Bloodchild

by Anna Stephens

  ‘Go, go, go!’ Salter screamed and the prisoners turned around and sprinted together, yanking the thin chain through their collars and off even as the Mireces realised what was happening.

  It was too late for Tara. Her circle was filling fast, the shape inside the red mist solidifying, a sudden hot wind stinking of sulphur blasting through the temple from everywhere and nowhere and stinging her eyes. The tentacles or snakes or whatever they were nosed across the ground and found her foot. A score more whipped forward and latched on to it, smoke and char rising as they burnt at her boot.

  She yelped and kicked free, dodged more that were solidifying from the stone or out of the air, spun to the edge of the circle and there he was, Gull, backing from the onrushing prisoners and the Mireces trying to stand against them, his hammer and knife raised.

  You want to eat someone, Gosfath? Here you go.

  Howling, Tara shoved her arm through the barrier – purple lightning roasting her bones – and got a finger in his collar. Not impenetrable, just fucking painful.

  He was a killer, was the high priest, but he wasn’t a fighter. Tara hauled him into the circle, disoriented and shrieking at the fire burning through him. She spun Gull around and slammed her fist into his stomach; he folded like cheap tin over her arm. She tore the knife from his grip and slammed it into his spine, grinding over a vertebra and then punching in midway down his back. His legs stopped working. She let him fall, snatched the hammer from his limp hand and retreated towards Rillirin’s circle.

  I can do this. I can still do this.

  They’d tried to break her. Maybe they’d even succeeded, but it just meant they’d stripped away her softness, her mercy, and fashioned her into a weapon. And it was time. This was her fulfilling the Fox God’s requirements. This was Tara’s redemption and Vaunt’s justice. This was fucking war.

  Tomaz’s last words to her, bubbled up with the blood as he died, more a man then than at any time in his life: ‘I love you. Kill them all.’ Tara had sworn she would, and Tara was keeping her promise.

  The figure in the red haze was clear now, all slabbed muscle and curving horns and hating, wanting eyes. Hands bigger than Tara’s head lifted Gull into the air and the last few smoke-tentacles wrapped around him and began squeezing, probing, entering him, draining him of blood and life as he cracked and broke in ways that no body should ever move, Gosfath becoming more and more real with every passing second.

  When Gull was a shrivelled husk, the last tendrils absorbed back into His body and the god let out a roar of triumph. He saw Tara and the blood coating her was a beacon, an irresistible lure. He came for her, wading through the rising black smoke while, behind Him, prisoners wrenched weapons from the Mireces’ hands and turned them on their owners and Valan screamed at Lanta to come into the circle and take the baby that was even now being born.

  And that was the moment she’d been waiting for. Valan and Lanta in the circle together, preoccupied with Rillirin. Ripe for the killing. Tara ran at the intersection of the two circles, arms protecting her face, and bulled her way through. More purple light inside her and outside, her blood boiling in her veins and her eyes, face, world on fire, and she was out of Gosfath’s reach. And her targets were within hers.

  RILLIRIN

  Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus

  Red Gods’ temple, temple district, First Circle, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  The urge to push was overwhelming, a force that Rillirin couldn’t deny, lost in its grip. Movement, downward pressure, fire burning at her centre, in the very core of her and she screamed, guttural as an animal, as she crowned.

  She paused, panting, sweat and smoke and blood stinging her eyes. Valan knelt between her thighs as pandemonium erupted throughout the temple. The prisoners were free and Gull was dead, maybe, and there was a god in the next circle with Tara, and Rillirin couldn’t look at it or her heart would stop.

  The urge to push was building again, demanding the very last dregs of her strength, and Rillirin could do nothing but obey the ancient command. Gritting her teeth, head thrown back and another braying shriek tearing from her throat, she pushed and pushed until something slithered between her thighs and into Valan’s waiting hands.

  She fell back, panting, but only for the space of a few breaths and then she was struggling on to one elbow, reaching out. ‘Give … give it to me.’

  Valan was crying as the cupped the tiny form. ‘A girl,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, she’s perfect. Oh sweetheart, look what you’ve done.’

  ‘Give … please,’ Rillirin tried, but Lanta thrust herself into the circle with a screech similar to Rillirin’s. She dropped to her knees at Valan’s side, shuddering through the pain caused by the barrier. Her hands were shaking as she tied off the birth cord and cut it with a knife. She scooped the child out of Valan’s hands.

  ‘No,’ Rillirin croaked, but hadn’t even the strength to shout. ‘No,’ she tried again and got back to her elbow, drew up her legs and shoved up to sitting. Valan lifted Lanta to her feet and the Blessed One hobbled to the intersection with the other circle, out of reach of Rillirin’s grasping fingers. Rillirin’s muscles were already shuddering with effort, but she scrambled on to hands and knees and dragged herself forwards.

  Valan caught her and drew her to his chest, holding her as tenderly as he had her daughter. ‘You did so well,’ he whispered, pressing kisses to her hair and temple. ‘You did so well, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Dark Lady, beautiful goddess of death and fear, marshal now your great strength and let your Brother-Lover be your guide. Come to us, come to this circle we have prepared for you, come to claim the flesh that will be yours.’ Lanta’s voice was tremulous with passion and exhaustion as she held the baby out in front of her in shaking arms. The black mist swirled faster but then the circle flared purple again and Tara came sailing through, skidding across the stone and through Rillirin’s blood.

  Lanta ducked, clutching the baby to her chest, as Tara screamed at the pain of the magic. Valan let go of Rillirin and reached for her on instinct. She rolled to a stop and then threw herself at him, the pair of them crashing into the stone, the ritual itself crashing to a halt.

  ‘Lord, Red Father, your reward is here. Just … just give me a moment,’ the Blessed One babbled. ‘Valan, get her back through.’

  Gosfath crouched and watched them, then indicated the babe instead, beckoned with talons as long as Rillirin’s palm. ‘Want.’

  ‘No, Lord, this is the vessel that will house your Sister-Lover. This is the flesh that will become the Dark Lady. This one is not for you. Valan, get her back in the fucking circle now.’

  Tara headbutted Valan and chopped a hand into his throat, roaring curses, and Rillirin was standing, swaying, naked but for a breast band and blood and fluid streaking her thighs. As the Blessed One gaped at the collapse of all her plans, Rillirin prised her fingers away and slid the babe, still slippery with blood, out of her arms.

  ‘No!’ Lanta screeched, wrapping Rillirin and the child in her arms and throwing herself backwards in a frantic surge. Together, they tumbled into the gods’ circle.

  The world blared with light and noise and dark and silence, an instant of assault on her senses so complete Rillirin didn’t know up from down or life from death. Every bone and muscle juddered with lightning and pain and the babe’s scream was sudden and piercing and nearly stopped Rillirin’s heart. And then they were through and Gosfath was there, right there, and Lanta too, and Gull’s shattered corpse.

  Rillirin was on her side, her daughter pressed wailing to her breast and her knees drawn up to shield her, and curling towards them was a thin, questing black filament. She jerked back, scuttled on heels and one hand away, realising too late she was moving closer to the circle’s centre instead of its perimeter.

  ‘Dark Lady, beautiful goddess of death and fear, see now your new host, of blood royal and blood god-touched. Come to the world, to us your faithful children, to Holy Go
sfath, Lord of War. Come to your new flesh, your new life. Come for vengeance, Lady, come for blood!’

  Lanta had hold of Rillirin’s ankle and was dragging herself up her leg, face ablaze with foul exaltation. The black smoke was writhing faster, groping blindly ever closer, and Rillirin kicked off Lanta’s hands and made it to her feet, her womb tightening again as the afterbirth began to move. She sagged, grinding her teeth as the pain ripped through her, and as she did the black essence struck out, faster than a kestrel’s stoop, and speared into her child’s tiny, fluttering chest.

  Rillirin didn’t think: she just grabbed at the black tentacle, shrieking as pain ripped up her arm, and she yanked it out.

  ‘Yes, Mother, yes,’ Lanta was calling. ‘There it is, your host. Your flesh. Take it and return to us. Holy Gosfath, your prize is here, right here.’ Lanta pointed, her other hand up in defence. ‘Now, Valan!’

  ‘Want.’ Gosfath’s rumble became a roar and dagger-sharp talons cut through the air towards Rillirin. His index finger just caught her sweaty braid, snipping it without effort and driving on through her cheek and the bridge of her nose. Rillirin almost didn’t feel it, but then blood poured down her face.

  She ducked as He took one massive stride across the diameter of the circle and His other hand came for her. Lanta was advancing from her other side, grey, one hand clutched to her chest, her faith all that was keeping her upright. Black smoke writhed around her feet, tangling them.

  ‘Head down,’ a voice yelled and Rillirin curled in on herself as arms wrapped around her and dragged her through the boundary again. More purple roiling hissing lightning that burnt her skin and ratcheted the babe’s cries up into screams again, the unmistakeable scorch of burning flesh and an exquisite pain in her face and hand as they cauterised, and they were falling backwards in Tara’s arms.

  They landed hard, forcing a pained grunt out of Tara before she shoved them gracelessly away and scrambled to her feet, putting herself between them and Valan. The babe’s tiny chest was intact, no blood except the birth blood, though a black mark, its edges ragged and broken, discoloured her skin. And her eyes weren’t the blue of a newborn’s. They were as black as the Dark Lady’s Herself, black and piercing and looking right at her, unwavering, focused.

  Oh gods, oh Dancer and Trickster, please, please no. Please.

  Valan got one finger in Rillirin’s silver collar but then Tara was on him, locking her arm tight around his throat and hauling him backwards and then running him at the barrier. She turned her face away as she shoved Valan’s head into the lightning and held him there, her arm in it too but Valan was screaming and screaming and screaming, the skin on his face blackening, cooking, cracking open to reveal red flesh beneath and the circle’s barrier began to flicker as his feet flailed and drummed and his thrashing weakened and he broke the magic that tried to contain them. The smell of burning hair, cooking meat, and then purple-edged flames billowed up from his face and head and Tara dropped him and staggered back, cradling her blistered, charred arm against her chest.

  ‘Fucking move,’ she croaked at Rillirin. The circle was sputtering, flickering, the barrier breaking down so they could cross it without it hurting the babe. Tara spared a glance at Valan’s final twitches. ‘For Tomaz.’

  ‘Bloody Mother, I am your faithful servant,’ Lanta began to yell as Tara put her good hand in Rillirin’s armpit and heaved her up to her feet. The Blessed One was stumbling around the edge of the circle, clutching at her chest as if about to topple over. She glanced down and deliberately scuffed her foot through the chalk line, screeching as her form was outlined in purple fire.

  ‘All this I have done for you,’ she gasped as she recoiled, ‘all this, bound your Brother-Lover here as a light to guide you, ripped Him from beyond the veil so that you might find your way to us. Take me. I am your willing servant, will be the body you need, Lady. I will be anything you need.’

  ‘Tara, wait. Look.’ The black smoke solidified into tentacles again, punching into the Blessed One at breast and belly and thigh, in and out like stitches through her torso, her jaw and ear, her left eye until she was pinned, lifted and flung wide, suspended and splayed and screaming. Gosfath lurched back.

  ‘Yes, yes, my lady. Take me!’ Lanta shrieked, her words distorted by the thing in her mouth and face, but they could hear it in her tone, the ecstasy of agony, of all her plans come to fruition. The Dark Lady returned.

  Tara grabbed the knife out of Valan’s belt and put herself between Rillirin and the gods. ‘Move,’ she whispered, but Rillirin didn’t. Couldn’t, pinned as surely as Lanta was by the spectacle.

  ‘No.’ The voice was low and female and hungry, so terribly hungry. Seductive enough that Rillirin took a single step towards the black vortex, to give herself and the babe both to that voice that didn’t come from anywhere. Her mind shrieked at her to stop, but her body wasn’t obeying. Tara followed; all the survivors did.

  Another tendril wrapped around Gosfath’s fingers and hand, coiling gently up His arm in a loving embrace as if inviting him to join in while the rest twisted, twining, filling Lanta to the brim as she screamed, not in exaltation now but in fear, in pain, in agony.

  A silent moment of stillness, and then the muscular black coils tensed, gripped, flexed, and they ripped her apart. Chunks of flesh and bone and a spray of blood erupted from the circle, splattering Tara, Rillirin and the surviving prisoners.

  Tara wiped bits of Blessed One off her face and began to laugh, a wheezing, sick laugh, but laughter nonetheless. ‘That’ll do,’ she choked with approval. ‘I’m counting that as mission fucking accomplished. It’s over. There’s no one for Her to—’

  The voice came again. ‘All failed me. All had form when I had none. Now I will take a new one and shape it to my will. So, Brother, serve me one last time.’

  The tentacles looped around Gosfath tightened and then drove inside Him, more and more seeping from the stones and sublimating from the air, wrapping and constricting, breaking and remoulding, and Gosfath was roaring, tearing at the black stuff but it tangled around His talons and His hands and His arms, smothering until He was the red core of a black whirlwind.

  ‘You are shitting me,’ Tara breathed, breaking the spell transfixing Rillirin. ‘Bloody move.’ Rillirin did, holding her breath as she crossed the chalk line, now emitting little more than a flicker of energy, towards the huddled mass of surviving Rankers and those civilians who hadn’t fled.

  They got halfway to the exit when Rillirin stopped again, barely able to hold her daughter’s delicate weight, let alone support herself on her feet. ‘I can’t,’ she said, tiredness pressing down, the siren song of sleep echoing in her ears.

  Tara glanced at the madness behind them and grabbed Rillirin’s chin. ‘You fucking can, and you know why? Because what you did in there was one of the most courageous things I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot. And because this little one needs you to be that woman again, every day until she’s old enough to take care of herself. So start walking.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Rillirin said, shaky of voice and of legs. She too looked back as they reached the temple doors, over Tara’s shoulder as she herded her on, the woman’s expression set in a grim rictus amid the bruising. The circle was a whirling maelstrom of red limbs and black smoke and fat purple sparks, sheets of light so bright they threw everything into stark relief, shadows blacker than pitch, blacker than her daughter’s eyes. It crossed the barrier of the circle about where Lanta had scuffed the chalk. It was out. The godpool heaved and cracked and split, scummy water sloshing across the temple floor, driving a wave of sacrificial blood before it.

  They piled through the door and slammed it shut on the slaughterhouse, blinking in the light of an early morning. ‘South Gate,’ Tara said in a voice that brooked no dissent, ‘and as quick as you like. Salter, you’ve got point.’

  ‘Form up,’ a man roared in response. ‘South Gate, on the double.’

  But they hadn’t even made it to
the bottom of the steps when the ground shuddered and broke beneath their feet and the temple doors blew open. Tara sprinted back and slammed them, but from the look on her face what she’d seen inside wasn’t good.

  ‘South Gate, Salter. That is a fucking order. Go.’

  The split was widening right in front of them, as though something wanted Rillirin and her daughter, as though it wasn’t done with them yet. Buildings were tumbling like stormwrack all around them.

  Salter looked at Tara and something passed between them Rillirin didn’t understand. He threw the sword he’d taken from a dead Mireces towards her, spinning across the cracking steps. Tara nodded. ‘Get her to Mace, get her to the king,’ she bellowed. ‘Follow Corvus’s trail: go.’

  Some of the soldiers jumped the gap and Rillirin began to protest but Salter wrapped his arm around her waist and flung them both across the tear in the stone. Those waiting on the other side dragged them to safety and, without pause, the soldiers formed up and began to move, Rillirin in their midst. She looked back.

  Tara was pressing her weight against the temple doors. ‘Go, and Dancer go with you,’ she yelled, waving them off.

  ‘Tara? Tara, no,’ Rillirin cried, voice so hoarse it couldn’t cut through the rumbling of the earth, the sounds of splintering wood and falling stone. ‘Come with us!’

  Salter peeled his filthy shirt off and forced it over her head. She got her free arm through, kept the left tucked inside against the cold, her daughter at her breast, tiny and hot, a mere scrap of life. It cut the wind a little. ‘Come on, miss,’ he said, already shivering, ‘we’ve clothes, weapons and food to find, then we’ll get you safe out of here.’ He put his arm around her, made her walk away. ‘Major Carter will find another way around, no doubt. We’ll see her soon enough. Come on.’

  Rillirin, numb with fatigue and an excess of fear, had thought she had no emotions left. But as they staggered away from the temple and Tara, trapped with mad, bloodthirsty monsters, alone but for Mireces and the dead, she found that there were, after all, still tears to be shed.