by Sam Sykes
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Sam Sykes
Excerpt from The Fifth Ward: First Watch copyright © 2017 by Dale Lucas
Excerpt from The Dragon Lords: Fool’s Gold copyright © 2016 by Jonathan Wood
Author photograph by Libbi Rich
Cover design by Kirk Benshoff
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Map by Lee Moyer
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sykes, Sam, 1984-author.
Title: God’s last breath / Sam Sykes.
Description: First edition. | New York : Orbit, 2017. | Series: Bring down heaven ; 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2017030930| ISBN 9780316374934 (paperback) | ISBN 9780316374941 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Fantasy fiction. | Epic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | FICTION / Action & Adventure.
Classification: LCC PS3619.Y545 G63 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017030930
ISBNs: 978-0-316-37493-4 (paperback), 978-0-316-37494-1 (ebook)
E3-20171017-JV-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Act One: A Sermon of Steel Prologue
One: His Glorious Reign
Two: Ten Pounds of Flesh
Three: The Language of Violence
Four: A Gift for a Dead Child
Five: A Fair Price from a Black Butcher
Six: A Feast for Poor Gods
Seven: Prophecy, Fraud, Whatever
Eight: Where We Bury Ourselves
Nine: The Law of Creation
Ten: The Pleading Knife
Eleven: The Beneficence of Tyrants
Twelve: Wizard’s Diplomacy
Thirteen: An Echo Unspoken
Fourteen: Back Alley Gods
Fifteen: Chieftain
Sixteen: The Spear
Seventeen: The Tenderness of Flesh
Eighteen: The Prophet and the Thief
Nineteen: The Last Chieftain
Twenty: The King in Red
Twenty-One: A Heresy Divine
Twenty-Two: A Worthy Hunger
Twenty-Three: The Last Virtue
Act Two: The Choir’s Last Hymn Interlogue: Our Fathers, Long Departed
Twenty-Four: A Civilized Game
Twenty-Five: Heroism, But for Assholes
Twenty-Six: Paper Glory
Twenty-Seven: The Taste of Progress
Twenty-Eight: The Rationality of Violence
Twenty-Nine: A Last Long Walk
Thirty: Heaven is Watching
Thirty-One: An Angel Falls From on High
Thirty-Two: Falling Stars
Thirty-Three: The Learned Man
Thirty-Four: An Echo of Starlight
Thirty-Five: The Heralding Storm
Thirty-Six: The Aspirant, Filthy and Hopeless
Thirty-Seven: Inherited Sin
Thirty-Eight: Let the Trumpets Sing his Return
Thirty-Nine: His Holy Verdict
Act Three: Holding Hands As the World Burns Interlogue: Our Bloodied and Terrible Dream
Forty: Farewell to Flesh and Bone
Forty-One: The Demon Repentant
Forty-Two: A Comforting Sin
Forty-Three: A Call Better Left Quiet
Forty-Four: A Feast for the Damned
Forty-Five: His Word
Forty-Six: Invincible
Forty-Seven: A Still and Silent Hell
Forty-Eight: Heaven’s Throne Stands Empty
Forty-Nine: The Golden God
Fifty: From On High
Fifty-One: Respite for the Lost
Fifty-Two: The Parting Word
Fifty-Three: Ten Thousand Heartbeats Away
Fifty-Four: A Prophecy of War
Fifty-Five: Somewhere Warm
Extras Meet the Author
A Preview of The Fifth Ward: First Watch
A Preview of The Dragon Lords: Fool’s Gold
By Sam Sykes
Orbit Newsletter
To my mom, who never doubted
ACT ONE
A SERMON OF STEEL
PROLOGUE
For the eyes of His Revered Holiness Who Sees All That Is Worthy and Unworthy,
Scion of Heaven, Line of Daeon, Speaker of Speakers,
Herald of the Red Sun and Sword of the Righteous Path,
Lord Emperor of Karneria Amarexes III,
Your humble servant, scholar in pursuit of truth for the greater glories of the Empire of Karneria, writes you with regard to a subject of immense importance, and it is with a burden so great as to bend her back that she reports to you that we are well and truly fucked.
Pardon the coarseness, Holiness, but I fear that this message shall be sanitized so thoroughly by your advisers that profanities must be heaped so that at least some measure of the severity of the situation should reach you.
My correspondence regarding events unfolding in Cier’Djaal and the status of the holy garrison, Fortress Diplomacy, you have charged has been thorough, but permit me to squander a moment of your precious time by reiterating.
Our original charge, under Speaker Careus, third of his order, was to stymie Sainite efforts to secure economic and military dominance in the city while furthering Imperial interests.
And for years I dutifully reported that we did exactly that. Even with the added complication of interference of the local ruling elite known as fashas and the escalation of criminal warfare between rival criminal organizations, Jackal and Khovura, our orders were carried out. With permission from the capital, we escalated our garrison into full warfare with the hated Sainites.
I regret to inform you, Holiness, that this was a huge fucking mistake.
We were able to topple the Sainite garrison quickly, but the mobility of their scraws meant that most of their manpower and matériel were evacuated to hidden bases around the city. Attacks from local shict tribes meant that our reinforcements did not arrive as scheduled. The conflict with the Sainites was long and bloodied and left us in poor condition for what occurred next.
You will doubtless receive many reports on what happened. Your humble servant of the Empire has included her own
breakdown of numbers—loss of matériel, soldiers, arms and armor, and so forth—in the pages to follow, but permit me to be frank about the reality of the situation we are facing.
The Sainites can no longer be considered the greatest threat to the Empire.
It was foolish to think that the tulwar clans would remain disparate. Our history tells only that we broke them once, sparing no words for how many legions were killed trying to do so and the fact that three emperors died over the course of their subjugation. The success of their attack on human holdings in and around Cier’Djaal can only confirm that we are looking at a unification we did not think possible.
They are led by a creature—a dragonman, I am told—that has brought the ruling clans under his guidance and has led them to dozens of victories, compounding with the horrors that resulted in the catastrophic failure at Harmony Road.
Further, shictish incursions have reached an all-time high. While we considered them mere nuisances on Imperial roads, it is evident that their designs are stronger, their ambitions are greater, and their machinations deadlier than we considered.
Your servant understands if the following blasphemy requires a swift and immediate execution, but she would be no servant of the Empire were she not to point out that Karneria’s hubris has led to this disaster.
We were fools to think we could hold the reins of humanity forever. Fools to think that no other race could challenge us. Fools to think that the shicts would always lurk in the shadows and the tulwar would dwell in their caves. Fools to think that our empire would keep growing.
And, if you do not consider the … event that occurred in Cier’Djaal to be evidence enough that we are grossly unprepared for the trials that lie ahead, Holiness, you are a fool, too.
The war has yet to begin. Defeat is not yet assured. And while there are serious doubts as to our preparedness, there can be no overlooking the bright side.
The subject of previous letters, a priestess of Talanas of no previous note, now known as the Prophet, proves an excellent opportunity. Somehow, she orchestrated the salvation of our mission. Somehow, she managed to unite us, as our foes united. Somehow, she is the reason your servant can write to you now.
She has emerged from the ruin of our charge with a message.
And we would be fools not to listen.
Humanity can no longer stand divided.
Our foes can no longer be dismissed.
Heaven is watching.
With utmost humility and urgency,
Glory to Karneria, May the Conqueror Forever Watch Her Walls,
Haethen Caladerus,
Foescribe of Arda Scriptis
ONE
HIS GLORIOUS REIGN
The barest choke of a gasp whistling through a ragged hole.
Chains rattled, shook flakes of rust free to fall as red motes in the rising light of dawn.
Her jugular shifted beneath the emaciated stretch of her flesh, laboring to push another breath out through the jagged tear in her throat.
And a drop of blood oozed out.
It traveled downward, staining a red path across the length of her jaw. It slid affectionately across her cheek, past her temple, and down a strand of tangled hair. The thick red droplet hung there for a moment before falling upon the scale-and-feathers of one of the two great wings that hung limp from her back. It hung from the tip of emerald plumage, quivering, as though reluctant to leave her.
But, like all the others, it finally fell.
And, like all the others, Lenk watched it disappear into the pristine blue waters over which she hung. And when he could no longer see it, he looked up into her face.
If she was in pain, the emotionless silver mask that was her face did not betray it. If she could beg for reprieve, the choked noises she made did not sound like it. And if there was anything he could have done to stop her agony, he could not think of it.
Or perhaps he wasn’t trying hard enough.
In the days since it had all happened—since he had been betrayed by Kataria, since had betrayed Shuro, since he had released hell upon the earth—he had often come to this spot. For a dead city, Rhuul Khaas had become noisy of late, and the reservoir at its eastern edge was one of the few places that was still relatively quiet.
One would have thought that, by now, he would have known more about the poor creature that hung over it.
Her name was Kyrael. She was an Aeon. Once, both those names had meant something. They were the names of a trusted adviser, a friend, a lover. They were the names of a herald of the gods, sent to shepherd men and watch over the earth. They were the names of one who had betrayed heaven and duty and been betrayed by the same.
But to Lenk, she still looked like a corpse.
She was tall and slender, even chained upside down as she was, and the elegant musculature of her naked body was still apparent, if withered. She hung with long arms and long wings drooping down over the reservoir. And even the way the chains wrapped about her ankles, holding her over the great pool of water from four cardinal pillars, was almost dainty, like jewelry rather than shackles. And her face—that pristine polish of silver carved in unfeeling, tranquil expression—was still unmarred by time and strife.
She was probably beautiful before Mocca had torn her throat out.
Punishment, Lenk had been told, for her betrayal. In the last days before Mocca had been cast down by the armies of heaven and thrown into hell, she had done him a final kindness by leading his worshippers away that they need not be caught in the battle that would see him thrown down. And, denied the masses that had adulated him, Mocca had responded by condemning the immortal Aeon to forever bleed into the waters.
He’d had another name back then. Mocca might have forgiven her. But Khoth-Kapira, the God-King, did not suffer betrayal.
She had loved him, Lenk had been told. She would have done anything for him. She had given up the bliss of heaven and the love of the gods for him.
And he had still done this to her.
Perhaps Lenk just came here every day only to remind himself of the fate of those who stood at Khoth-Kapira’s side.
And yet, in all the days he had watched her blood feed the waters, he had yet to leave. He was still here, watching another cold dawn rise over the dead city. She was still here, bleeding out as she had done for centuries now.
And they had no idea how to help each other.
Kyrael, the perpetually bleeding angel from beyond the stars, was the closest thing to a kindred spirit he had.
And that probably said something about him.
Too damn late to do anything about that now, though, he thought with a sniff.
A sudden tang of acidic reek hit his nostrils. And above the rushing waters of the reservoir, he heard the sound of heavy feet dragging on stone. Behind him, a wet, guttural hiss boiled out of a mouth thick with saliva.
That had once alarmed him. Less so, these days. But as he turned to see his newfound company, he feared he would never get wholly comfortable around the creatures with whom he shared this city.
The man’s back was bent, weighed down by the mass of tumorous flesh growing out between his shoulder blades. His arms hung so low that they scraped the stone floor. One leg was limp and dragged behind him; the other was thicker than his arms and hauled the great mass forward.
His face was a mass of molten flesh. One eye had sealed shut; the other was wide and unblinking. His lips had split open to make way for a serpentine snout that burst out of his mouth. A long, slimy tongue flicked out between two jutting fangs.
Lenk cringed. The man did not seem to notice.
“The master commands you to—” the creature began in a thick, slavering voice, but caught himself. “The master requests your … your presence. Urgent. Come. You must come.”
Lenk sighed, knowing the statement to be a farce. Mocca hadn’t requested he come. God-Kings did not “request” anything.
“Come,” the man insisted again. “Come, come … you must—”<
br />
“I heard you the first time,” Lenk said.
He trudged to a nearby pillar. His sword was right where he left it: leaning against the stone, the dawn’s light glinting off its hilt and catching him right in the eye. Almost like it was staring at him expectantly.
Remember when you wanted to get rid of me? it seemed to ask. Remember when you were going to leave me behind and go off and live a peaceful life? Remember how you were going to settle down with a nice young lady and stop surrounding yourself with bloodshed?
Lenk glanced over his shoulder at the abominable creature staring at him. Then he looked back to the sword. And the sword looked back.
How’s that working out for you, champ?
“Shut up,” Lenk muttered. Ordinarily, talking to a sword might seem crazy. But given his circumstances, it didn’t feel quite so bad.
He hefted the scabbarded blade and buckled it over his shoulder. It settled with a familiar, comfortable weight that galled him. He did remember wanting to leave this weapon behind.
If only he could remember what it felt like to not have it on his back.
The abomination stalked away. Trying his best to ignore the sound of Kyrael forever choking on her own blood, Lenk followed.
The gray streets of Rhuul Khaas wound their way through rising buildings and sprawling courtyards. Towers and homes stared down at him through empty window eyes, their doors open in gaping yawns. Statues of learned robed men smiled upon him as he passed. Fountains long dried up sat beneath frescoes of weathered tiles depicting scenes of bustling markets and people bowed in worship.
Aside from a few marks of age here and there—loose stones and the occasional foundational crack—Rhuul Khaas was in remarkably good shape for a city dead for centuries.
Kyrael’s doing, Lenk knew. When the city had fallen to the mortal armies, she had evacuated the people to spare them the slaughter. The city had escaped the ravages of war. When Lenk had first arrived here, it had stood empty and silent, a massive tomb for only a handful of people.
