Bloodchild

by Anna Stephens

  The Krikites were wavering, on the verge of collapse and the Wolves – pitifully few of them left – were buckling with them under the onslaught when there was a blast of red and black and silver light from the field below and every heathen, Mireces or Easterner, hesitated. The barest breath, the merest blink of an eye. It was enough.

  ‘All out,’ Mace screamed. ‘All out!’

  He didn’t wait to see if anyone was going with him. The enemy had paused, they’d lost their focus, broken their own momentum. Mace didn’t intend to let them get it back. All along the front, men and women, soldiers and Wolves and Krikites and a few, a very few, civilian militia, saw the same chance he did. The soldiers around Mace were with him, slamming their shields together, ducking in behind them and advancing, more forming up behind and getting into the rhythm, forcing the front row forward whether they wanted to go or not. They slammed into the Easterners that held this part of the line and pushed, pushed, pushed again, and the Easterners took a step back. And another. Their line rippled and then snapped like a bowstring and Mace was through them into clear ground.

  ‘Wheel!’ he screamed and, just as they practised in the drill yard, his men split in half and surrounded the two groups of Easterners. ‘Hold.’ His soldiers stayed their arms, shields locked, discipline perfect. ‘It’s over,’ he called over the melee. ‘You’ve lost. Throw down your weapons and live.’

  The Easterners closest began shuffling, exchanging glances; the offer of peace in a war they’d never wanted to fight was enough for many. One of their majors began exhorting his troops to crush the unbelievers, screaming that the Red Gods would be displeased. His words cowed several and Mace signalled; his already tight formation braced in readiness for the attack.

  ‘Those Easterners we defeated at Mabon were offered a return to the Light,’ he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘We have priests who will rededicate you to the Dancer if you surrender now. It’s over. Your gods are dead!’ He didn’t know if they were, had no idea what was happening down there on the suddenly silent plain, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try to end this.

  ‘Lies. Your souls are forfeit,’ the officer screamed in response, face reddening as he sensed the shift in his men. ‘The Red Gods cannot be defeated, They—’

  A soldier turned to him and bashed his face in with his shield, and then drove the rim through his windpipe as he lay comatose. ‘Fuck this shit!’ he yelled and threw down his weapons.

  All through the East’s two ragged squares there were ripples and scuffles as officers and those soldiers who must be true believers found themselves slaughtered by their own, while the rest dropped shields and spears and swords and put their hands in the air, their expressions ranging from dazed exhaustion to happy disbelief. The man closest to Mace grinned as though he’d lost a copper and found a king.

  To Mace’s right, the roar of the battle between the Mireces and the rest of his Rank got louder, stealing the barest breath of relief that had begun to sift through him. While he’d been busy negotiating a surrender, the Mireces had used the ice-slick terrain to spin the battle, forcing the rest of his army back against the steepest slope of the hill. If they tried to retreat down that, it would be a massacre, which was the Mireces’ plan. Their line began to curve into the bull’s horns formation, curling around the flanks to push in from three sides. The slope was the anvil, the Raiders the hammer.

  Mace looked around for an officer. ‘You, Kennett! Second Thousand to escort the East down to the baggage train. Disarm and chain them. Leave a strong guard and get your arses back up here at the double.’

  He cupped his hands around his mouth for the next bit. ‘Any man who resists dies. Immediate execution, no hope of reprieve. The rest, give them water and medical attention if they need it.’

  Kennett saluted and bellowed for the Second Thousand to begin moving the remnants of the East downhill. There were a few scuffles from those who either had nothing left to lose or hadn’t got the message, but they were quelled with savage efficiency. Mace waited only long enough to be sure they were on the move, then he turned back to the waiting soldiers. They knew what was coming.

  ‘First Thousand, with me. We’re not done yet.’ The sweat was freezing against Mace’s face, the chill in the air making the moisture beneath his jerkin ice against his back and chest. He shivered once, violently, and glanced left and right at his soldiers; they nodded back, grim-faced against the bitter snow.

  ‘Two-pronged attack,’ he yelled, and his men deployed with impressive speed considering the terrain, the conditions, and the hours they’d already been fighting. ‘Ad-vance!’ The two points of the formation leapt across the treacherous hill and rammed into the enemy’s flank and back. His own men, seeing him coming, braced their line as best they could and then shoved forward. Between them, they began to squeeze the Mireces into bloody paste.

  CORVUS

  Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus

  The hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands

  Gosfath was gone, the bloodlust with Him. The Dark Lady was gone, and his heart with Her.

  Corvus exhorted them to fight and they did, because what else was there, and the enemy was crushing them and would show no mercy. To stop was to die. It suited Corvus – whatever kept them killing suited him – and he tried not to think about where the gods had gone or why. This was worship, this spilling of blood – this was in Their name.

  Corvus’s line swayed and crumpled like a leaf in a fire. His own men pressed him tighter against the enemy ahead as they strained to escape the new threat, and Corvus gasped and then began to screech as he was shoved on to his foe’s blade. His foe was a Wolf and his face said he knew exactly who Corvus was as he scrambled to set his feet and force his sword through Corvus’s – his rightful king’s – chainmail and into flesh dedicated to the true gods.

  Tett swiped at him, and Corvus slammed his forearm into the flat of the Wolf’s blade and pushed it away. He intercepted the next thrust and punched his blade over the man’s shield, angled down so it entered at the notch between his collarbones and sank deep into his chest.

  Gurgling, the Wolf fell and Corvus dropped back to assess his wound. A few links of his mail shirt had broken and the sword had gone in a couple of fingers’ width. Corvus was bleeding but there wasn’t any gut bulging through the slit; he’d live long enough to secure the hill and his crown. He could still win. He would still win.

  But around him his Raiders were slowing, stopping, caught up in the loss that once more tore at their souls. The Rankers continued to press in on all sides, crushing them tighter together until they were barely able to move.

  ‘Fight. Fight, you bastards, fight!’ Corvus screamed. The madness that had grown in him was still there, god-born but manmade, and as the empty hole in his heart, so briefly, ecstatically filled by Her return, became once more the howling chasm, he threw himself at the enemy. Not even Tett went with him this time. It didn’t matter.

  Spitting his frustration, lunging forward to slash his sword through the face of a soldier, his swings wild and unguessable, the King of the Mireces cried and roared and hurled insults and metal at his enemies until they surrounded him, trapping him between their shields. Even then he snarled in their faces and promised them bloody retribution.

  ‘She came back once before; She’ll come back again. And this time She’ll eat you all, souls first, and make you Her walking corpses. And I’ll help Her. I’ll help! Because I’m your fucking king.’ His voice echoed across the still, quiet battlefield. Snow muffled him.

  ‘Kneel before me,’ he yelled, hoarse now, lunging at the ring of soldiers. ‘Kneel!’

  ‘No.’ The voice seemed quiet, but it carried across the hill. ‘Stand for your king.’

  Mace Koridam, pretender to the throne, nothing but a jumped-up fucking soldier with no faith, no vision, strode through the rapidly parting army until he stood outside the circle where Corvus raged. His armour was splashed
in blood, his face daubed with it as though he’d realised his error all these years and pledged himself to the true – the Red – gods.

  ‘Do you surrender?’ Koridam demanded.

  ‘Fuck yourself.’

  The Rilporian’s eyes narrowed, though a small smile played for an instant across his lips. ‘I was so hoping you’d say that. Give us room.’

  ‘Sire—’

  ‘Give us room.’

  Corvus laughed at the irony of it – if they’d just done this at the start, thousands wouldn’t have died. And yet each drop of blood was sacred. Necessary.

  ‘You want this?’ he demanded. ‘You want to fucking try? Come on then. I’ll eat your fucking heart before I’m done.’

  He burst into a flurry of motion before Koridam was fully into the circle, cutting high and then low, shield punching for Mace’s face, who sidestepped. He stamped down at the foot, a trick he’d learnt in Rilporin. Again he missed, the soldier flowing like water around his attacks, inside his guard. Corvus cracked the pommel of his sword into Koridam’s face and he grunted as his nose mashed sideways, pouring blood. Stepped back.

  The ring of soldiers was silent, intent, every eye fixed on the fighters and Corvus wanted to tell his men to attack now while the enemy was distracted, but he didn’t have the breath to spare. He cut down the diagonal, aiming to open Koridam from shoulder to opposite knee, but the Rilporian ducked the blow, shield knocking Corvus’s arm away and then pain exploded in his armpit, the sword buried deep into his chest.

  Corvus howled as the blade ripped free and fell to one knee, couldn’t get air back in after he’d screamed it out. Mace kicked his sword away. Still none of his men, not even Tett who’d made so many promises of protection, came to his aid. His blood steamed as it ran down his side.

  ‘Yield,’ said Mace Koridam. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Fuck yourself,’ Corvus said again through gritted teeth. ‘My feet are on the Path and my gods aren’t done with Gilgoras. I’ll watch from the Afterworld as all you love is burnt to the ground.’ He pressed the wound beneath his arm, his chest tight with the searing hurt of it.

  ‘Renounce the Red Gods – your dead gods – and live,’ Koridam said and Corvus summoned the last of his strength to laugh in the man’s face.

  ‘Dancer’s grace, Your Majesty,’ the Rilporian said and he even seemed to mean it. The sword, red with his blood, cut through the snowy air and then cut through him.

  Corvus, King of the—

  RILLIRIN

  Eleventh moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus

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

  They were days too late. It was over, not just the battle but the war, leaving behind deaths beyond counting, horror beyond measure, loss beyond comprehension.

  In a quiet corner of the tent, where those who weren’t expected to survive rested, she sat on the edge of a cot. Gilda was there too, grey with worry.

  Macha lay on her father’s chest inside his shirt, tucked against his poor left arm, missing a hand. She lay peacefully, knowing him in the wise and ancient way of newborns everywhere. They watched her for a while, watched Dom’s face for any reaction. His head was bandaged, the linen passing down over his right eye.

  No one had mentioned Macha’s black eyes, nor the fine hair on her head that burnt red like fire. Like Gosfath. Lanta had called her the Bloodchild, but Rillirin had stolen her from her fate and now, with Dom and Gilda and the rest, she’d raise her in the Light and there’d be no room in that tiny form for evil. Rillirin had sworn it on her own soul, and she meant to see it done. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

  ‘Can you look at her, Gilda, please? The ritual, the Dark Lady … I need you to check her. Please.’ Gilda nodded and Rillirin reached out and lifted Macha from Dom’s embrace. A ripple crossed his face and his arm tightened, just a little. Gilda gasped and Rillirin recoiled as the old woman’s hand found her shoulder.

  ‘He hasn’t moved since we found him. He knows she’s here, he knows Macha – and you – are here. Talk to him, lass. Bring him back to us.’

  Rillirin swallowed hard and squeezed on to the cot next to him, put her head on his shoulder and her hand on the remains of his arm where it cradled their child.

  ‘Home,’ she murmured in his ear. ‘You and me and Macha. Your daughter. Home is where we are together. Here.’

  The slightest frown creased his brow, his breathing changing. Rillirin pressed a soft kiss to his stubbled cheek and Macha squirmed, burbling a contented series of sounds as though she, too, knew they were home.

  ‘Come on, love, open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at your daughter. She’s missed you. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘We all have,’ Gilda said.

  ‘Gilda needs to look at Macha, make sure all’s well with her. I need you to let her go, just for a moment or two. Can you do that?’ She blinked at Gilda and the priestess slid the babe from the crook of Dom’s elbow. His arm moved again, questing, his breathing rapid now, panicked.

  ‘Hush, love, hush. Gilda’s got her,’ Rillirin whispered. ‘All’s well. Just open your eyes. Look at her. Look at me.’

  Dom’s mouth turned down, lips thin. His chest rattled as he breathed, and then his eye opened, blinked, blinked again. Rillirin squeezed him very gently, eyes darting from Gilda and Macha to Dom, trying to see everything at once.

  ‘Oh,’ Gilda breathed, and Rillirin was dizzy with it. ‘I see, yes. The birthmark.’

  ‘She wasn’t born with it,’ Rillirin said. ‘The Dark Lady touched her.’ Dom flinched, shied away as though the words were poison. ‘I don’t know what it might have done. If she’s … normal.’

  Gilda held the infant up to her face and pressed her nose against the black mark spreading across the tiny chest. She inhaled and grunted, then pressed a series of smacking kisses to the belly.

  ‘I’m no royal physician,’ she said, lowering Macha back into Dom’s arm – he inhaled so hard he coughed – ‘but that there is a perfect baby. Ten fingers, ten toes, two arms and legs. Beautiful. Healthy.’

  ‘But the mark. Her eyes,’ Rillirin protested as Dom lowered his chin to brush at his daughter’s head.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, I promise, but I’ll bathe her in the nearest pool once I’ve dedicated it to the Dancer,’ Gilda said. ‘After that, well … love her, raise her in the Light. That’s all any of us can do.’

  She could have been talking about Dom as much as Macha. Rillirin thought she understood, for the first time, exactly what Gilda and Cam had gone through when they’d adopted him, the new calestar, and he’d become and done all of those things. They’d never stopped loving him, or trying to influence him towards the good. They’d never stopped trying to protect him – from others and from himself.

  Rillirin took a breath. ‘So that’s motherhood,’ she breathed, her voice tight. ‘And I thought the sleepless nights were bad.’

  Gilda’s laugh was strangled. ‘Oh, lass,’ she said, ‘they’re the absolute bloody least of it.’

  ‘Rillirin.’

  Rillirin started, clutching inadvertently at Dom’s arm as he spoke. ‘Dom! Yes, yes, love, it’s me, I’m here. Macha’s here. Oh gods, Dom, can you see me? Hear me?’

  ‘Hear,’ he whispered. ‘Blind. Not Godblind though, not any more. Godblinded.’ He wheezed and Rillirin realised it was laughter. Her ears roared relief and she laughed too, juddering kisses against his cheek and chin and brow.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Here, let me help you.’ She cradled the arm cradling Macha and shifted it upwards, so the babe’s downy cheek nestled against his. ‘Breathe her,’ Rillirin whispered. ‘You don’t need to see her; she’s perfect.’

  Tears soaked Macha’s fine red hair as he took in the scent of his daughter. Rillirin put his right hand on the baby’s head and his fingers stroked, with infinite care and wonder, across her crown and down to feel an ear, a shoulder, an arm. Tiny fingers grasped
his and his breath hitched.

  Then he frowned. ‘She stinks,’ he commented and Rillirin giggled.

  ‘Oh gods, she does. I need to change her. Sorry, love.’

  Dom smiled, his cheek against his daughter’s. ‘I don’t mind.’ But Macha began to squirm harder, mewling her discontent. ‘Gilda, would you mind?’ he asked when she began to cry after a last, endless moment of his lips pressed to her hair. ‘And I love you, by the way. And I’m sorry for it all.’

  ‘Hush, foolish boy,’ Gilda said, her voice tight. ‘Always the wrong apology at the wrong time.’ She took Macha from his arm and stood, looking long at Dom. Rillirin didn’t understand.

  ‘Back soon,’ she said.

  ‘Keep her safe,’ Dom replied. ‘Mother.’

  Gilda choked back a sob and nodded once, patted Dom’s foot, and then ducked out of the tent.

  ‘Now then,’ Dom said quietly, tightening his arm around Rillirin and breathing her in much the same way he’d done their daughter. ‘About that knowing I had. It’s time you fulfilled it.’

  ‘What knowing, love?’ she asked, nestling closer, not caring about the words, only that he was speaking.

  ‘Rillirin Fisher, herald of the end. You will bring love to death. And death to love.’

  A cold shiver worked its way through her from her scalp to the soles of her feet. She’d forgotten. She’d hoped it would have gone away, after everything. He raised the stump of his arm and smelt it, the warm baby-smell Macha had left on his skin.

  He pushed at Rillirin very gently. ‘Sit up.’

  She was shaking as she did, twisted at the waist so she could watch him, hands on his shoulder and ribs. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Gods, I wish I could see you again,’ Dom said, his voice low with infinite sorrow. ‘Do you still love me, Rillirin?’

  ‘What? Of course I do. I love you so much, so much.’