Blood, roared, the sound so huge it made Dom’s eardrums flutter. The words died inside him and his breath froze in his chest. With a wet organic sound Gosfath shrank in on Himself until He was a mere foot taller than His Sister, and then He leapt like a cat on to the slab and crouched between Dom’s feet. A long black tongue flicked out and around and was gone.

  Sweat stung Dom’s eyes as Gosfath stretched forth a red hand tipped with black talons and placed it on his stomach. He sucked in his belly and strained away as Gosfath began to press, talons digging, burrowing, leaning into His task, into Dom.

  ‘Hush, my love,’ the Dark Lady said as She leant her hip on the slab and watched Her Brother work. ‘Everything you know I allow you to know.’

  ‘I’ll tell,’ Dom crowed, laughing madly. ‘I’ll still tell.’ Then the talons punched through his belly and he screamed.

  And woke in his cot in the temple house, the first light of dawn peeking through the shutters.

  ‘What’s wrong? Bad dream?’ Lim asked, his voice slack with sleep.

  ‘What? What?’ Dom’s hands were feverish over his skin, looking for the wounds the god had inflicted. There was nothing, his skin smooth and unbroken. But the muscles still shuddered with the memory of pain, and Dom’s mouth tasted of blood.

  ‘Did you have a bad dream?’ Lim asked again from the next cot over.

  Dom swung his legs from under the blankets and sat up; he ran his hands through his hair. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered, ‘bad dream. Go back to sleep.’

  CRYS

  First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  Commander’s wing, the palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  It was a pleasant incarceration, but it was incarceration nonetheless. For his own good, of course. He wandered from the fireplace to the window for what felt like the thousandth time and sighed, letting his breath steam the glass. Tara had sent word through Durdil that she and Ash were safe and sharing a room in a tavern in the silk and spice quarter. Crys snorted to think of that pair in bed together, then curled his lip and thought about something else.

  All right, I admit it. I’d kill for the company of either of them right now.

  Crys shuffled the cards through his fingers without looking, forehead pressed to the glass so he could just make out the drill ground for the Palace Rank. A cavalry Hundred was practising, horses cantering through complex patterns so close that collision looked inevitable and was always narrowly avoided.

  His gaze slid over the walls to the city, shining white in the sun, the streets swept clean. The plains were brown and white and stretched into the distance beyond the limit of vision. Somewhere out there, too far to see, the mountains bucked into the sky with angry heaves, shoulder upon shoulder, to pierce the sun himself. And in them, the Mireces prepared for war.

  Crys heard the door click open and leapt to attention, in case it was Durdil. It wasn’t.

  ‘Captain, Commander Koridam extends his gratitude for all you’ve done and has asked me to assist you in leaving the city.’

  ‘He doesn’t need anything more of me?’ Crys asked. ‘So there’ll be no trial, then?’ Major Wheeler shook his head. ‘I have to admit, part of me’s relieved,’ Crys added, moving to the bed and collecting his coat. ‘I’d be the only one swearing to my version of events, after all. The rest of the honour guard would all back Rivil and Galtas.’

  Crys still had Janis’s sword and he pulled it from under the coat and turned with it in both hands to present it to Wheeler. It was only luck that the sheathed blade deflected Wheeler’s dagger, knocking the man’s arm down so the tip of the knife sliced down the front of Crys’s hip instead of lodging in his chest. Or my spine. He was going to stab me in the back.

  Crys reacted despite the shocked babbling of his brain. He dragged Janis’s sword free, used the scabbard to poke Wheeler back a step, and slid sideways along the bed until he was in open space.

  Wheeler’s long blade came out and flicked for his head. He parried and riposted, felt his sword trap on Wheeler’s guard and twisted it free.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Crys snapped, launching a flurry of blows at the major, ‘I am getting really fucking sick of men I trust being traitors. Commander!’ he yelled. Durdil’s study was only down the corridor. There was no comforting answer and Crys saved his breath for the fight.

  The room was small and in his boredom Crys had explored every inch of it, but Wheeler was good. Wheeler might even be better than him and Janis’s sword was slightly too big for ease. His hip throbbed hot and sticky and his foot squelched in the blood running into his boot, and Crys knew the only way he was getting out of this alive was if Wheeler was dead.

  ‘How long?’ he gasped, ducking a wild slash and nearly losing an eye to the major’s dagger.

  ‘Who do you think introduced Rivil to Gull, our high priest here in Rilporin?’ Wheeler laughed, and then grunted as Crys’s sword battered his down to ring loud on the stone of the floor. Surely someone would have heard that?

  Apparently no one did because as the fight dragged on and they both began to tire, no one came. Crys was slowing, his lunges shortening as his leg refused to take his weight.

  Wheeler sensed the weakness and pressed, forcing him back, herding him into the bed. Crys made a wild attempt at leaping backwards on to it and failed spectacularly, his heels clipping the edge of the mattress and flinging him flat.

  It saved his life. Wheeler thrust at the place Crys’s chest had been, encountered no resistance, and fell on top of him. Dagger and sword went in
to Wheeler’s ribs on either side, while the major’s sword ended up somewhere above Crys’s head on the mattress. His dagger, though, ended up in Crys’s shoulder, ripping into and back out of the side of his upper arm, leaving a grotesque flap of flesh hanging.

  Crys howled and his dagger went into Wheeler again, and the man stiffened and gurgled on his chest. Crys kicked him off, slapped his hand to his injured arm and then rolled Wheeler on to his back. The major was bubbling, his mouth opening and closing, before he choked on a rush of blood.

  Crys sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the corpse for a while. Then he staggered to the desk, found a piece of paper and quill, and scratched ‘Heretic. Trust no one’, on to it. He pinned it to Wheeler’s chest by stabbing the dagger through it, then ripped a strip from the bed hangings with shaking hands and tied it around his arm.

  He slid into his coat, a stream of curses pouring from his mouth, buckled Janis’s sword to his belt, and crept out of the room on legs no stronger than a newborn fawn’s. Tara and Ash were in danger and it was high time Crys got out of the city.

  GILDA

  First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  Dancer’s temple, Watchtown, Western Plain

  In the end they cornered Dom in the temple, his family and Rachelle, Dalli and Rillirin too. They listened to his weak excuses, and then Gilda pushed him towards the godpool and they got to the truth.

  ‘The Red Gods visit me, before and after knowings and when I’m asleep,’ Dom said, his voice little more than a whisper. Gilda’s hand rose to her throat of its own volition, but Dom looked embarrassed more than anything else. As though being visited by the Dark Lady was a weakness, a failing on his part.

  ‘How is that possible?’ Rachelle asked.