‘I am Cutta Frog-dream,’ a woman said. ‘I am war leader of Green Ridge and clan chief. We know of your troubles, Rilporian, but they trouble us not. We have already answered your emissaries and promised to shed the blood of any more who came.’
‘Well, that’s awkward,’ Ash muttered. ‘This is no normal emissary,’ he shouted and nearly took out Crys’s eye with his pointing finger. ‘This is the Fox God Himself, the Great Trickster in a mortal’s flesh. He fought – and killed – the Dark Lady of the Mireces! He brought me back from the dead! He healed thousands of wounded soldiers and civilians! You owe him your allegiance.’
Crys waited for the laughter followed by the spears. Neither came.
‘The Two-Eyed Man,’ someone whispered. ‘The old tales …’
‘You make a bold claim for your friend, Wolf,’ the war leader said. ‘Yes, we know your clan by your look. A bold claim and one that will see you all dead if it is untrue. You think us savages and wild, our beliefs childlike, but you are wrong. If you think to trick us, it will be the last thought you ever have.’
‘Thanks for that, Ash,’ Crys said as the Krikites turned their horses and clicked them into motion back the way they’d come, the three men in their midst.
‘May as well start as we mean to go on,’ Ash replied with a tight smile. ‘You never said this would be easy, after all. But I’d quite like to live, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Wouldn’t we all,’ Crys muttered. ‘Come on then, Foxy. No pressure.’
It wasn’t exactly a private audience with the war leader and her priests, but the Fox God didn’t seem to mind. Crys stood on the green at the centre of the town, where a single finger of rock twice his height had been erected. Something about its outline, its presence black against the sky, called to him. Before anyone could speak – and it looked as if the whole town had been summoned to bear witness – he found himself drifting across the grass towards it, goats and chickens ambling from his path. Inside him, sharp teeth grinned with anticipation.
‘This is where you come to soul-dream with your priests,’ he said, his voice lifting across the green.
‘It was,’ Cutta Frog-dream replied. Crys frowned. ‘Now all soul-dreams are performed at Seer’s Tor, our capital, by the Seer-Mother herself.’
‘You don’t dream without her?’ Crys called. ‘Why not?’
‘It is not done any more,’ the war leader replied. ‘And how do you know of our magic?’
‘Because I am the Two-Eyed Man,’ he said and the claim spoken aloud caused a susurrus of disbelief and outrage. None of them believed him, not yet anyway. But they would. They had to.
They will.
Up close, the surface had been carved with whorls and spirals and sinuous connecting lines that dizzied the eye and drew it upwards. Lightheaded, heart speeding, Crys placed both palms against the carvings. The hair on his forearms stood up as if he was in the centre of an electrical storm. He’d moved before anyone could question him or tell him what to do, and over the rushing in his ears he just made out the muttering and shifting of the crowd. Part of him wondered if he was committing sacrilege, but the stone and its patterns didn’t care and neither did the Trickster.
Some of the carvings called to him and he traced them with his fingertips, aware of the tiny trails of silver light he left in their grooves as he made his way around the rock, touching here and there, wonder and rightness and homecoming and duty and the Fox God expanding until he could feel fur brushing the inside of his skin.
‘Two-Eyed Man,’ someone shouted and he ignored it, ignored all but the carvings and the guiding instinct within.
‘This is home,’ he whispered. ‘This is us.’
When the pattern within the pattern was done, Crys stepped back. The middle of the stone glowed, the carvings bright as starlight in winter. The air hummed. Ash had already knelt and bowed his head and Crys opened his mouth to tell him to get up, silly bollocks, and stop embarrassing them both. The Fox God stopped the words.
‘Two-Eyed Man,’ Cutta shouted. ‘Our legends tell of you. The teachings of our old priests talk of your appearance and how you will lead us.’
‘To death and beyond,’ Crys muttered, though none heard him. ‘I do not lead you,’ he shouted back. ‘I do not seek to take command, but the Gods of Light need you. I need you. If Rilpor falls, the Mireces will come for you next. Your faith and your way of life will be forbidden. Krike will drown in its people’s blood unless we stop them in Rilpor. Unless you help me stop them.’
The war leader walked forward into the empty space between them. The stone at Crys’s back was still humming, as though a million sleeping bees fanned their wings as they dreamt inside it. ‘Is this magic? Blood magic?’ she asked quietly, loosening the knife on her belt.
‘This is me,’ the Fox God said and she took a step back, awe and fear chasing across her features. ‘This is the fate of Gilgoras and the part you may play in it.’
‘May?’
The Fox God spread His hands. ‘I do not command.’
‘You killed the Dark Lady?’ she asked. A tiny frog was tattooed in front of her left ear.
‘I drank Her and destroyed Her,’ the Fox God replied. ‘But She seeks a way back and Her followers aid Her. If they succeed all will turn to Blood and madness. While I can stop the Dark Lady again, I cannot stop Her forces alone.’
‘You are not alone, Two-Eyed Man,’ Cutta Frog-dream said, and knelt at his feet. ‘Green Ridge is with you and together we will convince all Krike, including the Warlord.’
That was easier than expected, Foxy.
There was a rustle of amusement from within. Don’t get used to it.
CORVUS
Seventh moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
Throne room, the palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘The thing about control that you Rilporians have never quite understood is that if you don’t believe in it, neither will those you rule.’
Corvus examined the nobleman kneeling on the marble before his improvised throne, the original now a charred heap of wood and gold leaf. ‘Take us, for example, and them.’ He pointed at the fresh corpses. ‘I have control over you, because I have proved beyond doubt that if you disobey me you will die. As such, our relationship is established and both of us can be content within it – me as owner, you as slave. Oh, don’t look so horrified. You’re alive, aren’t you, still in possession of your limbs, your tongue, your eyes and your cock? So you have to serve me instead of others serving you. You’ll get used to it. And when you place your feet upon the Dark Path, you’ll be freed and can buy slaves of your own. The sooner you understand that, the sooner we can all get along.’
Lord Silais shifted, clearly unused to the discomfort of kneeling on cold stone.
This is the breed of man who ruled this country? Corvus allowed a sneer to twist his mouth. No wonder Rivil was weak.
‘Your Majesty, I am a child of Light. I will never walk the Dark Path – but that does not mean I cannot be of assistance to you. Advise you,’ he added quickly. ‘There are many things you will encounter as you consolidate your rule. Rebellions, laws, heirs to the throne who may seek to seduce loyalty away from you.’
Corvus looked at Valan, his second in command, and rolled his eyes. ‘I know about Tresh in his little castle in Listre,’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to bore me, Slave Silais.’ He grinned as the man twitched again – it really was too much fun.
The former noble met his gaze with an expression of earnest surprise. ‘Oh no, Your Majesty, there are many more heirs than just Tresh. They’re like rats, Sire – kill one and another rears its head. It’s a shame so much of the palace burnt, really. All the records of the full line of the Evendoom dynasty were in the royal library.’
Corvus’s humour vanished. ‘Let me guess – you know who these heirs are and you’re bartering your freedom in return for the knowledge?’
Silais’s smile was silky-smooth. ‘It appears we can assi
st each other, does it not?’ he asked, straightening a little, feeling he was on firmer ground.
‘It does,’ Corvus said and jerked his head. Valan stepped down from the dais and held out his hand to help the lord up. Silais nodded his thanks and was on his feet before he realised Valan had ducked behind him, snaking his arm around beneath his chin and grasping his ear firmly. Valan tucked his elbow and pulled Silais’s head into his chest, stretched his ear out further, and sawed it off with his knife.
Silais was screaming like a bloody woman by the time it was done, legs treadling and hands slapping uselessly at Valan’s constricting arm. Corvus wandered down from his throne and bent to look into his face, still tucked lovingly against Valan’s chest.
‘Control,’ he whispered into the bloody hole where his ear used to be. ‘I have it, and you don’t. And you’re going to tell me the names and locations of Rastoth’s heirs, aren’t you, my lord Earless? Or Valan here will show you just what an artist he can be with that knife.’
Silais tried to nod, snot bubbling from his nose. ‘Y-yes, Your Majesty. Anything. I’ll tell you anything.’
Corvus patted his head. ‘Not anything,’ he clarified, straightening up with a wink at Valan. ‘Everything.’
The problem, of course, despite his fine words to the contrary, was that Corvus didn’t have control. Or not as much as he’d have liked, anyway.
Oh, Rilporin was mostly peaceful as the slaves adjusted to their new way of life and any uprisings were put down with the usual brutal efficiency, but the rest of the country was kindling awaiting a flame. And Mace fucking Koridam, General of the West Rank, was running around out there somewhere striking sparks.
Best guesses put him in Listre, but in the chaotic aftermath of the fall of Rilporin and the days afterwards with Mireces and East Rankers struggling to come to terms with the loss of the Dark Lady, the man could have marched past the city with drum, flute and flag and no one would have noticed.
Corvus had never had this much territory to control before and his influence – or lack of it – had never extended so far from his power base, and he’d never had to function with his heart torn from his chest.
The Dark Lady’s absence was madness clawing at the edges of his mind, questioning his every decision, whispering at him to lie down and die. Every night, when he pulled a blanket around him, the temptation was there, at the tip of his dagger. Every morning, the grief mocked his cowardice. Corvus survived by packing the hurt down inside himself to fester, like an abscess beneath a tooth, buried and stinking.
It was different for the common Mireces and East Rankers – all they had to do was follow the orders given them by their leaders. For Corvus, his surviving war chiefs, Lanta and General Skerris, it was like trying to stand against an avalanche to make sure others survived. And what should have united them was driving them apart.
Two weeks after Rilporin’s conquest, Skerris and the East had left the capital, flooding west and north to occupy the major towns along the Gil and the Tears to take control of supplies, stores, wealth and crops. It made military and economic sense, and it left Corvus with an altogether unfamiliar sense of loneliness. Despite his mild contempt for the fat general, Skerris was a talented commander and a faithful son of the Red Gods, and he needed someone he could trust in Sailtown. On the other hand, aside from the one-eared, snivelling Silais, Skerris was the only other who truly understood the workings of Rilpor. And he needed to restore order as soon as possible. The question was how – and which sort of order. Rilporian laws and customs, or Mireces? Prisons or executions? Persuasion or forced conversion?
It was a new way of life, requiring new thinking, and Corvus hated it.
Now that parts of the palace were habitable, he’d taken up residence there, as befitted the King of Rilpor and because he thought he should. There was a suite for the Blessed One, though she never used it. She never left the temple district or the shrine that she had constructed on the flagstones in the great temple square that were stained by the black splats and sweeps of divine blood. The site of the Dark Lady’s manifestation and destruction.
Valan lived in the heir’s quarters, both because they were close by and because he was, until Corvus produced a son, his successor. War chief Fost had a suite of rooms and so did the other surviving or newly made chiefs, but there was no communal living, no longhouse camaraderie like back home in Eagle Height. The palace was empty and Rilporin was too big. Corvus hated that, too.
Outside, the endless sounds of hammering and of dragging stone, the shouts of slave labourers and their Mireces overseers, painted a backdrop of noise both like and unlike his home village. This is home now, he reminded himself firmly. They had thousands of slaves, soldiers and civilians, though the number of deaths since their victory was far higher than the usual attrition rate as Mireces offered their wealth to the Red Gods, seeking to fill the voids in their souls with Rilporian blood.
In the last weeks they had cannibalised entire sections of the city to gather enough stone to fix the walls and wood to repair the gates, and while they weren’t pretty, they were high and sturdy once more. Holy Gosfath had left them more than enough shattered stone after His rampage through the city to fling it at any enemy who approached, using the East Rank’s trebuchets. Those slaves who were carpenters were attempting to fix the catapults and stingers, too. When Listre came, when any enemy came, they wouldn’t find him unprepared.
They’d scoured the city: every house, alley, building and cellar had been looted of people and goods both. Corvus had given every Mireces two slaves, more wealth than some of the lowest warriors had ever had, but all were expected to lend them to the great rebuilding of the city. The remaining slaves were awarded to those who’d fought hardest. Corvus had accepted only six, three strong men and three pretty women, though the surviving war chiefs and most of the warriors had clamoured for him to take more. He declined; he had an entire country, and enough riches had survived the burning to tempt the greediest of men, something Corvus had never been, despite what his enemies said of him.
And so by seeming to take less than his due, his men cleaved still more closely to him. He would need such loyalty in the months to come. Rilpor might be beaten, but it wasn’t subdued, not by a long way. More Mireces would die in the next few years than in an entire generation of raids. Perhaps more than they could afford to lose.
The marketplace that had once stood in the killing ground in First Circle was operating again, albeit run by the victors now, and the flesh trade was brisk as men bartered slaves for goods and goods for slaves. The sealing of the gates had done much to curb the escape attempts and the city was loud with Mireces voices, sullen with fear and pregnant with violence.
It almost felt like home – unlike the echoing palace.
‘It’s time to send Fost to fetch our women and children, Valan. It’ll do much to steady the men, having their consorts and legacy back with them, and once the women are running the households and keeping the slaves in check, we can look to the rest of the country. There is still much work to be done. Besides, it will be good to hear more Mireces voices than Rilporian. The consorts will make the city our home, and this country ours too.’
Valan grinned. ‘It will be good to see Neela and my girls again, I admit. I’ve been too long from them.’
‘That we could all find such contentment in the arms of a single woman,’ Corvus said, feeling his mood lighten. Teasing Valan for his unusual fidelity never got old.
‘There’s only one Neela, Sire. But perhaps you will find some pretty Rilporian who will walk the Dark Path at your side. The Lady’s …’ He faltered, tongue tripping over the words.
Corvus swallowed against the spike of hurt and he found the healing cuts on his left arm without conscious volition, wounds he’d carved into himself in the moments after Her destruction, blood that hadn’t been enough to save Her.
‘The Lady’s will,’ he said deliberately, pressing against the stitches and offering the pai
n to the gods. ‘She’s coming back, Valan. The Blessed One and high priest Gull work tirelessly. Whatever happened, She is still our Lady. Our pain calls to Her, the Blessed One calls to Her, and She will come back. She must.’
‘I pray it is so.’
The old banter was swallowed by the new world and the loss of Her, and Corvus strode restlessly to the window. The fine glass was missing, but the view was one of industry and scars being repaired, and besides, the weather was warm down here in the flatlands and the breeze soft against his face, unlike the ice-edged winds of the Gilgoras Mountains. Everything down here was soft – the women, the weather, Rilporian courage.
A world rebuilt in honour of the Red Gods. Washed clean in blood. It would be hard, but it was his sacrifice to the gods. He would build paradise in Gilgoras for Them. His will – Their will – crystallised. ‘She will return, and She will look down on this new world we have dedicated to Her, and She will be pleased. All Rilpor will worship. And all Gilgoras will follow our example.’
‘Our feet are on the Path,’ Valan murmured and Corvus’s mood lifted again. ‘Sire, the food situation isn’t what we hoped. Some of the fires we set when taking the city burnt grain stores, and more was ruined or consumed by the defenders before they fled or were captured.’
Corvus’s mood dropped. He squinted out at the blue sky and strove for calm. ‘We’ve felt lack before, Valan. I know we expected rich bounty, but war is different to raiding. It’ll be a lean harvest and a hard winter, but when Fost returns, they’ll bring any stores they have left and all the livestock. If it’s still not enough, we take more from the towns. Let winter cull the slave population so that when spring comes our people have plenty of land each and the optimum number of drudges to work it for them.’
Bloodchild Page 3
