Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  “Goddess, why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Selldor demanded, gaping at Ghian.

  “How many?” Winter asked.

  “At least five thousand,” Ghian said.

  “Ghian,” Winter said, stepping forward so they stood face to face, “my scouts would never report to you before they did to any of us. How did you come across this information?” Something bothered Winter about the whole exchange. Ghian seemed… different, somehow.

  While Winter could not access telesis without faltira, she still had acumency. One acumenic tendron snaked from her toward Ghian. When it made contact, the tendron snapped back to her, and an image flashed in her mind.

  A black skull, wreathed in dark flame.

  There is another.

  Winter grabbed Ghian by the throat and slammed him against a large tree trunk. She immediately regretted the action when pain thundered through her skull. Her shoulder throbbed, too, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her head.

  “What have you done?” she demanded.

  “Commander—”

  Winter’s hands wrapped around Ghian’s throat, and he began to laugh. The sound was eerie, a choking rasp.

  “What is wrong with him?” Selldor asked.

  “I have become… something greater than myself,” Ghian rasped.

  “Commander, what…” Urstadt approached, but did not say anything further. She looked at Ghian intently.

  “You need me,” Ghian whispered. “You cannot lead the tiellans without me.”

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone,” Winter seethed, speaking not to Ghian, but to the thing that had taken him. The Daemon. If this was similar to how it had gone with Daval, Ghian was still in there, probably still largely in control. But he had been imbued with Azael’s power, and could become a force for the Daemon at any moment.

  She could not allow him to live.

  But he was right. Ghian’s power was waning, but he still technically commanded the Druids. Winter could attempt a hostile takeover, but the Druids would not respond well if they knew she’d killed Ghian with her own hands. But she couldn’t very well let the avatar of the Lord of the Nine Daemons roam around freely.

  Winter released him.

  “Commander, what is going on?” Selldor asked, glancing at Ghian. The Druid leader rubbed his neck where Winter had gripped him, but the smile did not leave his face.

  “Take him into custody,” she ordered.

  Immediately, Selldor signaled for some nearby Rangers. The men approached, binding Ghian at Selldor’s command.

  “Be careful, and keep a close eye on him,” Winter said. “He will be much stronger than he once was. He could probably break those bonds, if he really tried.”

  The Rangers tied Ghian up, looking at the man cautiously.

  “He is like Daval once was,” Urstadt said, realization dawning on her face.

  “Yes,” Winter said quietly, rubbing the bridge of her nose with one hand as pain drummed in her head. “I am quite sure he is.” Goddess, this was the last thing she needed at this moment. She pointed at the Rangers who had secured Ghian between them. “Do not let him out of your sight. I will explain more when I can, but for now, we need to prepare for another battle. The Khalic army clearly is not done with us yet.”

  * * *

  Winter’s first objective was dealing with the Khalic prisoners.

  “Any hope of exchanging them is gone?” she asked Urstadt.

  “I believe so, Commander,” Urstadt said. She was staring straight ahead, clearly lost in thought.

  “Ghian isn’t Daval,” Winter said, guessing what occupied Urstadt’s mind. “The force that possessed him is the same, but Ghian is still Ghian—only stronger, more powerful, and now in the service of one of the darkest forces on the Sfaera.”

  Goddess, Winter thought to herself, if you’re trying to make her feel better you’re doing a shitty job of it.

  “I know,” Urstadt said. Winter had explained what had happened to Daval after they killed him together in Izet— everything about Azael and the Nine Daemons that Winter knew, which admittedly wasn’t much. “It was just… I did not expect that presence to be back so soon.”

  Winter sighed. She rotated her injured arm experimentally. It lanced with pain when she rose her hand above her shoulder, but she at least had some mobility if she needed it. Her head still hurt like Oblivion, but that was a pain she’d already determined to grow used to. It made the pain that ached through her entire body feel like a light massage, which was one advantage of the splitting headache, she supposed. “Neither did I. But now is not the time to discuss Ghian and Azael. Will you be ready to fight, Urstadt?”

  Urstadt straightened, her eyes finally focusing on Winter. “Yes, Commander.”

  Winter nodded, relieved. “Then we must deal with the prisoners first.”

  “What are your orders, Commander?”

  “Do we have a choice?” Winter asked. “We cannot exchange them, not when they’ll likely go right back into a battle against us. We can’t keep them around. Even unarmed, we couldn’t manage that many prisoners during a battle. We have to eliminate them.”

  “If I may, Commander, there may be a way to get rid of them without immediate bloodshed.”

  Winter took a deep breath, rubbing the side of her head with one hand. In truth, she’d hoped Urstadt would say something like that. She did not know if she could order her Rangers to kill two thousand prisoners in cold blood, no matter what those prisoners had done or represented.

  “We know something the prisoners don’t,” Urstadt said.

  “That we’re about to have another battle,” Winter said. “But how does that help us?”

  “We let them go,” Urstadt said. “The Khalic and Cantic armies are amassed to the east. We give the prisoners the option: run south, where we tell them the rest of the Khalic army waits for them, or die by our hand. They’ll all choose to run. We leave them weaponless, with the bare minimum to survive.”

  “They might circle around and make their way back to the Khalic army to the east.”

  “Unlikely,” Urstadt said. “The only intelligence they have is what we give them. They’ll eventually rejoin the Khalic Legion, but by then the battle should be long over.”

  “Then that is what we’ll do,” Winter said. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than funneling two thousand soldiers directly back into the Khalic war machine.

  * * *

  That afternoon, after they had sent the Khalic prisoners packing southward, Winter rode out with Urstadt, Selldor, and Nardo to meet the Legion’s leadership to negotiate. Rain pattered on Winter’s leather armor, and the sky above had grown slowly darker throughout the day, though the sun would not set for another few hours. The weather reflected Winter’s mood.

  So far, Winter had refused to meet with the leaders of the armies she had faced in battle. Her anger over the slaughter of hundreds of tiellans from Cineste still burned brightly. This time, however, she did not have much of a choice. She had to at least attempt to negotiate.

  “Our situation is dire,” Winter said as they rode. Four men waited near one of the larger rihnemin in the area, at the base of a shallow hollow between two hills. On the western hill, the remaining Khalic troops had taken formation, while Winter’s Rangers occupied the hill to the east.

  She noticed a Goddessguard among the four men waiting for her. They certainly weren’t being subtle.

  “It has been dire before,” Urstadt responded. “We have defeated forces that outnumbered us four times over. We can do it again.”

  “We could,” Winter said, “if I had faltira. What if the Cantic troops have psimancers with them?”

  If Winter had faltira, their outlook on this battle would be very different. But she did not. Not only that, she was weak and disoriented from withdrawal and from her injuries. Her entire body ached, but her head specifically still thrummed with pain.

  Urstadt swore. Winter looked at her captain. “You knew
I was out of frost—”

  “No, Commander,” Urstadt said, pointing at the men who waited for them. “One of those men is Riccan Carrieri.”

  “Canta’s bloody bones,” Winter muttered. Urstadt had reviewed everything she’d known about the Khalic Legion with Winter at the beginning of their campaign, placing special emphasis on the Grand Marshal of the Khalic forces, Riccan Carrieri. According to Urstadt, the man was unsurpassed on the battlefield.

  “What in Oblivion is he doing here?” Selldor asked.

  “I suppose we’re about to find out,” Winter said.

  Winter sat straight in her saddle, head high, determined not to let her infirm state show. Her retinue reached the top of the hill, and they rode forward together to meet with the four humans. Winter recognized General Publio Kyfer, and the tall bearded fellow next to him looked familiar as well. The Goddessguard she’d never seen before. And the fourth human must be Riccan Carrieri.

  The man was shorter than Winter would have thought; he was taller than Winter, but that was not saying much for a human. He had handsome features, dark brown hair going gray at the temples, and a long scar on one cheek.

  Publio Kyfer glared at Winter. Winter could not blame him. She had routed his forces time and time again on the battlefield. She would be upset, too. But the way he smiled threw her; his eyes were full of wrath, boring holes into her, but his smile was wide, gleeful. Winter shivered.

  “Lagerta Urstadt,” Carrieri said, when he saw the Rodenese woman. “I did not expect to see you here, of all places. I don’t suppose you could tell us what brought you into the tiellan fold?”

  Lagerta? Was that Urstadt’s given name? Winter realized she had never thought to ask. Urstadt was Urstadt; adding anything to it seemed superfluous.

  Winter wondered why Carrieri recognized Urstadt on sight; Urstadt had never given the impression that she knew the Grand Marshal personally. Urstadt, however, said nothing.

  “Very well,” Carrieri said. His eyes met Winter’s. “And you are Danica Winter Cordier, I presume?”

  How in Oblivion does he know my name?

  “Who’s that?” Winter asked, nodding at the Goddessguard.

  “That is High Cleric Butarian,” Carrieri said.

  “He the one in charge of the Sons of Canta you have holed up not far from here?” Winter asked.

  Carrieri’s eyebrows rose, and he looked from Kyfer to Butarian, and then back to Winter. “Your intelligence is impressive,” he said. “The Cantic soldiers are a contingency plan, that’s all.”

  “Is that what they’re calling an ambush these days?”

  Carrieri shrugged. “Is it any different than what you did to the legionaries you killed at Lake Dravian?”

  Yes, Winter thought. You are doing this to me.

  “We don’t have your prisoners anymore,” Winter said. “When we heard about the Sons, we figured you wouldn’t bother with the ransom.”

  Carrieri’s face darkened. It was the first sign of real emotion he’d shown in the conversation. “If you’ve murdered prisoners of war—”

  “We haven’t,” Winter said quickly. No sense in provoking them if she could avoid it. “But they won’t be joining you any time soon, if that’s what you were hoping.”

  “If you have no prisoners to exchange, then we have nothing to negotiate,” Carrieri said.

  “If that is the case, I would be happy to take my Rangers and go,” Winter said, her voice sincere. “I do not wish to fight you today.”

  Kyfer laughed quietly, but Carrieri ignored the general.

  “I never wish to fight anyone,” Carrieri said quietly, his voice barely audible above the rain. “But I have a duty to Khale, and I will fulfill it at any cost.”

  “You outnumber us,” Winter said, “but you have outnumbered us in every battle we’ve fought. That hasn’t mattered. You’ve seen what I can do.”

  “I have,” Carrieri said, “but your luck was bound to run out at some point, Winter. This is the end of the tiellan movement.”

  “Somehow I disagree,” Winter said.

  Carrieri grew somber. “You could surrender. Give yourselves up, turn your army over as prisoners. It would go better for you.”

  “I’d rather rot in Oblivion.”

  Carrieri sighed. “I’m afraid we can arrange that. I am sorry it has come to this, Winter.”

  “We will see what the day has in store for us both.”

  She turned her horse and rode away, and Urstadt, Selldor, and Nardo followed.

  40

  The Coastal Road, somewhere between Kirlan and Triah

  IT WAS A CLOUDY, foggy morning, especially for a late summer day, and Cinzia did not see the Black Matron’s caravan until they almost stumbled upon its rearguard on the road. They had been riding hard, hoping to catch their quarry before they arrived at Triah, but now they caught a warning glimpse of the white-and-red tabards of the Sons ahead and reined in their horses as one. If she narrowed her eyes, Cinzia thought she could just about see a Cantic banner flapping in the distance, but it could be an illusion of the fog.

  “Did they see us?” she asked no one in particular. The Sons ahead had already been swallowed up by the fog ahead of her.

  “Can’t be sure one way or another,” Astrid said quietly. She looked up. “You can thank your goddess for these clouds and fog. Not as good as a night sky, but at least I won’t have to worry about the sun.”

  “How should we proceed?” Eward asked. “I counted three Sons, and those were just outriders.”

  “You’ve seen me handle worse,” Astrid said. “The question is whether they have any nightsbane.”

  “Astrid, make your approach,” Cinzia said. “Take out as many of them as you can while you have surprise on your side. Once they realize it’s you, they’ll bring out the nightsbane, if they have it, at which point Eward and I will attack. I’m sorry, but it’s the only chance we have.”

  “Better I lead anyway. I want first crack at the bitch.”

  Before Astrid rode away, Cinzia leaned over and grabbed the girl’s arm. “Be careful,” she said.

  Astrid held Cinzia’s gaze for a moment, then nodded. She slipped off her horse and rushed off into the fog to flank the Cantic caravan.

  * * *

  Astrid sprinted through the fog, rushing out into a field on the western side of the road, and then angling back towards where she hoped the caravan was. Soon, she saw the rearguard again. It was a shame she did not have her claws. She unsheathed the short sword and dagger she carried at her waist.

  As Astrid approached the Sons, one of the horses spooked, bucking and throwing its rider onto the dirt road. Astrid leapt up onto one of the other horses, jamming her dagger into the Son’s neck. The man’s life leaked out of him in a sigh, and Astrid threw herself onto the other horse, wrapping her arms around the Son’s neck and pulling him to the ground in a crash of armor. She stabbed both her dagger and sword down into the man’s chest, and that was that. The fog was so thick she could barely see a few rods ahead of her.

  Then, a great looming shape. The carriage. And on top of it stood Knot.

  “Hello, Astrid,” he said. But his voice was different. This wasn’t Knot. And yet… as he spoke, Astrid knew it wasn’t Lathe, either. She had met Lathe, briefly, when Knot had one of his episodes at Harmoth, and this was not him. Not entirely.

  Astrid was about to ask which Daemon she was speaking with when Knot, or Lathe, or whoever it was leapt down from the carriage, and Astrid froze.

  In his hand was a bunch of nightsbane.

  Pain blossomed within her as he moved closer.

  “I did not expect to see you so soon,” the man said. “But this will do.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come get her.”

  Emerging from the fog as she descended the carriage, the Black Matron walked towards her.

  “Hello, dear,” she said with a smile. “I was so hoping I would see you again.”

  Astrid fell to her knees.

  T
he Void

  In the Void, Knot drifted.

  He drifted, but not aimlessly. Something drew him towards it, slowly at first. He picked up speed so gradually that he was flying along before he realized it. Soon, in the distance, Knot saw what he figured must be the source of the draw. It seemed to be a star, but unlike any of the other star-lights he’d seen in the Void. This one was black, somehow, despite emitting a glow like all of the other star-lights. And this one had an aura of some kind as well—not like his own sift, which was a star-light around which orbited nine other tiny star-lights, but an aura of greater magnitude, and greater power.

  He was being drawn to the strange dark star with such force that he could not stop himself, and suddenly he slipped into the star, and through it.

  And then, for a brief moment that also seemed to last an eternity, he was no longer in the Void, but in the Sfaera. He was still his incorporeal self, but the Sfaera was as clear around him as he had ever seen it. Knot looked around at the people fighting, the cavalry clashing, the people dying, and realized he was in a battle.

  Or, rather, above a battle. Knot levitated a few rods above the earth, looking down at the people fighting below.

  A large, cubical rihnemin roughly the size of a small home protruded from the base of a shallow valley where the two armies clashed. The tide of the battle was clearly swinging toward the combined Khalic-Cantic force; they had broken through their opposition’s front line, outflanked their enemy on both sides, and outnumbered them almost two to one.

  The other side of the battle, Knot realized, consisted entirely of tiellans. Many wore helms, but he saw the pointed ears on those who didn’t, and their stature, the way they moved, the way they fought, was more familiar to Knot than he could have imagined.

  And there, in the middle of the tiellan force, Winter fought fiercely, covered in sweat and mud and blood, sword in hand, hair streaked across her face.

  She looked so different from the Winter he remembered in Pranna—in traditional tiellan clothing, a loose dress and siara wrapped around her neck, taciturn but with an inner fire that drew him to her—and far more similar to the woman he had known after Navone and in their brief journey into Roden, wearing tight leather clothing and sporting a chip on her shoulder that had nearly torn them apart.