by Dylan Doose
Around her, just above the orgy of violence, the sky undulated and twisted, creating rifts in the velvet night. Bruised, monstrously muscled arms reached through the openings from the other side and pulled them wider. The heads of goats and rams poked through, and then they fell from the holes and pushed up on their human arms then stumbled to their inhuman feet, bleating and gnashing their teeth, wild, bulging eyes shifting in all directions. Some chased after the fleeing enemy on hoofed feet while others began gnawing on human flesh and drinking up the faces in the blood of the dead. If any had doubted it before, there was no doubting now that the Dog Eater had Dammar’s blessing.
* * *
Entry 158:
It’s been weeks since an entry. Fortune has smiled upon me, for I have discovered their trail once again, those three elusive killers that I am charged to bring back with me through space and time. And better yet, they are with the man who hung me, Chevic the Cheery. Indeed, he kidnapped them and brought them to the White City of Brasov.
Yet if that is my good fortune, my misfortune is the herd that stands between the city and myself. The sea of pagans, thousands marching from the country’s interior, from the city outskirts, from the northern coasts, all to merge here at the capitol on First Night, a festival known to the Romarian Enlightened as the Night of the Pyres.
There is going to be a reckoning, and it is going to leave a mess.
My only hope is that when it is over I can find Lord Regent Aldous Weaver’s younger self and his comrades still breathing. At this point, I don’t think I can even contemplate what failure would do to my psyche. I’ve been through too much on this goose chase…and because of my condition, suicide is out of the option. If I fail to fulfill my quest, I will be stuck wandering through the wrong world in the wrong timeline for eternity.
I never imagined I would miss Butcher, my home in Villemisère, even the Wastes.
I suppose I could just start a medical practice once again. I’d be lynched for the first three hundred years everywhere but the Far East, though…
No, no, I’d rather not think of such prospects. I will have Theron Ward and Kendrick the Cold in my care by the morrow. I will give young Aldous the scroll encased in the jewel, and he will send us back to Fracia, back to the catacombs of time. Back into a different fight altogether.
—Gaige De’Brouillard’s Journal
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
The Herd
Ken rode at the front with Chevic next to him, his beige horse happily swinging her head side to side, mane swaying before the leader of the Golden Sons’ smiling mask. Their mounts quickly cleared a path through the throng of drunks still dancing and hollering in the city center. Denied entry to the Basilica, but still they love that Patriarch of theirs, still happy to revel. As long as they aren’t on the end of pikes atop burning pyres, what do they care where they celebrate?
When they were clear of the main crowd, they quickened their pace to the southern gate. There were still folk walking and talking, drinking, puking and pissing on the white streets, into the perfectly kept hedges of the gardens that lined the city roads. Glowing orbs on thirty-foot pillars stood every few dozen feet, and they illuminated everything.
“We know each other,” said Chevic as they turned down the left path when the street forked.
“That so?” asked Ken, not allowing his face to betray the sinking of his stomach. He never did when his past crept up on him.
“Well, I know you. I doubt you remember me.”
Ken said nothing.
“All of the Golden Sons were in Kehldesh,” Chevic said in his eternally happy voice. “We were not called that yet. But it was where we found our roots and our purpose—”
“I don’t give a shit about any of that. Focus on the task,” Ken said, and nudged his horse to pick up the pace. Chevic did the same.
Chevic had stated that he knew who Ken was back in the woods when they were kidnapped. Knowing the name of Kendrick the Cold was one thing. Having been in Kehldesh, having seen Ken at his terrible craft, was another.
“It is a modest task, really,” Chevic said. “Patrolling the three gates for signs of infiltrators. We can talk now, just not when the killing starts. Nothing wrong with reminiscing with an old comrade.”
“We are not comrades,” Ken said. He wanted to put his axe in the man’s skull right there, but it wouldn’t happen like that.
Chevic laughed.
“Of course we are. We are comrades now, just as we were then, my good Kendrick. We provided your infantry with supporting fire for two campaigns. When the Enlightened took Ballaggur from those filthy sand savages. And when we massacred the heathens in the valley of Leavon. I was disappointed I missed Kahlib—”
“Shut your face,” Ken said quietly, calm and stern. “You say another word about the Far East, Kehldesh, Kahlibar, Leavon, or any of it, you and I are going to have a disagreement. And the fact that this isn’t the place or the time won’t matter. It won’t stop me from killing you.” He stared into Chevic’s eyes through his golden mask. They were cold like his own on the surface. But fanatical madness whirled ’neath the ice. He’s not afraid of me, not of death, and I’m in no position to give him the time and consideration he deserves.
“Understood. I see you do not look on those days fondly. I suppose the golden age to some is thought of as a dark age to others… That is fair,” Chevic said, then, when Ken was sure he was finished, he added, “Thank you for your service, comrade.”
Before this night was over, Ken would see Chevic dead. He would enjoy killing him, killing a man who looked back on massacres with fondness and pleasure. Pleasure had never been part of it for Ken. The fighting, yes. The killing of innocents, no. It was a job. His job. The life he had chosen.
They approached the south gate. Soldiers wearing bronze smiling masks and steel scale mail with spears and longbows walked the walls.
“They have no idea, do they? They were not warned,” Ken asked.
“Of what happens tonight?” Chevic asked. “Of the pagans who come en masse?”
“Yes.”
“Not a clue,” Chevic said.
“Why not?”
“They do not need to know. They must only do what is asked of them when the time comes, with faith they will serve the Luminescent.”
“The Patriarch doesn’t have much control anymore,” Ken said, a question that was not a question, a smile on his lips. “They doubt him?”
“The people—”
“Not his fool flock of sheep,” Ken said. “He still has them convinced. His men. They are losing faith. They are getting tired. They are getting weary of the fight. I know the signs. If the Patriarch does not trust his men, it is because his men do not trust him.” Ken paused, offering Chevic the ever-talkative a chance to answer. But the man only rode now by his side in silence.
“He is desperate,” Ken continued. “Desperate enough to conscript three mercenaries…three pagan mercenaries…from Brynth. Three mercenaries who, at best, hold no love for the Luminescent and his church, and, at worst, hate him with a deep and abiding passion.”
“You dare say these things to me?” Chevic asked.
“I don’t give a fuck what I say to you,” Ken replied cheerfully. “So that is why he is just throwing everything into the cauldron and hoping it explodes.” Ken tipped his head toward the wall. “They weren’t warned because they would desert.”
“You are wrong, ye of little faith,” Chevic said, his voice cheery once more.
They passed the tall white stone houses of Brasov on either side, the alleys between them shadowed from the unnatural light cast on the city by the glowing orbs that rested on the pillars. Houses on their left, on their right. There were people there, sitting in darkness. Ken could feel their eyes.
A single sound came from an alley.
Metal on metal.
“Silence,” Ken whispered, and raised his arm for the force to halt.
The wall
and the gatehouse were meters away now, and one of the bronze-masked men turned and waved. “Chevic,” he said. “You have come to join us on watch? Instead of celebrating the festivities? You truly are a saint!”
Click.
The sound came from the left.
The bronze-masked soldier gurgled, dropped his spear, then fell forward off the wall and hit the ground right in front of the southern gate. His blood spattered the white stone.
It begins. The chaos begins.
Ken was off his horse and moving toward the closest house for cover. Chevic was next to him, his longbow out and arrow strung, scanning the alleys for men to kill.
Click… Click, click.
Three more bolts fired from the enemy crossbows. Ken did not look back at the wall to see how many had been hit, but by the gasping noises and choking sounds, it was obvious these assassins were good, very good.
“Assassins! The pagans are here! We are under attack!” yelled one of the knights from behind, as Ken kicked down the door of the nearest house. He and Chevic moved past soft red chairs and paintings of masterful quality in golden frames, and ran to the stairs.
Ken balanced his mind. No rush. No rush. It won’t be over anytime soon. Another deep breath. There’ll be more than enough killing. No need to run to it any faster.
A scrawny slave girl with cleaning implements in hand screamed when she saw Ken and Chevic barreling toward her. The crossbows continued to fire in the street below at a remarkable pace. And the first sounds of swords clashing cracked close. And, less than a mile away in the city center, the people of Brasov and her guests made merriment.
“Out of the way. Find somewhere to hide and stay there,” Ken said, waving the girl into a corner as he stormed down the hall toward an open window that looked out into the alley below.
The swine demon’s prophecy echoed in his mind: …a clash of gods as white stone burns to black! I see it. I see the river of blood, and you, all of you, drown in it.
“I’m not drowning in anything,” Ken muttered. He drew his axe and gripped it tightly in his right hand, rotating his left shoulder to loosen it. The iron fist that he’d earned in Dentin was about to have its first true test.
A cool night wind breezed through his beard and caressed his shaved skull. But it wasn’t the wind that made him cold from head to toes.
Kendrick the Cold was home. Home was where the blood flowed, where chaos stormed. A waking nightmare.
Somewhere in the distance Ken heard what sounded like wind chimes, and the beating of skin drums.
In the alley below were four armored men, crossbows in hand. Ten more rushing up the stairs to the southern gatehouse, claymores and axes, heavy armor. The man in the lead wore no helm. His hair swept back then curled forward from behind his ears like the horns of a ram.
He slashed down the three bronze-masked spearmen that came at him. He swatted their spears away with his sword, and on the comeback of each block he opened their throats. The knights rushed the stairs, but the steps were narrow and could only fit two men at a time, one if he wanted to fight. And the infiltrators blocked the way so the knights were funneled between the wall, the stairs, and the houses. Blades hacked the group and crossbow bolts pierced them.
“Cover me from here,” Ken said to Chevic, with a nod at his bow.
“Just like I did in Kehldesh,” Chevic replied.
Ken wanted to kill him then. Instead, he leapt out the window and down into the alley, aiming to land on the assassin loading his crossbow just below. As he dropped, Ken punched his iron fist downward with all his might into the top of the man’s helmet. It caved in, and the shattering of his skull and vertebrae were audible. A jolt of pain shot from the end of Ken’s stump to his shoulder. Good trade, he thought as both he and the fresh corpse with mashed brains hit the floor.
Ken sprang to his feet.
The next assassin was turning around to face him; he had just fired at the cluster of golden knights, and did not have time to reload, so he tossed the crossbow down and went for his sheathed sword. It turned out he didn’t have time for that either. Ken swung his axe in a wide hook, the beard of the blade catching the man in the back of the neck. Ken pulled it inward, splitting the bottom edge of the axe blade through the left side of the assassin’s throat. His blood sprayed into Ken’s face and into his mouth. It dripped down the back of his throat, but he was not sickened; it was too familiar for it to be sickening.
Across the alley the other two assassins loaded and took aim at Ken. The one to the right had an arrow through his eye and out the back of his skull before he could fire. Chevic.
Click.
As the other man released his bolt, Ken threw his axe underhand, twisting his torso as he did. The bolt slashed across his leather armor. Had he not twisted he would have taken the shot to the sternum, the same spot the assassin now had Ken’s axe embedded. Ken crossed the alley to where the man was dragging himself backward, staring wide-eyed at the weapon lodged in his chest. His armor was thick, so the axe did not get in deep enough to kill him instantly.
“You are cursed, doomed. All of you,” the assassin croaked, and blood bubbled out of his mouth.
Ken pulled the assassin’s half-helm off, leaned over him, and hammered the iron fist down with three lightning-fast blows. Each one gave Ken a small shock of pain.
The man was beyond dead, his jaw unhinged, the shattered, jagged bones of his cheek visible through ripped flesh, his eye dangling from its socket. Ken wrenched his axe free from muscle and steel and turned his focus to the warrior rushing the gatehouse. He and his men were locked out, but not for long. They poured oil on the door, and the leader, the one without the helm, lit a torch and put it to the oak. Flame licked at the oil and reached for the wood beneath, and in seconds there was a bonfire that forced the men before it to throw forearms over their faces as a shield.
It would just be moments now. The gold knights clashed against the iron-armored assassins at the stairs, and they were getting pushed back. If Ken did not shift that fight, and quickly, the gate would open and a vengeful horde of pagans would slaughter everyone within the city to the last. He took off running but didn’t get far before dropping to one knee, a searing pain shooting through his left buttock down to his heel and up his lower back. He knew the sensation; it was not the first crossbow bolt that had ever pierced his flesh.
But he hadn’t heard a click, so the arrow had come from some other sort of bow.
He hadn’t even checked the opposite window; he shouldn’t have needed to. Chevic should have.
Ken spun around as he dropped his axe, and, in one swift, accurate motion, reached back and grabbed the arrow shaft. Straining his flexibility, he pulled it free of the wound. The back of his leg was warm with blood. He looked back through the alleys, toward the glowing Basilica. In the window of the house to his right was a boy—a slave—even younger than Ken had been the first time he killed a man. He was stringing another arrow on his makeshift shortbow.
Ken looked across to the window where Chevic was supposed to be covering him from. The Golden Son was hanging backward, half his body out of the window. Pressing on top of him was the scrawny slave girl that Ken had ordered to hide. Chevic held her by the wrists as she plunged down a bone dagger with impossible strength. She began to shriek, a wailing lament.
From his periphery, Ken saw the archer in the window take another shot, and he sprang away, snatching his axe back up and rolling as he did. The archer ducked back into the window to string another arrow. Ken’s attention returned to Chevic.
Again Ken heard the sound of wind chimes and the thudding of drums, and his eyes widened as, in an explosion of blood, the slave girl’s face grew a beak, and the human shriek became a squawk.
Ken threw his axe at the mutating slave girl, hit her low just under the ribs. She wore no armor and was bone thin. Ken’s pitch nearly split her in two. Chevic pulled Ken’s axe free and hurled the stringy corpse to the alley.
“Prais
e be to the Luminescent!” Chevic screamed in a voice as high in pitch as the birds cry.
But Ken had not forgotten the boy. He reappeared in the second-story window, taking his time to aim. He took too long, and was aiming at the wrong foe.
“Chevic, archer! Across from you!”
Kendrick caught the glinting blur cross the alley as the boy’s arrow released. But his aim was far off because Ken’s axe was in his chest. He slumped over and fell from the window, landing headfirst on the cobbles with a crack.
Chevic leapt down and stumbled in the street, the cobbles soaked now with enough blood for the red puddles to reflect the light being cast from the orbs atop the pillars. Chevic was holding his neck. Ken could see the blood dripping down the front of the smiling bastard’s chain mail, and although he did not much care if Chevic died by the night’s end—in fact, he hoped he would be the one to kill him—he certainly did not want the archer dead now.
“It looks worse than it is, thank the sun,” Chevic said, and it was clear by the strain in his voice that speaking was a bad time. He removed his hand from the wound. He was wearing a chain coif, so his neck had been protected, but in the front the links were split and there was a painful-looking slash. “The squalid demon snuck up behind me after I smote the first assassin, and she attempted to saw my head off.”
“She nicked you,” Ken said as the blood dripped between Chevic’s fingers where he pressed them to the wound. “Press harder.”
Ken walked to the corpse of the boy and pulled his axe from his ribs. There was a particular sound that came with pulling axes free from cracked-in ribcages, but Ken could hardly hear it due to the sounds of the roaring flames and the screams of the men getting cut down in the gatehouse.
When Ken turned around to look back at what they faced, he saw the surviving golden knights that had been their escort retreating down the alley toward him and Chevic.
