She lifted her cane and grimaced. “I was there.”
“Yeah, well, sometime around a thousand years ago, this Panchasell started to understand what my people were going to be capable of. That’s when he decided to close the dillin. That’s what he did with the dil T’llan. Shut them. Shut them all.”
“Impossible.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“The primals may be the greatest spellcasters of Home, but no mortal could wield power of that magnitude-not even Ma’elKoth, prior to His Assumption. Across the world? Overload would have incinerated even Him like one of His own Firebolts. To close the dillin for even a moment, let alone a thousand years-eight hundred years after Panchasell’s death-”
“You said it. No one mortal.”
“Ah.” Her eyes narrowed, then widened again. “A Power?”
“Yeah. An Outside Power.” Knots that I hadn’t noticed tying themselves in my guts started to wrench tighter. “The Outside Power. The god of the Black Knives.”
“But even so-were It Bound to the Tear, to channel so much-”
“No. The Tear was. . just a device. The Tear gave It control over the river. Let It control the local weather, start the odd wildfire, whatever. The Tear was what let It make the Boedecken into the Boedecken Waste.”
She was looking off into the distance, now, far beyond the walls.
“Outside Powers feed on anguish,” I said. “Not just human anguish. Panchasell made It master of the Waste, letting things grow here just enough to suffer. And when the Black Knives would offer it, well, snacks-extra power-it could pay them with power in return.”
I looked out the kitchen window, out over the garden toward the face of Hell. “It still does.”
“You’re saying it’s still here.”
“I’m saying here is what it is.” I waved a hand out her window into the darkness. “This is it. That’s it. The dil T’llan. Right there.”
“How do you know all this?” Her voice was hushed, but with awe, not disbelief.
“You said you read my report.”
“But-but for all these years-”
“Shit, t’Passe, I was a kid. I didn’t know what I knew. It wasn’t until three years ago that anybody other than Ma’elKoth and my dad knew that the Quiet Land was Earth-y’know, Arta-and my dad was fucking crazy. It’s not like the Outside Power understands what it’s doing; it’s not even really sentient, as near as I could or can comprehend. It’s just a bundle of bizarre fucking tropisms that exists on the far side of reality. That’s how the Black Knife bitches could use It without Binding It: It was already Bound here. With the right kind of attunement, the part of It that made contact with a bitch’s mind would automatically resonate with her intention. Goddamn reverse theurgy.”
“But even so-how is this the concern of the Monasteries?”
“It’s not. Not directly. It’s the concern of the Empire. Because BlackStone Mining is an Artan operation-run, most likely, by Aktiri and Overworld Company goons trapped here on Assumption Day-that has found a way to control the dil T’llan.”
“How do you know this?”
“Not important. The point is: there’s an Ankhanan insurgency already operating in Purthin’s Ford.”
“This Smoke Hunt?”
“Freedom’s Face.”
“Oh, please, Caine-we know all about-”
“You think you do. Among all those idealistic starry-eyed middle-class Ankhanan kids are hard-core covert operatives-most of them probably primal, concealed under different types of Illusion, but maybe humans too. Thaumaturgic Corps adepts, Grey Cats, I don’t even know what. They’re here to take out the Artans and regain control of the dil T’llan, but the Artans are under Khryllian protection. And nobody knows how much the Khryllians know about what the Artans are up to. One thing I know for sure is that this whole city’s about to go up in flames.”
“And how do you know this?”
I looked her right in the eye. “Because I’m here.”
Her answering stare went thoughtful.
“You need to get this in a report to the Council of Brothers right away, and they need to get-at the very least-a reinforced strike team inserted into Purthin’s Ford just as fast as the fuckers can friarpace. This may be the our only opportunity.”
“Opportunity?”
I took a deep breath. “The Order of Khryl has at least one, probably two, True Relics.”
The pen in her hands snapped with a sound like a breaking finger. “You cannot be serious.”
“I could be wrong. But I don’t think so.”
“Caine, it’s impossible. We would know.”
“Sure you would. They’re here, in Purthin’s Ford, and they’re in use. Regular, everyday ritual practice.”
“But they-” She let the fragments of her pen drop to the floor and passed a hand over her eyes. After a moment, she said softly, “What sort of ritual?”
“Some kind of Atonement. It seems to be something that is a guaranteed privilege of any ordained Knight. Beyond that, I’m not sure.”
I held out my right hand, opening and closing my fingers meditatively.
With just the faintest breath of mindview, I could see the power of Khryl’s Blood shining there. “The True Relic I think they have-one I can’t confirm, but I’m pretty sure-is Khryl’s Hand.”
Her face was white as the bleached sheet on the table beside her. “The Butcher’s Fist. .”
“They call it the Hand of Peace.”
“They would.”
“I think they’ve had it all along; I think Ma’elKoth built it into the Spire for them. I think it’s the only reason the Spire can stand at all.”
“You think?”
I shrugged. “Ma’elKoth and I are not on speaking terms these days. There’s some source of power holding that fucking monstrosity up. I can’t imagine anything less than a True Relic would be reliable.”
“The fortress of their faith,” t’Passe murmured. Her bloodless lips quirked toward a smile but missed it on the twitchy side. “That would suit Ma’elKoth’s, mmm, I suppose one might call it His sense of humor. Or artistic irony, perhaps: to build the Order of Khryl an impregnable keep founded upon a True Relic of their god-their worship itself upholding their Eternal Vaunt. .”
“Yeah. Look at me laughing. The other True Relic is one the Council’s gonna be even more interested in. You better tell Ambassador Raithe too. This one I can personally confirm; I was close enough to touch it. They’ve got the hilt to what they call the Accursed Blade.”
I dropped back into the chair by the stove and tried to swallow the sick twist in my stomach. “It’s the Sword of Man.”
T’Passe’s cane thumped on the floor. Both hands on its head, she shoved herself upright. “This-this would not be a Relic-Jereth was no god-”
“It’s a Relic. Whatever the Godslaughterer might have been-whatever his sword might have been-it’s for motherfucking sure a True Relic now.”
“How-?”
“How should I know? Let the giant brains at the Monasteries figure it out; what the hell else are you good for?”
“Well. . I suppose,” she murmured, frowning, “having struck the defining wound to their god would Fetishize it for them considerably. .”
“They’re not the only ones who Fetishize the goddamn thing. We call it the Sword of fucking Man, for shit’s sake.”
She stopped and turned to squint at me. “This is more than your reflexive hostility. You are angry. What has you angry about this?”
I found myself panting through clenched teeth. “Here’s another one for you giant brains,” I said. “This is what I think you better share with Raithe. I’m telling you: I was this close to that fucking thing. It’s old. It’s easily the five-hundred-plus years old it’d have to be. And it’s been in the Knights’ possession a long damned time, maybe all five hundred years. And they don’t show it to Incommunicants. But I’ve seen it before. I’ve held it in my hand. So has Raithe.”
>
“I don’t understand.”
“Me neither.” I stared into the flames within the stove. “I had that fucking thing sticking out of my guts eleven years ago. Three years ago I jammed it through Ma’elKoth’s face.”
“Caine, what are you talking about?”
“The Sword of Man, the Accursed Blade, whateverthefuck you want to call it.” I met her eyes, and my voice emptied out.
I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s Kosall.”
CAULDRON
RETREAT FROM THE BOEDECKEN (partial)
You are CAINE (featured Actor: Pfnl. Hari Michaelson)
MASTER: NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION, UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.
© 2187 Adventures Unlimited Inc. All rights reserved.
Wet
cool wet sting lips tongue throat
water fuck me it’s water
hakHAKH
fuck that hurts
fuck hurts just breathe
breathe
a pinhole star in the void bright and brightening and going red and wind hushing to a roar and the star screams toward me and yawns beyond the universe—
And I’m awake. And it wasn’t a dream.
I’m still on the cross.
Tilted back so I can breathe. Must be some—
It’s Crowmane. Cold yellow eyes framed with gloss feathers gleaming black-red in the light from the bonfires. Looking in her face feeds the furnace in my chest with dreams of fist-fucking her eye sockets.
She lifts a dipper to my lips and I take a mouthful of cool clean water-fuck me, it is water, it is-and I spit it on her anyway.
Try to.
My gut just won’t push that hard right now.
Water dribbles down my chin and neck and chest and some of it goes down my throat, and y’know, if she’d bring that dipper up again I’d just fucking drink it, but instead her raw-liver lips peel back around her tusks and she says something to me, waving down at the lower tier with the dipper, splashing carelessly the water that is my sole hope of heaven, painting the retaining wall with little black wet dustballs that I would gladly lick off her asshole just to get that moisture past my lips. .
Down where she points, the other bitches have Pretornio.
Shit, they haven’t even stripped him yet. I couldn’t have been out more than a couple of minutes.
Shit.
I wanted to miss this one.
Next to where the bitches hold him rises a pole seven feet tall, blunt as a knuckle and big around as my wrist. It’s fixed on a sprawling iron stand so it won’t tip over when he starts to struggle. I wish I could look away. I have, y’know, some, what you might call, issues with anal penetration. In general. And this will be, y’know-Overly specific.
I really wanted to sleep through this.
I wish there were some way I could stop myself from imagining how it’ll feel.
The bitches go to work on his clothing, cutting it off so they can strip him without opening his shackles, and he’s still staring up at me-I mean, it looks like he’s staring up at me, kind of, in a sick way-with that same stupid dreamy smile he had when he begged me to pick him for this. Which is bone-fucking creepy on a face with only clot-crusted holes where eyes used to be.
Well, this is what you asked for, man. You can fuck me if I have a clue why.
Under his robes he’s all soft and white. It’s hard to look. I mean, sure, priests don’t have to be athletes, even Kannithan priests, but shit he’s got these little saggy man-tits. . and when they cut away his pants, his crotch is just a thatch of mud-colored hair. Huh. Since when is Dal’kannith one of those, y’know, those full-castration type of-Oh.
Holy shit. I get it. I get it now. Those aren’t man-tits.
Pretornio—
He’s a chick.
››scanning fwd››
When the world comes all the way back the smell is still turd-smoke and old meat; the feel is still easterly breeze on my face and my chest and my balls but not on arms and legs that are numb as the wood they’re nailed to. The sound on the wind is still Pretornio’s voice, gone high and ragged, still chanting away in Old High Lipkan, and when my eyes fall open she’s still impaled on the pole like a trout on a fish spear.
Doesn’t wriggle, though.
Me, I’d be thrashing with everything I’ve got. Drive my weight down onto the blunt end of the pole. Make it rip through me. End it fast.
She’s perfectly still. Must be holding out for something from Dal’kannith.
Good fucking luck.
Moon’s out, way over in the west. The top bitches are back up here. I catch Crowmane’s voice behind me, and Dugsacks leans on the retaining wall and chews wood-roasted meat off what looks a little like it could be half a giant chicken wing but is actually the forearm of somebody I know.
Knew.
Maybe somebody who died in the fight. Stalton. Rababal. Maybe somebody who’s died since. Somebody I chose. Maybe Kess, or Nollo.
Maybe Tizarre.
Dugsacks sees me watching her eat and tosses the arm to Cornholes, who gives me a friendly snort that sounds like a lion’s cough because each of her nostrils is bigger around than my dick. Teasingly, mockingly, she lifts the arm up within reach of my teeth.
So I take a bite.
Why not? Better than a sop of vinegar. Tastes good too.
The ridges of flesh that serve her for eyebrows pop wide. While I chew, she chuckles and says something to the other bitches and they hoot and when she turns back and lifts her head to laugh up at me, I figure my gut’s recovered some. I make an experiment: I spit the hunk of somebody-I-know in her eye.
Dammit. Wanted it up her nose.
She starts for me and Crowmane stops her with an authoritative bark. Dugsacks says something that gets a laugh from the other bitches and Cornholes’ eyes bulge and she whaps Dugsacks a good one with the roasted arm and they go for each other and Crowmane has to wade in personally, and while they’re all still hooting and clawing and shrieking and struggling-This place is suddenly getting light. .
Shadows sharpen and stone glares and what exactly the hell is going on here? Not dawn. Can’t be. Dawn here is vermillion dust. This light’s yellow as a lamp and it’s coming from—
It’s coming from—
Hot staggering fuck. Pretornio’s on fire.
A crown of flames fans the night from her skull, lightning-blue where it springs from naked bone, rising to a sunflower spray, and across the badland camp Black Knives turn and stand and stare, and the world goes quiet except for the night wind’s whisper and the harsh spit of flame. Flesh has burned off her spine, and the exposed bone spits a column of blue blaze up to join her crown, bright as an arcwelder. Bright as a star.
Shit, she’s in overload.
And she’s still chanting. .
Guess Dal’kannith’s coming through for her after all. With something Old fucking Testament.
The bitches have forgotten about me now. They’ve forgotten about each other. They line the retaining wall, staring down in brain-dead stupefaction at their homemade fusion torchsicle.
Crowmane recovers first. She roars something into the camp, where awed Black Knives have stopped eating and fucking and gambling and everything else to stand and stare with stupid looks scorching into their warthog faces. Crowmane roars again, and a couple of bucks grab a water barrel and run at Pretornio. This tickle in my guts might be the pre-echo of an oncoming laugh. They’re gonna be sorry.
The bucks skid to a stop at the base of the impale-o-matic and heave the barrel. A gout of water splashes up onto her and power explodes through it like a fuel-air bomb. The shockwave blasts cook fires into showers of burning shit and shreds tents and sends ogrilloi tumbling. What’s left of the two bucks looks like Daffy Duck after the dynamite goes off in his beak.
And Pretornio chants on.
Another roar from Crowmane. Bucks scramble to string their bows, and four-foot arrows as big around as my thumb zip out of the night and smack into her unresisting
flesh with a stutter of flat whaps like bored applause.
Every one of them bursts aflame: instant torches fed with her melting body fat. And I finally manage that laugh.
The laugh shakes me. It rocks me. It rips barbwire chunks off my assboned-to-Neverland diaphragm. I don’t mind.
It always did hurt.
“Hey. .” Dead crows wheeze better than that, if they’re fresh enough. Nobody even looks around. “Hey. . dumb cunts. .”
Gahh. Throat’s worse’n my gut.
Fuck it anyway.
I suck a fold of lip between my teeth and bite down and thick salt-black metal syrup slides down into my throat before I give myself time to think about drowning in my own blood.
“Hey, you stupid goddamn cows-”
Dugsacks turns and gives me the fisheye. I gasp strength back into my lungs. “Tell your head shit-suck over there that you have maybe two minutes. Maybe three. Then it’s fucking over for you.”
Next to Crowmane at the retaining wall, Cornholes snarls something savage over her shoulder at Dugsacks, who snarls something back and Cornholes raises a fist that’d stun a buffalo but Crowmane’s all over them again and one of her hands has gathered unto itself all the reality there is to be had here on the parapet, and I simply and purely dream-certain know that if they get seriously into it right now, she’ll make them seriously dead before either of them can seriously blink.
They know it too. Cornholes shuts the hell up. Dugsacks mutters something, and Crowmane barks at her. Dugsacks flinches, and says whatever it was again, louder.
Now Crowmane looks at me. The hyper-real shimmer around her hand swells toward my face, and when she growls something that sounds like nerroll pagganik torrin nezz, paggtakkuni, the eldritch dream-knowing tells me that she means What do you whimper, little rabbit?
I lift my head enough to give her a look at my teeth. “I know what she’s doing. I can tell you about it. Maybe in time.”
She swivels her swinging tits toward me and gives me a toss of the crowfeather headdress. Nershrannik pagannol. Pelshragikk laggan?
Why do you tell me? Why do I listen?
Caine Black Knife aoc-3 Page 24
