Godsgrave

by Jay Kristoff

  We’ll see about that, bastards . . .

  “ . . . are you certain about this . . . ?” came a whisper from her hair.

  “Are you certain you could shut up for the next minutes so I don’t get killed?” she muttered.

  “ . . . ah . . . probably not . . . ?”

  “Exactly.”

  Truthfully, Mia had never been less certain about anything in her life, but she had no choice—to lose here would mean the collegium would still be up to its neck in debt, all her work still at risk. And so, she turned to one of the guards who’d praised her victory before they entered the hall, glanced to the blade at his waist.

  “Might I trouble you for a loan, good sir?”

  The guard drew his sword, handed it over dutifully. “Tsana guide you, lass.”

  Mia took the blade with a nod of thanks. And cutting her swords through the air, Mister Kindly doing his level best to shut up for a few minutes, Mia took her place in the sparring ring, eyes locked on the silkling’s.

  “This contest will be fought e navium,” Governor Messala reminded them. “A hand raised in submission will signal an end to the bout. Fight with honor, and for the glory of your collegium. Aa bless and keep you, and Tsana guide your hand.”

  The crowd hushed, the music stopped, and all Mia could hear was the thunderous beating of her own heart.

  “Begin!” Messala cried.

  Quick as silver, Mia struck with both blades, steel ringing as the silkling parried with four of her own. Dancing forward, she struck again at head and chest, but her foe blocked again with ease. Countering this time, the silkling launched a flurry of strikes at Mia, the air a whispering blur. Mia was pushed back, desperately blocking the incoming blades, until she was forced beyond the edge of the sparring circle. The marrowborn around her skittered aside, eyes on her swords. But the silkling didn’t press, returning to the center of the ring and waiting with her weapons poised in a glittering fan.

  Mia titled her head, felt her neck pop. Tossed her hair from her eyes. And stepping up to her foe, she launched another salvo.

  She’d always prided herself on her skill with a blade—she’d trained hard under Mercurio, and harder still in the Red Church, her natural speed combined with utter fearlessness and an uncanny aim. But even her best foes had only met her with two blades of their own—never six of the cursed things. Wherever she struck, the silkling’s steel was waiting. Whenever she left a gap, Ishkah forced her back. The silkling had the size, the reach, the speed. And worse, Mia knew she wasn’t giving her all. Just as Arkades had warned the first turn she set foot on the sand in Crow’s Nest, Ishkah was studying her form in readiness for her final assault.

  And so, seeking to even the scales (how is six blades against two fair, she reasoned), Mia reached out to shadow at the silkling’s feet.

  None in the room would have noticed it—the dark shivered only a little. But as the silkling stepped forward to strike, she found her boots fixed fast to the mosaic tile at her feet, the long shadows cast by the sunslight outside. A moment’s hesitation from her foe was enough, and Mia struck hard, a blinding series of strikes that broke through Ishkah’s guard and opened a long, ragged wound on her shoulder, just shy of her throat. The crowd gasped in astonishment, blood as green as poplar leaves sprayed from the wound. Mia knocked another of the silkling’s swords flying, and aimed a blow low to sweep her foe off her feet.

  And then, just like the first turn she set foot on the sand in Crow’s Nest,

  she lost her grip on the shadows

  and her foe stepped aside.

  Mia’s strike went wide, the silkling’s blade’s flashed, opening up a shallow cut across the girl’s knuckles and sending her sword spinning from her hand. Mia tried to counter with her other blade, but was met by a wall of steel, Ishkah striking with an empty fist, driving the breath from the girl’s lungs. Mia staggered, the silkling twirled behind her, smashing her across the back of the head with the flat of her blade. Cathedral bells rang in Mia’s skull, the whole world blurring to double as her legs were knocked out from under her and she crashed senseless to the floor.

  The silkling stood above her, blades poised to strike.

  “Yield,” she demanded, with a voice like dry cicada wings.

  Mia’s brow had split on the tile, her head still ringing. Fingernails clawing the ground, she blinked the blood from her eyes and struck out with her feet, trying to knock the silkling down. Ishkah sidestepped like a dancer, pressing her blades to Mia’s throat.

  “Yield,” she said again.

  Mia looked to Leona’s crestfallen face. To Arkades, shaking his head in disdain. And finally to Furian. Staring into his dark eyes, she knew, sure as she knew the turn she’d faced Arkades—the bastard had wrested her grip on the shadows, allowed her foe to slip free.

  Teeth bared.

  Rage boiling in her belly.

  “Even a dog knows when it is beaten,” came a voice from among the sanguila.

  “Perhaps the fault lies not with the dog,” Leonides replied, “but with its mistress?”

  Leona’s cheeks were spotted with rage as she looked at her father, stepped toward him with clenched fists. Arkades whispered—some word Mia couldn’t hear—and the woman fell still, face flushed, eyes burning.

  “Yield,” she commanded.

  “ . . . yield, mia . . .”

  Just a turn ago, she’d stood triumphant among tens of thousands of people, every one of them chanting her name. And now, she lay on her belly like a whipped pup, the marrowborn around her tittering with amusement. Mia looked to Furian, hate boiling in her chest, the edges of her shadow rippling. She could feel the dark in her, the black, wanting to stretch out toward the Unfallen and tear him limb from bloody limb. But the blades at her throat, the memory of her familia, the thought that none in this room could know what she truly was—all of it helped her to fight down the rage, stow in her breast to cool. Not forgotten, no. Nor forgiven. Never.

  And slowly, Mia raised one trembling, bloodstained hand to the governor.

  “ . . . Yield,” she whispered.

  Satisfied, the silkling removed her blades from Mia’s throat, sheathed them at her back. Governor Messala looked among his guests, the mood now shifted, tinged with red. Tension was thick in the air, not just from the bloodshed in the circle, but the obvious enmity between Dona Leona and her father. If there was one thing that entertained the rich and idle more than bloodshed, it was scandal. To see it played out in front of them was better sport than any venatus under the suns.

  “You deceived me,” Leona said, voice trembling.

  “You deceived yourself,” her father sneered. “When you started that backwater collegium. I warned you, Leona. The sands are no place for a woman, and the sanguila’s box is no place for you.”

  Leona glanced to the silkling. “Don’t look now, Father, but your champion appears to have breasts.”

  The crowd tittered as Leona scored her point. Emboldened, she continued.

  “But perhaps you don’t intend to field her on the sand at all? I noted your collegium’s absence yesterturn in the Ultima, when mine was claiming the victor’s laurel. All the better to unveil her like some cheap mummer in a two-beggar corner show, and cheat me of my glory behind closed doors?”

  Leonides’s face darkened.

  “If you think yourself cheated,” he declared, “let Aa and Tsana decide. The next venatus is at Whitekeep, five weeks hence. I will field my Ishkah against your Crow. And since you so desperately need it, dear daughter, I shall wager one of my berths in the magni against the winner. But a fight to the death this time, neh?”

  Leona looked to the marrowborn about her, opened her mouth to sp—

  “I fear the contest unbalanced,” said a voice. “And the crowd would cry the same.”

  All eyes turned at the growl. Arkades, the Red Lion of Itreya, stood by his mistress’s side, glaring at his former master. His face was twisted in a scowl, his scar cutting a deep shado
w down his features. Mia could see the cold enmity in his eyes, looking at the man he’d once fought and bled for.

  “I commend you on your find, Sanguila Leonides,” Executus continued, glancing at the silkling. “I have never seen her equal either. Not in all my years upon the sand. But six blades against two? What honor lies in contest such as that?”

  Arkades looked at Mia still sprawled on the floor, then to Furian behind him.

  “Especially when our collegium’s best is absent the match.”

  Leonides looked his former champion over with a calculating smile.

  “A fair point. Never let it be said Leonides does not know the will of the crowd.” Glancing around the assembled marrowborn, the showman in him rose to the fore. “Bring your best three champions to Whitekeep, then. Ishkah will face them all. Six blades to six. No quarter, no submission. A match for the ages, neh?”

  Arkades shook his head. “I wou—”

  “Done.”

  The marrowborn looked to Leona. The sanguila stood still as stone, glare locked on her father. Mia could see the hate there, pure and blinding. She knew that hatred well. The fire of it. Keeping you warm when all else in the world was black and cold. Keeping you moving, when all else in the world seemed simply to drag you down.

  She wondered what Leonides had done, exactly, to earn it.

  “Done,” Leona repeated. She glanced about the smiling marrowborn, the wine-stained teeth, eyes glittering. “I will see you in Whitekeep, Father.”

  Leona swept from the room, Furian following close behind. Arkades and Leonides stared at each other a moment longer, former master and former champion, now bitter rivals. The executus limped over to Mia, loomed above her expectantly. The girl struggled to her feet with a soft groan, blood gumming her lashes shut, her head pounding with pain. Stumbling behind the big man as he strode from the room.

  “Arkades,” Leonides called.

  The man stopped, turned to look at the smiling sanguila.

  “When next you speak to her, thank your domina for sparing me the mistake of your little Crow’s purchase. If your mistress seeks to recoup some of her losses, I’ve a pleasurehouse in Whitekeep always looking for new quim.”

  Leonides looked Mia up and down with a sneer.

  “Perhaps she’d fare better with a different kind of sword in hand.”

  An amused ripple flowed through the crowd. Arkades turned and limped from the room without a word. Mia followed, head hung low, dark hair draped about her bloodstained face. She knew it was foolish, that she shouldn’t let this pompous fool get to her. That in winning the magni, she’d have to defeat Leonides’s best fighters and see him taste the shame of defeat anyway. But still . . .

  But still . . .

  Rubbing this prick’s face in his own shit had now become a burning priority.

  Personal now, bastard.

  1 Matches in the calendar leading up to the Venatus Magni are often fought e mortium, or to the death. Little else will satisfy the appetites of the crowd, and it’s not as if anybody could talk a sand kraken out of their breakfast anyway. But many gladiatii matches are fought e navium, or to submission.Though real steel is still employed, a wounded gladiatii may appeal to the editorii for the match to end at any time by holding out a palm in supplication, and death blows aren’t meted to a fallen foe at the match’s end. Injuries still abound, but accidental fatalities are rare in e navium bouts. Thus, sanguila can test the mettle of their opponent’s stables and build a reputation for their collegia while avoiding the inconvenience and expense of losing a fighter every time they lose a match.In times past, crafty sanguila employed bladders of chicken’s blood and fake blades in order to give appearance of fatalities, even in official venatus matches. But such subterfuge can only last so long—the crowds tended to notice when their slaughtered favorites kept returning from the grave. Such cheap theatrics were banned by the editorii in 34PR, and relegated to the realm of mummers and theaters where they belong. If one attends a death match of the venatus these turns, gentlefriends, if you can be assured of one thing, it is this:The dead stay fucking dead.

  2 Native to the Drakespine Mountains bordering Vaan and Itreya and, despite their rather pretty name, the arachnid silkling are a species renowned as . . . somewhat un-neighborly. The Silken Dominion is scattered over thousands of miles of inhospitable crags, and its conquest by the Itreyan legions proved extraordinarily costly; it was only after every War Walker in the Iron Collegium was brought to bear that the silkling BroodQueen was brought to heel.Though the silkling have ostensibly sworn loyalty to the Itreyan Republic, their seat in the Senate House has remained empty since it was explained that only males can hold the title of Itreyan senator (male silkling are smaller than their counterparts, and venomless). The Senate themselves are content to leave the silkling mostly alone, and the threat of a posting as Itreyan ambassador to the Dominion is often used as a stick to keep unruly younger members in line. As a general rule, the silkling have nothing to do with the Republic or its citizenry if they can help it.Silkling females mark their cheeks with ritual scarification for every brood they’ve hatched. They murder their mates postcoitus with alarming regularity. And if you’re tempted to ask how it is the species continues to thrive under such circumstances, I can only assure you that, yes, the females possess vaginas, and yes, the males have penises.The rest should be self-explanatory.

  20: three

  “Furian, certainly,” Arkades said.

  “That goes without saying,” Leona replied. “He is our champion.”

  “Are you certain, Mi Dona? I thought perhaps you’d forgot him.”

  Leona steepled her fingers at her chin and glowered at her executus.

  “I forget nothing, Arkades. And I forgive even less.”

  The pair were sat in a small cabin aboard the Gloryhound, the ship rolling and creaking with the ocean’s swell. They’d set sail the turn after the banquet at Governor Messala’s home, and four turns out from Crow’s Nest, Leona and Arkades were still trying to decide who would stand against his silkling. Magistrae sat behind her mistress, weaving Leona’s hair into artful plaits while the pair argued. And below her chair, puddled in the shadow, sat a cat who was nothing close to a cat at all.

  “We could refuse the match,” Arkades said. “Throw our dice in the Ultima.”

  “We need two laurels between now and truelight, Executus,” Leona replied. “And Whitekeep is the last venatus in the calendar before the magni.”

  “Our equillai could win us a laurel. Bryn and Byern ran a close second t—”

  “Aye, and if they lose?” Leona asked. “Even with victory in the Ultima after that, we’d find ourselves a laurel short. We wager twice by refusing challenge against my father. We wager but once if we accept. The only way we can be assured of fighting in Godsgrave is to best that fucking silkling.”

  “Language, Domina,” Magistrae warned.

  “Aye,” Leona sighed. “Apologies.”

  The older woman’s brow creased in thought as she went back to work on Leona’s hair. “Beg pardon, Domina, but even if you win contest against your father’s champion, will the editorii honor the wager?”

  “Precedent has long been set,” Arkades replied, toying with the handle of his walking stick. “Well-established collegium often lure more inexperienced sanguila to compete in one-sided matches with the promise of a seat at the magni.”

  Leona aimed a withering glare. “Well, that was unusually tactful.”

  “He is playing you, Mi Dona,” Arkades replied. “This berth the bait, and those games the noose. Not content with denying you patronage, your father wants you to send your three best gladiatii to be butchered, and with them, this collegium’s future.”

  “Without the magni, we have no future!” Leona snapped. “Our Crow was flogged in front of every marrowborn in Stormwatch! No one with a purse will touch us now!”

  Silence rang in the room, broken only by the creak of timbers, the incessant pounding of wa
ves upon the hull. Mister Kindly yawned and licked his paw.

  “Furian, then,” Arkades sighed.

  “Aye,” Leona nodded. “And the Crow beside him.”

  Executus leaned forward, shaking his head. “Mi Dona—”

  “Unless the next words to leave your mouth are ‘that’s a splendid notion, Mi Dona, and by the by, your hair is looking magnificent,’ I do not wish to hear them, Arkades.”

  Executus scratched his beard, tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile.

  “Ah, he can still laugh,” Leona preened. “I thought perhaps you’d forgot how.”

  “All due respec—”

  “She is the Savior of Stormwatch,” Leona sighed.

  “That silkling almost cracked her fucking skull open!”

  “Language!” Magistrae scowled.

  Arkades mumbled apology as Leona continued.

  “She was bested in Messala’s palazzo, aye, but the common folk don’t know that. The citizenry will expect to see her draw steel under our banner. Four Daughters, Arkades, she butchered a retchwyrm almost single-handed. You yourself declared the match against the silkling unbalanced. Crow won a laurel for this collegium, and did honor to my name in front of the entire arena. She deserves some credit, surely?”

  The big man hung silent a moment, finally gave a grudging nod.

  “She can’t lift a shield to save herself. But her Caravaggio was . . . passable.”

  “Such praise,” Magistrae sighed. “Pray, don’t let the girl hear you sing like that, she’ll never get her head through the door.”

  Leona and Arkades shared a smile as the older woman began a new braid.

  “So,” the big man finally sighed. “Furian and the Crow. Who shall be our third?”

  Leona pouted, tapping her lip.

  “ . . . Butcher?”

  “He plays badly with others.”