The Viles stood paralyzed, gawking at Creador’s Bastard. Whether it was terror or reverence that froze them, Paladin couldn’t be sure, but as the bane stomped awkwardly through the tight confines of the tunnel, he bolted. The Viles proved effective obstacles, slowing the thing so that it had to push and kick them aside. More than one of the Viles was burned by its mance-fire or gashed by its great hoz blade. Their screams were sickening.
It was gloomy in the tunnels. Every thirty feet or so, there was a torch ensconced on the walls, but Paladin was grateful for the poor visibility. He had seen more than enough of Creador’s Bastards. The passage veered west, and a second tunnel, even narrower, appeared. This was one of the competitor’s passages that branched off to the stables and an exit out into Círculo del Triunfo. Paladin didn’t hesitate to take it.
He was halfway to the stables when he heard the bane behind him again, its screams more frustrated than ever. Paladin chanced a look back. The thing was stuck, its great wings wedged in the tight passage. It threw its head from side to side. Its bellowing cries echoed off the walls and Paladin covered his ears. He paused for a second and called, “Hey! Bastard!”
The bane cocked its head to one side. Its flaming eyes appeared as bright crimson dots beneath its glass visor as it squinted, curiously, at Paladin.
Paladin showed it his middle finger and shouted, “Kiss my culo.” And slipped into the stables.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Honor’s Shame
A preternatural serenity settled over the folk, even as their neighbors and family lay dead or dying nearby. The music of war rang loudly beyond the arena walls, but those rough sounds took place in another realm. In the arena, the Prophet, still in the guise of Zacarías the Bard, had created peace. Fox and his fellow warriors stood watch while the Prophet consulted with Pía, Prelado Scrupulous, and a handful of priests and priestesses. It was eerie being able to hear their hushed whispers when moments before he had been able to hear nothing over the roar of battle. But even the Darkdragón’s thunderbolts, which had echoed through the exit passages moments before, had gone quiet. Though the banes had not returned from the passages, Fox kept faith that they had prevailed against the patriarchs of Kamau.
In all the fighting, Fox had lost track of the Darkdragón’s son, but he guessed the pagan, with his preternatural good luck, had escaped the arena. Fox suspected he employed some kind of Muumban witchery. But The One God was just. The pagan would get his due in time. For now, everyone else had been cowed by the power of the Prophet’s voice. Or slaughtered. The violence had lasted scant minutes, but had felt like much longer.
The kings and queens of the Thirteen had been cowed as well, though Fox could see by the defiance in their eyes that they remained silent only because of fear. Perhaps they were immune to el Espectro Bendecido because their royal power had corrupted them beyond redemption. Whatever the reason, the truth of their hearts was evident in their eyes. They hated the Prophet.
The Ironbear stepped forward, and Fox intercepted him, leveling his Black Spear at the king’s chest.
“Hold, King,” he said. “Come no closer.”
The Ironbear looked at him as if he were a bug.
“Do not harm him, Fox,” the Prophet called, turning from his consultants. He dipped his head at the king. “You have something to say, Your Majesty?”
King Ironbear sneered contemptuously at the Prophet. “Who are you?”
With a flourish of his cloak, the Prophet chanted:
“Thirteen winters since the day,
God’s Mortal Voice was sent away,
To scavenge life in lands most wild,
A cruel fate for Honor’s child.
The servant of The One God’s will,
With holy duties to fulfill,
Broke his exile, a throne to claim,
Father, have you guessed my name?”
King Ironbear bowed his head in misery. His voice was thick with grief when he said, “My dear son. My dear, insane Regio.”
The Prophet lowered his hood, revealing the dark-eyed face so much like the king’s. And many standing around them, including Fox, gasped at the revelation. He had been surprised last night when he had learned that Zacarías the Bard was the Prophet in disguise. But now, learning that both men had been Prince Regio Del Ironbear, he could only gape in dropped-jaw astonishment.
The king seemed slightly less surprised. Tears slipped down his cheeks. “So much death, my son. So much pain. You bring shame to our House.”
“Sí, Father,” the Prophet said. “Death and pain cannot be avoided. I pray that the suffering is minimal, but we must all face judgment. The wicked must be condemned.”
“If you are to kill me,” the Ironbear said, “then be done with it.”
“My king and father,” the Prophet said reverently. He dropped to one knee and lowered his head. “I do not want to kill you. I want to save you. It has never been my wish to kill the innocent, but sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”
“The greater good?” the king said. “Time and again you have brought shame upon our House and name, Regio. You are no authority on what is good.”
“I am the prophet of The One God. Mortal though I may be, I speak with His voice!” The Prophet’s eyes blazed with holy conviction. “Would The One God have sent His sons to aid my cause if I was not doing His bidding? Look around you, Father. See how those of goodly souls listen raptly to my words. This is the power of The One God speaking through me! Can you behold the power of the Blessed Specter and still doubt the divinity of my purpose?”
The king shrank back from the Prophet, rubbing his temples as if pained. “Fool. You’re a fool to trust Creador’s Bastards …”
“The time has come for you to choose, Father,” the Prophet said. “Your name, Honestus, means ‘honor.’ You have ever been true to that, and now I beg you, for the sake of your honor, join me. Creador has always been the god of your heart. You have only to acknowledge Him as the one and only god and your soul will know salvation. Surely you recognize the truth of His words as spoken through me.”
The king swayed on his feet, clutching his skull as if he feared it might explode.
“Father,” the Prophet said. “Nearly every kingdom in the Thirteen is currently at war. Thus it has always been, but it does not have to remain so. Imagine a world where all people of all lands stand united. The One God desires only peace amongst His children, and make no mistake, we are all His children, no matter the color of our skin or the lands of our birth. Only those with souls corrupted beyond redemption will resist the harmony offered by The One God, and they must be purged from our midst if humanity is to reach true enlightenment.”
“I see.” The Ironbear nodded. The Prophet looked hopeful until the king said, “The measure of virtue is faith. Those who do not see what you tell them to see or believe what you tell them to believe are evil, and must be destroyed.”
“It is simple mathematics, Father,” the Prophet said. “I am trading the lives and souls of the few who are wicked for the lives and souls of the many who are not. Once the purging is complete and we are all one people, the world will know true peace. With you and Veraz standing with me, I know the transition—”
“Do not dare speak my son’s name!” King Ironbear bellowed. “Veraz will never stand with you, you filthy Vile! Your pious posturing is only a mask. You are a tyrant, Regio, a petty little man, dressing your bloody ambitions in holy robes. You speak of slavery and call it peace. You speak of ecumenical murder and call it transition. You are a hypocrite and a lunatic. I denounce you and your Vile crusade, may the Three take your soul! Slay me if you will, but know that my final prayer is that Veraz lives, that he becomes strong, and that one day he plunges a blade into your wicked heart.”
Incredibly, the Prophet did not grow angry, but looked upon his father with pity, further proof of the divinity housed within his mortal flesh. But there was a sense of finality to The One God’s Mortal Voice wh
en he said, “Please, Father. I would not like you to suffer in hell. I would not like—”
“I welcome hell and the tortures of the Three!” King Ironbear roared. “Better that than to live in your nightmare world of slavery and conformity. I curse you and your followers, Regio, and I name you Honor’s-Shame! Honor’s shame you have been, Honor’s-Shame you will be! Thus do I name you before all the gods. May the Three torture your poisoned soul for all time!”
“As you will, mi padre,” the Prophet said, his voice thick with sorrow. “As you will.”
It happened so fast Fox barely saw it. King Ironbear had no time to react, let alone register his doom. The Prophet muttered what sounded like gibberish and three balls of Holy Fire flew from his staff, immolating King Ironbear and the other monarchs standing near him. The Holy Fire crawled over their bodies like ravenous, sentient creatures, gorging on royal flesh and bones. Fox covered his ears. The screams were so piercing they made his tooth hurt.
The importance of the Ironbear’s final words wormed into Fox’s brain, filling him with soul-souring revulsion. Honestus Ironbear had still been king when he invoked the naming. It was lawful.
Honor’s-Shame the Prophet loosed another gout of Holy Fire at the king’s corpse. His shriek, born of fury as hot as the divine fires he commanded, went on until Prelado Scrupulous and Pía went to him, each gently touching one of his shoulders and whispering words of consolation.
The Prophet allowed Prelado Scrupulous to lead a prayer over the smoldering grease stain that had been his royal father. The moment was fleeting. It came to a strident end when an inhuman voice shrieked out from the western quad, followed by what sounded like someone dashing rocks with a sledgehammer. No. Ice. Fox had grown up in the frozen mountains of Kalteströme. He knew shattering ice when he heard it. The sound came from the arched, smoke-filled exit passages. A great winged silhouette appeared within the depths of the swirling smoke, moving awkwardly, as if pained. It made a sound that reminded Fox of the mewling of blind kittens he had once drowned. Another winged silhouette appeared in the smoke even as the first descended into the lower section of the stands, where the air was clearer. Huge chunks of ice still clung to the magnificent creature’s wings and limbs. The Holy Fires of its hair had been extinguished and the locks now hung about its face in limp strands of smoldering ash. It shivered, its once graceful movements now stilted and awkward, like someone who had just barely survived a blizzard. Fox wondered if banes could suffer frostbite. The other banes joined the first, all of them covered in bits of ice, their fiery hair extinguished.
The first bane spread its wings and flapped them hard, sending bits of ice flying into the ether. Its covey brothers followed its lead. The way they shook the ice from their wings reminded Fox of dogs shaking water from their fur. When most of the ice had been knocked free of their bodies, their skulls ignited with Holy Fire. The celestial flames also burned behind their visors. Every child in the Thirteen knew enough bane lore to fear those blazing eyes. Just a glimpse into them would drive a human mad.
“Speak, Gadaha,” the Prophet said. “What happened to the Darkdragón and the Phantom?”
“Excellency,” Gadaha the bane ululated in its soulless voice. “They have escaped.”
“How?” the Prophet demanded.
“They trapped us in witch-ice,” Gadaha said.
The Prophet nodded. “The Kamau patriarchs are formidable and will be powerful Talentoso if we can get them to accept the Blessed Specter. Tell me of my brother. Have you located Prince Veraz?”
“He eludes us as well, Excellency,” Gadaha said.
The Prophet thought for a moment. “Send half your covey after the Kamaus and the rest after my brother. Tell your covey brothers to take great care. My brother is to be taken alive and unharmed. He is of House Bernardo, and may yet embrace the holy doctrines of Santos. They must keep their visors lowered. I will not have Veraz reduced to a drooling lackwit.”
The bane gave the Prophet a sweeping bow. “Yes, Excellency. It will be as you say.”
Gadaha shrilled orders to its covey brothers, and they shook the last remnants of ice and water from their wings and vaulted into the sky.
Paladin scurried along the rooftops of Westgate, covering his mouth and nose with his hand to filter some of the smoke. He wept, and had been since before fleeing the arena. He had found Tufani’s corpse amid a pile of equine carcasses, surrounded by dead Viles, stable-hands, and patriarchs from House Geraldo. The battle in the stables had ended in massacre. Paladin had stood over his beautiful horse sobbing out a vow of vengeance, invoking Schöpfer to bear witness, and had continued to weep when he made his way out into Círculo del Triunfo, where the fighting was nearly as brutal as it had been in the arena. The Viles were razing the city. Most of the destruction was still to the east, but it appeared to be headed in his direction.
He scrubbed the wet from his eyes and focused on bringing his ki into balance as he scampered over the rooftops, carefully plotting his course to Ciudad Vieja. It was taking him longer than it should have. White-clad Viles prowled the streets, killing and torching as they went, and too many buildings burned for him to take the known route. He was a few blocks from Calle de Comerciante when his senses began to tingle. The image of a serpentine black dragón clutching crackling silver thunderbolts flashed through his mind, followed by thoughts Sent from Rebelde. The Sending was faint. He barely felt it. That meant his father was far away.
“Paladin?” The Sending was colored with anxiety. “Are you well?”
Paladin didn’t know how to Send, but he thought hard at the black dragón soaring through his thoughts. “I’m in Ciudad Vieja. Almost home.”
He couldn’t tell if Rebelde understood his clumsy attempt to Send, but his father responded, “Stay hidden. Get out of the city. Santuario del Guerrero has fallen to the Viles. Get out. West Gate Road. We’re fleeing to Westga—”
Rebelde’s dragón pneuma leapt from Paladin’s thoughts in a panic. Wherever he was, Rebelde was fearful and in danger. But he had been alive when he broke contact. Paladin had the sense that the others had survived as well. They had all survived Creador’s Bastards in the arena. That gave him hope that they would endure. He tried to spy out the West Gate, but there was too much smoke in the ether. He could see by the fires burning in the distance that he would have to travel by street.
He climbed down into an alley behind Sweettoe the Shoemaker’s shop and peeked out into the street. It was littered with piles of debris, but he saw no people. He watched for several heartbeats just to be sure. He took three steps out of the alley and the shouting began. A child rounded the corner at the end of the lane, screaming, fleeing. Paladin recognized the boy’s voice as belonging to Lalo, the ten-year-old Castillos y Conquistadores prodigy. An instant later Paladin saw what chased him. Caballeros. A large force. They rode beneath banners, torching viviendas and shops in their wake. They laughed as they chased Lalo down. It was a game to them. One of them shouted, “A bottle of Oestean gold for the first to kill twenty híbridos!”
“Gods be good,” Paladin gasped. He recognized the first banner. It was a bumblebee on a field of orange. The totem of House Próspero.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Speaking Steel. Screaming Thunder.
Paladin darted out into the street, nocking an arrow. He cursed his trembling, clumsy fingers. As he closed the distance between himself and Lalo, he got a better look at some of the piles of garbage littering the street. Not all the heaps were of debris. They were dead people. Gods be good, they were his murdered neighbors. He saw Henning von Brickmaker and Sommer von Fullbounty, their bodies covered in stab wounds. The same had happened to their niños, Svenja, Kreszentia, and Götz.
A veil of crimson fury dropped over Paladin’s vision as he took aim at the first rider, a massive caballera in plate armor. Lalo screamed as she and her huge charger bore down on him. Paladin prayed Schöpfer grant him speed and accuracy, knowing his appeal was in vain even as
he pulled back the bowstring. At the very instant his fingers released, Lalo’s scream stopped with sickening abruptness, replaced by the cracks and pops of young bones crushed beneath heavy hooves.
The rider punched her fist into the air. “Twenty! I win! That bottle of Oestean gold is mi—”
Paladin’s arrow blasted her from her horse. “No whiskey in hell, cabróna.”
He reached into his quiver for another arrow even as the other caballeros trampled over Lalo’s tiny body like it was garbage.
“There!” one of them shouted. “An archer by the shoemaker’s shop!”
Paladin’s body moved of its own accord. Conscious thought deferred to rage and fear, instinct and training. He threw himself into the street, growling like a beast. If he died now, it would be on his terms. If he met Golanv tonight, it would not be alone. He would take these Próspero and Lupina warriors with him. As many as he could manage. He was invulnerable, shielded by the righteousness of his purpose. He darted into a tenement doorway, launching arrows at the closest caballeros, but they were ready for him. Their shields were up and his arrows clattered broken and useless to the ground.
Then he saw Urbano.
The Próspero heir and his mamá, papá, and sister wore expensive armor, with cuirasses of finely crafted plate. Don Spicebringer pointed at Paladin and yelled, “There is the híbrido, Urbano! The One God has blessed you! Now is your chance to avenge our honor! Attack!”
Urbano shouted orders at three caballeros flanking him, then spurred his mount forward, making sure to stay safely behind them. Such cowardice didn’t surprise Paladin. He had known Urbano for more than a year, and the heir of House Próspero had lived each of those days as an unrepentant craven.
Today, Paladin vowed, he would die as one.
He slid Storm from her scabbard without uttering a word. He didn’t need to speak. The sword voiced his rage. Wrath thundered through the ether and shook the world, sending every horse in the street into a frenzy of screaming, bucking terror. Riders flew from their saddles like slung stones. Don, doña, and their retainers brattled to the ground in a jumble of swords, shields, and mail.
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