Bloodchild

by Anna Stephens

  Ash didn’t smile. ‘That’s before you were my husband. Like it or not, it’s different now. Live together; die together.’ He reached out and wiped mud or blood or rain from Crys’s forehead.

  ‘No,’ he said, so fierce Ash almost took a step back. ‘No, we do not die together. You live. That’s the deal. You live, and because I know you live, I find the strength to do what needs to be done.’

  Ash began to protest and Crys lunged forward, cutting off his words with a kiss that was full of panicked longing and strangled fear. ‘Live, Ash. Husband. Heart-bound. Please live.’ He held Ash’s head in his hands, brown curls plastered to his forehead beneath his helmet, water dripping down his face. ‘You have to,’ he added fiercely. ‘You have to give me the courage to do this, or we’re all lost. Every man, woman and babe in Rilpor, in all Gilgoras. My loss for their lives. Just one man. Just a man, Ash, against all humanity. That’s a price we can afford.’

  ‘Is it?’ Ash asked. ‘Doesn’t feel cheap from where I’m standing.’

  ‘Try standing here,’ Crys tried, but the joke fell flat and Ash choked back a sob, squeezed him in an embrace so tight Crys couldn’t draw a full breath.

  ‘You tell me I have to live, but you also tell me I have to rally the front line until the battle is won. I’m not sure it’s possible to do both.’

  Crys licked his lips, Ash’s kiss and cold rain in his mouth. ‘You were born to do this, love. Hold them. And my heart is in your chest, remember. If you live, so does my heart.’

  ‘And when you die, so does mine,’ Ash countered, the words stealing Crys’s breath. ‘Now come on, let’s find out who needs you, because I’m not leaving your side.’ Crys knew he couldn’t argue, but he also knew Ash couldn’t come where he was going. There was time yet before that final goodbye, he knew that much. Though they were fighting for their lives, he’d make the most of it.

  ‘Tell me again why I married you?’ he complained with a shake of his head.

  ‘Devastating good looks and astonishing in bed,’ Ash said.

  Crys laughed and hugged him again. ‘Damnit. Can’t even argue. Come on.’ The banter made it easier to ignore the pain in his stomach and the increasing pressure in the air, as though his skin was too tight, pressing in from all sides, shrinking. The slow-emerging presence of another god or gods. The Blood Lady was coming.

  The Trickster squirmed in discomfort, adding to Crys’s dislocation from the real world.

  ‘About time,’ Mace grunted when they arrived at his command post, the highest point of the hill, with the royal standard hanging sodden from a pole above him. ‘Wolves are hard-pressed, calling for reinforcements. Mireces are trying to flank us through the trees and I can’t throw in the reserve this early. Lend them a hand.’

  Another courier arrived, soaked and wild. ‘Field hospital’s under attack, sir. Fucking hundreds of them!’

  ‘Shit, there goes my reserve,’ Mace said with quiet vehemence. ‘You two, go. We’ll deal with the hospital.’

  ‘Understood.’ They set out again faster than before. The field hospital was out of sight of their position, so they peered over at the front line as they slid downhill towards the woods; it was twisted in places, pressing forwards and being pressed back in a sinuous curve like a snake. The Krikites’ line was fracturing into a melee on the downward slope as they crossed behind them, individual fights and small bands working together, gaps opening up. They could do with help too, but if the Wolves got cut off, there’d be a massacre.

  Wolves, Krikites, the wounded. Everyone needs us, Foxy.

  We do what we can.

  Shit! Dom’s in the hospital.

  We do what we can.

  Swearing, Crys plunged into the trees, Ash by his side.

  MACE

  Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus

  The hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands

  The line was firm. Despite the fluidity of the Krikites’ formation, they weren’t letting anyone past. Mace watched Colonel Osric and the five-hundred-strong reserve stream away downhill towards the field hospital at their rear, out of sight in the driving rain.

  Everyone was out of bastard sight – the Wolves in the trees, the edge of the Krikites’ line to the west and Jarl’s to the east. Thatcher in the middle anchoring the two was all he could really see. If the Krikites lost touch with the woods, not only would the Wolves be lost and Mace’s flank with it, but the Fox God too. And Dalli.

  ‘It’d be just like her to die so she doesn’t have to be queen,’ he muttered to himself, ‘so I’m counting on you, Trickster. Keep her alive.’ He returned to the command post and the civilian militia milling around it like panicked sheep. He wasn’t counting them among his forces, not until he had to. And if he had to, they’d be losing.

  Two hundred Wolves and fifteen hundred Krikites on his right facing the Mireces, Thatcher’s five hundred men of the Third Thousand in the middle fighting a mix of Raider and Ranker, Jarl’s First and Second Thousands on the left, also facing the East Rank. And now more Easterners up his arse and killing the wounded in the field hospital – or trying to.

  Hallos’s bearded face flashed through his mind, then Gilda’s and Dom’s. Dalli’s again. Dalli’s always, though he knew there was nothing he could do but what he’d already done. Hadir and Colonel Edris paced the command post with him. The wiry general was eager to get into the fray, and Edris matched him easily on his crutch. Two steady officers. Maybe he could just take a wander to the woods, lend a hand …

  The rotate sounded and the fighters in the front line stepped back, allowing the second rank to take their place. A sudden bulge caught Mace’s eye – Thatcher’s five hundred had lost contact with the Krikites and Mireces were flowing through the gap, turning his flank. He snapped out an order and the herald blared the Krikites’ signal, calling them back into the line. Nothing happened.

  Fuck it.

  Mace hefted his shield and started to run. ‘Form square,’ he roared. ‘Third Thousand, form square.’

  Thatcher had the same idea and the line contracted and deepened even as Mace sprinted and skidded through the slick grass towards them. It opened the breach further, but it meant they weren’t presenting a flank to the enemy. There was a rising scream behind him and then Edris galloped past, sword drawn. He drove into the closest knot of Mireces and hacked down into arms and faces, his mount striking out with hooves and teeth, spinning on its hocks and knocking over Raiders. A one-man, one-legged cavalry charge.

  It was just enough to disrupt the flood of Mireces and then Thatcher’s square began to lengthen again, two lines at right angles to each other and the Krikites were surging into the Mireces from behind. They faltered, milling, fighting on two fronts. Mace slowed, adrenaline juddering through him, but the Krikites pushed into position and sealed the breach. A horse shrilled; Edris was down. Rankers sprinted to his aid, but it was a chaos of flashing blades and thrashing horse and no one was coming out of that alive.

  ‘There’ll be a song about that, Edris, even if I have to write it myself,’ Mace promised the man as he tapped his heart. ‘Dancer’s grace.’ He waited some more, but the line firmed and slowly drove the Mireces back. Wounded streamed past him towards the field hospital and the reminder had him following them to peer down the northern side of the hill.

  What he saw didn’t make sense. Despite the hammering storm, there were tents on fire and wagons too, thick smoke oiling its way into the sky. Between the burning hospital and his position there was … he squinted. A running battle. The reserve had the Easterners on the run.

  Straight up the hill to Mace’s rear.

  ‘Shit. They’ve turned them.’ He sprinted for the command post, the herald, Hadir. He scanned the battle. Couldn’t take troops from Thatcher, he was too hard-pressed. Jarl didn’t have many to spare, but he had some. Ran back to the northern slope with Hadir, who swore. The Easterners were fighting a holding action to keep Osric’s reserve pinned at the base of the h
ill while the rest laboured up it, hoping to take Mace’s command post – take Mace himself – and then drive into the unsuspecting rear ranks of the line.

  His front three rows were fully engaged and his trumpeter had already sounded the rotation three times. Everyone in the Rank had now fought in the front line, and those at the rear – directly in front of him – were the most recent out of the clash. If he had to turn them to face another enemy …

  Mace pounded his fist on his thigh. ‘Hadir, deploy the militia on the northern crest. Just their appearance might be enough to break the Easterners. If not, they’re to advance. I want them coming in hard, understand? Take a Fifty from the rear here and use them to form a wedge; militia probably won’t make a charge on their own, but they might follow one in. And gods, I need them to,’ he added as Hadir saluted and plunged towards the rear of the Rank.

  The general wriggled in towards the middle, where the freshest of the men were awaiting their turn to rotate in again, and started passing orders. Those at the rear were staring up at Mace, grim-faced and tired already, knowing, or at least suspecting, what must be coming. The herald sounded the call for orders and a few men began jogging uphill from the rear ranks to find out what the bastard bloody shit was going on now.

  Mace took another look down the northern slope; the reserve was doing its best but it couldn’t find a way through and the Easterners were coming on fast. The five-hundred-strong militia shambled forward, an uneasy mix of brittle defiance and outright terror on their assembled faces. Knuckles yellow on their weapons, blinking freezing rain from their eyes, they looked at him with desperation. Please don’t send us to fight. Please.

  Hadir and the Fifty arrived and Mace put them at the head of the militia. ‘Break their momentum. Slow them down. I’ll send men to you when I can.’

  The Fifty nodded, grim; the militia hesitant. ‘I’ll lead them,’ Hadir said.

  Mace began to countermand him and then stopped. He’d said it himself – if they didn’t win here, they weren’t going to win at all. Victory or death; if Hadir wanted to fight, Mace wouldn’t stop him. I need every soldier I can get, after all.

  ‘Honoured, General,’ he said instead.

  Hadir’s smile was wolfish. ‘Honour’s mine, Your Majesty. Though don’t wait too long to send those reinforcements.’

  Mace blew out his cheeks. ‘I’ll do what I can. You do the same.’

  Hadir saluted, drew his sword and moved into the Fifty. ‘Ad-vance!’ He began to run, no time to waste, and the Fifty bolted after him, roaring, and then the militia, caught up in the frenzy of it. He was running out of officers. Problem was, he was also running out of options.

  This is it, he reminded himself. Win or die.

  Mace watched for a few moments. They broke the East’s momentum as hoped, but they were outnumbered and the militia were falling in droves, falling or trying to surrender and being cut down. Dying or running, haring across the rain-slick slope and throwing away their weapons, just looking for a way past the Easterners and down to the field.

  ‘Orders, sir?’ asked Captain Kennett as he puffed up the slope from the rear of Jarl’s position. He looked in the same direction as Mace. ‘Oh. Shit.’

  ‘Shit indeed. They’re not going to hold as they are, so who can you give me?’

  ‘Third Thousand under Colonel Thatcher is absorbing sustained pressure, sir. We can probably give you a couple of hundred if we must, but—’

  Mace cut him off. ‘No, Captain. If the centre doesn’t hold, we’re truly fucked. It’ll have to be Jarl’s.’

  Kennett was grey with exhaustion and blood loss but still upright. ‘We’ve shortened the line so it’s four deep not three. Front two rows are the Second Thousand, rear two are First Thousand taking a breather.’

  ‘Give me half the First,’ Mace said. ‘It’ll take us a couple of minutes to prepare and get down there to engage; plenty of time for them to get their breath back. This section of the East is fighting a running battle and they’ll be knackered from climbing the hill at speed, so the First should outmatch them. And, again, we have the high ground.’

  ‘And the Krikites?’ Kennett asked, clearly hoping Mace could use them instead.

  ‘Krikites are fully engaged and anchoring Thatcher’s line; I’ve got a herald on that side of the hill to relay progress, but we shouldn’t expect reinforcements any time soon.’

  ‘The Fox God?’ Kennett tried.

  ‘Rallying the Wolves to stop us being surrounded on a third side. It’s up to us now, I’m afraid. All right? Dancer’s grace.’

  The herald sounded the First Thousand’s recall, followed by the signal for half-Thousand, and hundreds of weary soldiers turned, looked up at the command post and Mace and Kennett, shouldered their shields and began to climb. If Jarl had heard it – if Jarl was still alive – he’d know he didn’t have the reinforcements and would adjust strategy accordingly.

  If he was dead, too … ‘Kennett, get back down to your men and keep fighting,’ Mace said. ‘I’ll lead this lot.’

  DOM

  Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus

  Field hospital, the hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands

  There were shouts and screams, the clash of weapons and the thud of metal hitting flesh, of flesh hitting mud, at the front of the hospital tents, and the sudden bloom of fire and stink of pitch.

  Dom lay still, listening, fighting the grasping-tearing-raping clutches of the Blood Lady, but the sounds were getting closer. He didn’t know where Hallos and Gilda were. There was a pause in the assault on his mind and soul and a cool flicker of Light replaced it, just a flash, a moment, and inside it, seedlike, the blossoming instruction to move. That it was time.

  He’d hoped the internal battle was his last, but it seemed not. He could ignore the instruction and lie here and wait to be slaughtered by whoever was out there, or burn to death, or have a heart attack brought on by the Blood Lady’s ravaging. It wasn’t much of a bastard choice, really. Go and die. Stay and die.

  The Light dimmed and he reached for it on instinct, hauling himself up out of the cot on to a left leg that couldn’t support him, a left arm that swung useless, a left eye that couldn’t see. Gilda had left her walking staff nearby and he offered her a silent apology as he stole it, using it to drag and shuffle to the rear of the tent and out through the flap. No burning to death today. Dom chose the Light.

  It was getting darker, the rain heavier, colder. He could see his breath pluming with each shuddery exhalation. The wool of his trousers and the jerkin and shirt beneath soaked up the rain until they were cold and clinging to his flesh. As though even the elements wanted him to stop.

  Dom’s lopsided smile was grim. ‘Have to try harder than that,’ he slurred, barely recognising his own voice. Thunder rumbled in response and his humour leaked away. An image of his hand, melted to a knife thrust into the Dark Lady’s chest, flashed through his mind like the lightning that had done it. He squinted up at the clouds. ‘Keep your bolts, please. It’d be far too embarrassing to die with both my hands missing – and it’d make using this staff a lot harder, too.’

  He knew he was talking to himself, and he could feel the vague unravelling of parts of his mind as the Blood Lady’s presence grew like a canker in the godspace. She was getting closer and the urges She sent him were getting stronger and harder to resist as he shuffle-dragged away from the hospital and into the expanse of the Wheat Lands, following the call of the Light, the call of the Blood.

  Soon She’d fill the world, the battlefield, drive Her followers mad with violence and fill Her enemies with dread. He was building mud walls against a flood.

  ‘No. I’m going to stop you. I am.’

  Someone shouted his name, but he couldn’t tell which direction it had come from and besides, he was running out of time. They were all running out of time. Even the Dancer. The last of Her strength was in the air, steeling the hearts and wills of Her people even if they didn’t know i
t. But She was waning, and if She faded before the Blood Lady was defeated, She’d never come back.

  ‘And then we’ll have no gods. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Rillirin, pacing at his side. Dom didn’t look at her. She wasn’t really there. The Blood Lady had sent her, and no doubt she’d be bloody and torn open, his sweet Rillirin, and he didn’t need to see that, not now, not ever. Another thread of Dom peeled away, drifted free on the wind, gone.

  ‘We will always need the gods,’ she added. He paused, gasping in air and rain. Cold, so cold. ‘And there’s still time for you, Calestar, to choose which you will serve. The Dancer will lead you to death. The Dark Lady, once restored to Her proper form, will raise you up as Her consort and give you immortality.’

  ‘A new Gosfath? No thanks. I wouldn’t suit the horns.’

  Rillirin stopped him, a hand on his arm he could actually feel, and he had no choice now but to look at her. The rain didn’t touch her and she was clean and fresh and beautiful. There was no child, no rounded belly housing the life they’d made together. Her eyes glittered with avarice and lust and with more life than he’d ever seen sparking in their grey depths.

  ‘She can take this form, if it would please you,’ Rillirin added, her hand sliding up his arm to cup his cheek. She leant forward, lips parted, and Dom leant back, maintaining the distance between them.

  ‘No. Go away. You’re not her. Rillirin never looked like that. She certainly never talked like that. Piss off.’

  He started off again, a slow limp, not waiting to see if the apparition had taken his advice. ‘You’re going to lose,’ the Rillirin-thing called after him. He didn’t look back. He needed to get away from the battle, draw the Blood Lady to him away from the others, and he was running out of time.

  ‘Brother.’

  ‘Brother,’ Dom acknowledged and then caught himself, a sharp pain like a blow to the chest. He hadn’t seen Lim since the West Rank forts, the same night he’d loved and left Rillirin. Lim was dead.