by Jay Kristoff
“I looked to the longblade at my feet, naked and spattered with mud. The double-handed haft was bound in black leather, its silvered hilt crafted like a beautiful woman, her arms spread to form the crossguard. The blade was curved and elegant, shaped in an archaic Talhostic style, but still possessed of a deadly grace. Forged from the dark belly of a fallen star in an age whose name was legend. But it was broken. Lifetimes ago, it seemed now.
“Six inches snapped from the tip.
“‘Shut up,’ I told it.
“They shall smmmell him. Tear him to p-pieces, aye, sticky red, red sticky, as he screams and screams and screeeeams. This be sugarsweet mercy.
“‘Why do you always tell me what I already know?’
“Why do ye always n-n-need me to?
“I looked my horse in his eyes, the pain of my broken arm forgotten. Of all those I’d called friend over the years, Justice was the only one who remained. And through his pain and fear, in the darkest of all his hours, he looked to me. His Gabriel. The one who’d met him as a boy in the stables at San Michon, who’d ridden him from that place into exile when not a single one of his so-called brothers had come to say farewell. He trusted me. Despite his hurt, he knew I’d somehow make it all right.
“And I put my sword right through his heart.
“It wasn’t the swiftest end I could’ve gifted him. I had a shot loaded in my wheellock. But nightfall was only two hours away, and the town of Dhahaeth was at least four on foot. The wretched were apparently thick as flies on shite around these parts now, and a man unhorsed is just a meal uneaten.
“Always better to be a bastard than a fool.
“But still, I sat with Justice as he died. His head sinking heavy into my lap as he bled his last out into the mud. The sky was dark with shadow, my tears hot in the freezing rain. My broken longblade was stabbed into the muck, bright with my friend’s blood. I stared up to the heavens above, the God I knew was watching.
“‘Fuck you,’ I told him.
“G-Gabriel, the blade whispered in my head.
“‘And fuck you too,’ I hissed.
“Gabriel, she repeated, more urgent.
“‘What?’ I glared at the sword, my voice choked. ‘Can you not give me one breath to mourn him, you unholy bitch?’
“The blade spoke again, chilling my blood.
“Gabriel, th-they are coming.”
II
THE THREE WAYS
“THE BOY RAN first. The little one. No more than six when he Became. He moved swift as a deer, down the valley right toward me. The others followed: the blonde woman, a haggard man, another man shorter and broader. At least two dozen in the pack now.
“With a gasp, I was on my feet, broken arm swinging useless at my side. The pain returned as I tore my saddlebags loose with my good hand, sheathing my broken blade. I bid my poor brother farewell, and then I was running, down the valley toward that ribbon of distant road. The ford was at least three miles past it. There was little chance I could outpace a pack of wretched for that long. But I knew they’d stop for Justice—his blood was pooled in the mud, ripe in the air. Mongrels like these wouldn’t be able to resist.
“I could feel the shakes, the thirst making my heart stutter, my belly ache. Stumbling, almost slipping in the mud, I snatched a glass phial from my bandolier. Just a pinch of powder remained in the bottom, the color of rose petals and chocolat, the promise of it making my hand shake all the worse. But reaching into my greatcoat, my heart sank into my boots as I realized my flintbox was gone.
“‘Fuck my face…’ I whispered.
“I groped around my belt, my coat, but I already knew the tale; I must have lost it when Justice threw me. And now I had no way to even the odds stacked against me.
“And so I ran on, slinging my broken arm up inside my bandolier and wincing in agony. It would heal with time, but the wretched would give me none. My only hope now was the river, and that was slim hope at best. If they caught me, I’d be dead as Justice.”
Jean-François looked up from his tome. “You feared them that much?”
“The graveyards of the world are full of fools who thought of fear as anything but a friend.”
“Perhaps your legend has swelled in the telling, de León.”
“Legends always do. And ever in the wrong direction.”
The vampire brushed his golden curls aside, dark eyes roaming Gabriel’s broad shoulders. “It is said you were the most fearsome swordsman who ever lived.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” The silversaint shrugged. “But let’s put it this way; you’d not want to flip me the Fathers if I had something sharp nearby.”
The vampire blinked. “Flip you the Fathers?”
Gabriel raised his right hand, fingers extended, then cupped his forearm with his left. “Old Nordish insult. It implies your mama had so many men in her bed that your paternity is impossible to determine. And insulting my mama is a good way to get your face stabbed.”
“Then why flee? A paragon of the Silver Order? Wielder of the Ashdrinker himself? Running like a whipped pup from a pack of foulbloods?”
“Law the Third, vampire.”
Jean-François tilted his head. “The Dead run quick.”
Gabriel nodded. “There were two dozen of the bastards. My swordarm was broken in at least two places. And like I said, I had no way to smoke.”
Jean-François glanced to the bone pipe on the table before them.
“So reliant upon sanctus, were you?”
“I wasn’t reliant on sanctus, I was addicted to it. And oui, I had other tricks among my gear, but my arm was twice-fucked, and it was too much to risk fighting that many. I’d little hope of outpacing them either, truth told, but I’ve always been too stubborn to just lie down and die. And so, I tried to boot it. Rain in my eyes. Heart in my throat. Thinking of all I’d meant to do returning here and wondering if I’d ever get to do any of it. I glanced back and saw the wretched were finishing with Justice’s body. They rose from the mud and came on, lips red, teeth bright.
“I reached the road, staggering in the mud as thunder rolled above. I was almost done by then. The wretched close to my heels. Drawing my sword in desperation.
“If thou art b-brutally murdered here, she whispered, and I end my days hanging on the hip of a m-mindless shamble-bag of m-maggots, I shall be terribly upset with ye.
“‘The hell do you want from me?’ I hissed.
“Run, Little Lion, she replied. RUN.
“I did as the blade told me. One last burst of speed. And as lightning arced across the skies, I squinted through the drizzle and saw it before me. A miracle. A carriage, drawn by a miserable grey draughthorse, sitting in the middle of the road.”
“Divine intervention?” Jean-François murmured.
“Or the devil loves his own. The carriage was surrounded by a dozen soldiers. Feed was scarce those nights, and keeping a horse had never been a poor man’s game. But each of these men also had a mount—good stout sosyas, standing downcast in the rain while their riders argued, shin deep in the muck. I saw their problem in a heartbeat—the weather had turned the road into a quagmire, and their carriage was sunk to its axles.
“The soldiers were well geared and well fed. Clad in crimson tabards and iron plate caked with filth, they tried to drag the carriage free. And standing at their head, whipping that poor dray as if the mud were the horse’s fault, were two tall, pale women. They were near-identical—twins maybe. Their hair was long, black, cut in pointed fringes, and they wore tricorns with short, triangular veils over their eyes. They were clad in leather, and their tabards were also blood-red, marked with the flower and flail of Naél, the Angel of Bliss. I realized these were no ordinary soldiers, then.
“This was an inquisitor cohort.
“The men heard me coming, but didn’t seem too ruffled. And then they spied the pack of corpses on my tail, and all of them looked fit to shit. ‘Martyrs save us,’ breathed one, and ‘Fuck me,’ gasped an
other, and the inquisitors’ jaws near dropped off their heads.
“Gabriel, ’ware!
“The whisper rang in my mind, silver behind my eyes. I turned with a cry as the first wretched caught me. It was close enough that I could smell its carrion breath, see the shape of the little boy it’d been. Rot had set in hard before it turned, but it moved quick as flies, dead doll’s eyes glinting like broken glass.
“My sword cut the air, an offhand swing that was far from poetic. The blade met the monster’s thigh and just kept going, sending the thing’s leg sailing free in a gout of rotten blood. It fell without a sound, but the others came on, too swift to fight and far too many to best. The sosyas screamed in terror at the sight of the Dead, bolting in all directions, hooves thundering. The soldiers shouted after them in rage, in fear.”
Gabriel steepled his fingers at his chin. Pausing for thought.
“Now, there’s three ways a person can react when they look their death in the eye, coldblood. Folk talk about fight or flight, but in truth, it’s fight, flight, or freeze. Those soldiers saw the two dozen corpses charging them down, and each chose a different path. Some raised their blades. Some messed their britches. And those inquisitor twins glanced to each other, drew long, wicked knives from their belts, and sliced through the harnesses binding the horse to their carriage.
“‘Run!’ one cried, scrambling onto the terrified beast’s back.
“The other leapt up behind her, gave the dray a savage kick. ‘Fly, you whore!’
“Gabriel, ye mu—
“I sheathed my sword, silencing her voice in my head. And I reached to my belt, left hand shaking as I drew my wheellock. The pistol was silvered, a sevenstar embossed in the mahogany grip. The shot I could’ve given Justice was still loaded in the barrel. And glad I’d saved it, I gave it to the inquisitors instead.
“The shot rang out, the silver slug ripped through one woman’s back in a spray of blood. She toppled from the dray with a cry, the horse rearing up and throwing her sister into the muck. Breathless, I bolted past the baffled soldiers and leapt onto the dray’s back.
“‘Wait!’ the first woman cried.
“‘B-bastard!’ the other coughed, bloodied in the mud.
“But I’d no time for any of them. Clutching the dray’s mane with my one good hand, I raised my heels for a kick. But she needed no encouragement, screaming in terror as the wretched came on. The horse dug her hooves into the mire and bolted, and in a spray of black mud, we rode away toward the river without a backward glance.”
Gabriel fell silent.
A quiet rang in that cold cell, long as years.
“You left them all there,” Jean-François finally said.
“Oui.”
“You left them all to die.”
“Oui.”
Jean-François raised an eyebrow. “The legends never called you coward, de León.”
Gabriel leaned into the light. “Look into my eyes, coldblood. Do I strike you as the kind of man who’s afraid to die?”
“You strike me as the kind who would welcome it,” the vampire admitted. “But the silversaints were meant to be exemplars of the One Faith. Slayers of monsters most foul and warriors of God most high. And you were the best of them. You weep like a child over a dead horse, but shoot an innocent woman in the back and leave god-fearing men to be slaughtered by foulbloods.” The historian frowned. “What kind of hero are you?”
Gabriel laughed, shaking his head.
“Who the fuck told you I was a hero?”
III
SMALL BLESSINGS
“WE FORDED THE Keff a while later. The river rose up to my horse’s shoulders, but she was a strong one, and I suspect, glad to be rid of the inquisitors and their whips. I didn’t know her name, and I supposed I’d not be keeping her long. So I just called her ‘Jez’ as we rode on through the dark.”
Jean-François blinked. “Jez?”
“Short for ‘Jezebel.’ Since I’d only know her for a night and all.”
“Ah. Prostitute humor.”
“Don’t fall down laughing, coldblood.”
“I shall do my very best, Silversaint.”
“My arm was slowly healing,” Gabriel continued. “But I knew I’d need a dose of sanctus to really see it right. And without my flintbox, I’d no sensible way to light a pipe, let alone a lantern, so we ran blind to Dhahaeth, hoping against hope that the town was still standing. Whatever light the sun gave was long gone by the time I saw them in the distance, but my heart still surged at the sight: fires, burning like beacons in a black sea.
“Jez was just as uneasy as I in the dark, and she rode harder toward the light. From what little I’d heard of Dhahaeth, it was a one-chapel milltown on the banks of the Keff. But the place I drew up outside was like to a small fortress.
“They couldn’t afford much stonework, but a heavy wooden palisade had been erected on the outskirts, twelve feet high, running all the way down to the riverbank. A deep trench skirted the palisade, filled with wooden spikes, and bonfires blazed atop it despite the rain. I could see corpses blackened by fire in the ditch as we halted outside the gate, and figures on a highwalk behind the palisade’s spikes.
“‘Hold,’ a voice with a thick Sūdhaemi accent cried. ‘Who goes?’
“‘A thirsty man with no time for bullshit,’ I called back.
“‘There’s a dozen crossbows pointed at your chest right now, fuckarse. I’d be speaking more polite if I were you.’
“‘Fuckarse, that’s a clever one,’ I nodded. ‘I’ll remember it next time I’m climbing aboard your wife.’
“I heard a soft guffaw from one of the other figures, and the voice spoke again. ‘Good luck on the road, stranger. You’ll ’ave need of it.’
“I sighed softly, pulled off my glove with my teeth, and held my left hand aloft. The sevenstar inked in my palm glinted dully in the firelight. And I heard a whisper then, running through the figures like red fever.
“‘Silversaint.’
“‘Silversaint!’
“‘Open the bloody gate!’ someone cried.
“I heard the heavy clunk of wood, and the palisade doors yawned wide. I gave Jez a nudge, my eyes narrowed against the torchlight. A cadre of guards waited in a muddy bailey beyond, nervous as spring lambs. I could tell at a glance they were press-ganged militia—most had seen too few winters, the others, far too many. They wore old, boiled leather and carried crossbows, burning torches, ashwood spears—all pointed in my vicinity.
“I climbed off Jezebel, gave her a grateful pat. Then I turned to the stone font to the right of the gate. It was crafted in the likeness of Sanael, Angel of Blood, her outstretched hands holding a bowl of clear water. The militiamen tensed, weapons ready. And looking them in the eye, I dipped my fingers inside and wiggled.”
Jean-François blinked in silent question.
“Holy water,” Gabriel explained.
“Quaint,” the vampire replied. “But tell me, why insult the gatekeeper? When you could simply have proffered your palm and entered without fuss?”
“I’d just murdered my best friend. Almost lost my life to a pack of mongrel corpses. My arm was throbbing like a virgin’s pecker on his first trip into the woods, I was tired and hungry and fiending for a smoke, and I’m something of a bastard on the best of days. And that day was hardly my best.”
Jean-François’s gaze roamed Gabriel, toe to crown. “Nor this one, I fear?”
Gabriel tapped an empty leather pouch at his belt. “Behold the purse in which I keep my fucks for what you think of me.”
The vampire tilted his head and waited.
“The militiamen stepped aside,” Gabriel continued. “Most had never seen a silversaint, I’d guess, but the wars had been raging for years by then, and all had heard tales of the Ordo Argent. I could see wonder in the youngers, quiet respect among the older men. I knew what they saw when they looked at me. A bastard halfbreed. A Godsent lunatic. The silver flame burning be
tween what was left of civilization, and the dark set to swallow it whole.
“‘I don’t ’ave a wife,’ one said to me.
“I blinked at him. A bucktoothed young Sūdhaemi scrap he was: dark skin, tight cropped hair, barely old enough for fuzz on his taddysack.
“‘You said you’d be climbing onto my wife later,’ he said, defiant. ‘I don’t ’ave one.’
“‘Count yourself blessed, boy. Now, which way to the fucking pub?’”
IV
ON THE PERILS OF MATRIMONY
“THE PLACARD ABOVE the taverne’s door read THE PERFECT HUSBAND. The faded lettering was accompanied by a picture of a freshly dug grave. I hadn’t yet set foot in the place, and I was already fond of it.
“The town had seen better nights, but twenty-four years after daysdeath, there were few places in the empire that wasn’t true of. Truth told, it was lucky to have survived at all. Dhahaeth’s streets were freezing mud, her buildings leaning on each other like drunkards at last call. Ancient cloves of garlic or braids of virgins’ hair were nailed to every door, churlsilver or salt scattered at every window—for all the good it would do. The whole place stank of shite and mushrooms, the streets crawled with rats, and the folk I passed took one look at me and hurried on through the freezing rain, making the sign of the wheel.
“The town got enough traffic to still have a stable, though. The groom caught the ha-royale I flipped him, pocketing the coin as I dismounted. ‘Give her your best fare and a good rubdown,’ I told him, patting Jez’s neck. ‘This dame’s well and truly earned it.’
“The lad stared at the sevenstar on my palm, awed. ‘Yer a silversaint. Do you—’
“‘Just mind the fucking horse, boy.’
“My hands were shaking as I handed over the reins, and the ache in my broken arm and empty belly made it easy to ignore his wounded look. Without another word, I stomped across the mud, under a wreath of withered silverbell, and pushed my way through the doors of the Perfect Husband.