by Jay Kristoff
“The remains inside the cage belonged to an old woman.
“It’s a better storyteller than me who can make miles of silent drudgery sound interesting, coldblood. Saoirse and Phoebe scouted ahead. The rest of us rode hunched in our saddles. Rafa squinted at his battered copy of the Testaments, rubbing his silver wheel between forefinger and thumb. I pored over my beaten map, Bellamy played with his wooden cock while Dior chattered away to the soothsinger about any and all. The weather was purest misery. But I’d crushed up that fledgling’s blood before we’d left the hunter’s hovel, and my bandolier was loaded with a dozen doses of high-grade sanctus, which made me as happy as a pig in shite.
“We met the refugees five days in.
“A thin handful at first—a farmer and his famille, shuffling toward us. But through the falling snow, I spied a multitude behind. Hundreds of them. They dragged hand-drawn carts, the burdens of abandoned lives, small children on their backs. I even spied a world-weary donkey among them, sad and starved. They passed us without a word—even when Père Rafa called out, they simply trudged on like ghosts. Feet scraping through dirty snow.
“‘Great fucking Redeemer…’ Dior whispered.
“‘Blasphemy, Dior,’ Chloe murmured.
“‘Where are they all coming from?’
“‘Ossway folk,’ I replied, nodding to the kilts among them. ‘There’s a hamlet long west of here named Valestunn. A bigger village northeast called Winfael—’
“‘Gabriel de León?’
“I blinked to hear my name, looking for the voice that spoke it. There among the line of refugees, I saw a mud-spattered man, thirty and some, with a young fair-haired lass on his shoulders. He was tall, grizzled, bright blue eyes shining in a mask of dirt.
“‘Martyrs and Mothermaid, it is ye!’
“I frowned, trying to recall the man’s face as he limped across the road, hand outstretched. Tipping my tricorn back from my brow, I slipped down into the snow, grasped his forearm. There was barely any meat on it, but his grip was iron.
“‘Ye’d nae remember me,’ he said. ‘But we fought together at Triúrbaile. I was a hammerman in Lady á Cuinn’s company the day ye liberated th—’
“‘Lachlunn,’ I said, snapping my fingers. ‘Lachlunn á Cuinn.’
“‘… Tha’s right!’ He blinked in surprise, looked up to the girl on his shoulders. ‘D’ye see that, poppet? The Black Lion hisself remembered your old da!’
“‘Good to see you again, mon ami,’ I smiled. ‘How fare?’
“‘Ah.’ The man sighed. ‘Tried to make an honest living after the troubles, with my drumstick fucked, like.’ Here he tapped his leg with a walking stick. ‘Mushroom farmer, aye? But the Dyvoks took Dún Cuinn last winter, and once the castle fell, just got too dangerous. We’re headed over the Ūmdir into Sūdhaem before wintersdeep hits.’
“I nodded grim, but spared a smile for the little girl. ‘And who’s this wee slayer?’
“‘Aisling.’ He tickled the girl’s cheek. ‘Say hello, flower.’
“The girl ducked her chin so her hair tumbled about her face.
“‘Ah, apologies, Lion. She’s shy, like.’
“‘Fairdawn, Mlle Aisling.’ I took her hand, kissing her dimpled knuckles. ‘This ugly old troll steal you from the fae? Or do you just take after your pretty mama?’
“The girl looked to the ground, and the man’s smile fell away like a broken mask. And I knew the tale in a heartbeat then, without their needing to speak it. I’d heard it a thousand times across a thousand miles and a thousand lives already.
“‘Condolences, á Cuinn,’ I murmured. ‘For your loss.’
“The man sniffed and spat, rubbing at grubby lashes. He peered about the company, Rafa and Chloe making the sign of the wheel, Dior watching with cold blue eyes.
“‘I heard tell ye were dead, Lion.’
“‘They tried.’
“‘Where ye headed?’
“‘The River Volta.’
“‘North?’ The man raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s nae much north o’ here but ruins and wretched, Silversaint. An’ west is worse. We’re come from Valestunn, and there’s nae hope there. The wretched are thick as flies on shite since the dún fell.’
“‘These wretched. Is there a bloodlord leading them?’
“‘Nae. The local ones are just dregs. The Dyvok lords are looking westward now, pushing to Dún Maergenn. But ye know how it is. Bastards roam in packs with or without something pulling their strings. Dozens of ’em up here. And everyone they kill is just as like to rise rotten as stay dead. Best to head south afore the freeze. We hear it’s better there.’
“‘A little,’ I nodded. ‘Don’t stray too far toward sunset, though. The Chastains have everything west of Sul Adair now.’
“‘Sweet Mothermaid,’ he whispered.
“‘Dark days,’ I nodded. ‘And nights darker.’
“‘Still. With the Black Lion ahorse once more, ye’ll set it to rights.’ He slapped my shoulder, brightening. ‘Still remember that day in Triúrbaile, ye know. Greatest o’ my life. Like the hand of God Almighty, ye were. Bare-chested and bloodied, like the legends of old. The whole battlefield bathed silver. Never seen the fuckin’ like.’ He shook his head, eyes shining. ‘I named my youngest for ye after that. Gabrael.’
“‘You honor me, mon ami.’ I smiled, hand to heart. ‘And where is this young lio…’
“My voice failed as the man hung his head, his daughter peering at me with tear-stung eyes. I knew that tale as well. And with held breath and shaking hand, I patted his shoulder, knowing it made no fucking difference at all.
“‘Safe travels, á Cuinn.’
“‘God go w’ye, Silversaint.’
“We watched the folk stumble by, their lives on their backs, headed toward a flame that would sputter out all too soon. I looked to Dior, my lip curled, filled with contempt that this little bastard would plant a hope where none could bloom. There was no magik silvershot, no divine prophecy, no holy fucking chalice that would end this darkness. This was our here and our now and our forever. And if it weren’t for the fact he was my bait for Danton, I’d have kicked the little cunt’s teeth out his arsehole then and there.
“‘Still want to head north, mon amie?’ I asked Chloe.
“‘One capitaine, Gabe,’ she replied, meeting my eyes. ‘One course.’
“I nodded, looking to the deepening gloom ahead.
“‘As you like it.’”
V
A HARD THING TO COME BY
“THE STORM HIT us like a hammer from hell two days later. The wind screamed in from the north, the snow fell like knives, and the tiniest part of me hoped Lachlunn and Aisling á Cuinn had found someplace warm to lay their heads. The rest of me, the most of me, was just busy trying not to freeze to death.”
Gabriel reached forward to top up his wineglass, glancing at Jean-François.
“Can you remember what it’s like to be cold, coldblood?”
The vampire paused, a small frown marring his porcelain brow. “I take it this is another attempt at homespun comedy, Silversaint. Perhaps you should cleave to jests about prostitutes. At least there, you appear on familiar ground.”
“I mean really cold,” Gabriel said. “Not the cold of the grave. The cold that puts you in one. When your hands ache so bad you can’t make a fist. When your troth ring feels like ice on your finger, and it hurts to even breathe. That kind of cold.”
The historian tilted his head, pale fingertips brushing the Chastain emblem at his breast as he spoke the creed of his line: “The wolf frets not for the ills of the worm.”
Gabriel took a long swallow of wine. “You don’t miss it?”
“Miss what? The futility of building a life that must one day crumble to dust?”
“The softness of a pillow after a hard day’s work? The smile in your daughter’s eyes as you step through the door? The joy of a lover in your arms?”
“A lover who must g
row old and wither, while I remain unchanged?” Jean-François smiled, cold and thin. “Unless I kill them, of course. Praying God and Angel Fortuna that my love rises whole and beautiful, rather than some rotten abomination? Or simply remains dead by my hand?” The vampire shook his head. “Romance is a mortal’s folly, Silversaint.”
“Sounds like someone’s talking from experience.”
“The ache of an empty belly. Or a full bladder. Or a cold fireplace.” The historian waved one hand, a golden curl tumbling across his eyes. “Flesh, Silversaint. All the concerns of weak flesh. There is no mortal pain that can touch me. No sin of the skin that can compare to the blood of some ripe young thing, spilled velvet and lush upon my tongue. The callow thief of time shall never lay claim my beauty. And when the temple of your body rots for the maggots, de León, when your ribs are their rafters and your belly their ballroom, I shall remain, exactly as I am now. Perpetual. Eternal. And you ask if I miss it?”
Gabriel smiled, lifted his wineglass. “Trust me, vampire. Nothing lasts forever.”
“My patience, certainly.” Jean-François tapped his quill. “The storm.”
“The storm.” Gabriel sighed, stretched out in his leather chair. “Cold as a loveless bed, it was. The winters had been worsening, year by year, no time to thaw between. But I’d spent too long down in Sūdhaem, where spring still lightly lingered. Hunched in my saddle, hands in my armpits, I wasn’t the coziest of cats. So it was I breathed a white sigh of relief when Chloe called over the howling wind, ‘Gabe, we can’t stay out in this!’
“‘I know!’ I nodded across bleak hills. ‘I think Winfael is only a few miles nor’east of here! We can cut across country, be there in a few hours!’
“‘Do you know the way?’ Bellamy shouted.
“‘We know the way!’
“Saoirse materialized out of the blinding snows, wolfskin wrapped about her face. Phoebe prowled beside her, the she-lion’s brow and whiskers white with frost.
“‘Lead on, fair mademoiselle!’ Bellamy shouted. ‘Whither thou go, I follow th—’
“‘Shut the fuck up, Bouchette!’
“We reached the town hours later, Saoirse leading us like an arrow into a snowstruck valley. A great loch filled its belly, grey as the skies above. On its shores rested a fishing hamlet, a spiked palisade encircling it like a mother’s arms. But peering through my spyglass, I could see the defenses had been smashed in places, several buildings leveled by fire. The town had clearly been attacked—and I’d bet my wedding singer I could guess by what.
“‘Anything moving?’ Bellamy shouted.
“I shook my head, tongue pressed to sharpening teeth.
“‘We can’t stay out here!’ Dior cried. ‘Rafa’s freezing!’
“The old priest was curled in his saddle, beard and spectacles encrusted with frost. ‘I shall adm-m-mit I lost all feeling b-b-below my waist several m-miles ago.’
“I nodded. ‘Come on!’
“We worked our way down in the gale, finally reaching the palisade. The defenses were solid—heavy lumber reinforced with iron brackets. The gates were still sealed, but the palisade itself had been smashed by colossal impacts, beams snapped at the root like driest kindling. Phoebe loped through the ragged gap first, and I rode after the lioness, drawing Ashdrinker as I peered at the shattered timbers.
“A vulgar display of p-power, came her voice. Dyvok, most like, most like.
“I nodded. ‘Strong enough to be mediae at least.’
“The damage be n-not recent. Doubtful I think it, that highbloods linger here.
“‘Oui. But other maggots might’ve crawled into the grave they left behind.’
“We sh-should make haste to Triúrbaile, Gabriel. The attack is set for findi morn.
“I looked to the beautiful silvered dame upon the hilt, my voice soft with pity. ‘Ash … the attack on Triúrbaile happened twelve years ago…’
“‘Who the fuck are you talking to?’ Dior demanded.
“‘The Ashdrinker!’ Bellamy shouted over the wind, nodding to my sword. ‘The blade of the Black Lion is enchanted, Dior! Magiks from the Age of Legends! The Ashdrinker speaks to the mind of her wielder. Some tales have it that the blade steals the souls of all she slays, and sings with their voices as she kills. Others say she knows the truth of how every man under heaven shall die, and she speaks those secrets to the man who masters her!’
“I looked to the sword in my hand, eyebrow raised.
“I am fond of thy new j-j-jester. He is most amusing, m-most amusing.
“‘Come on!’ I pointed to a belfry above the rooftops. ‘We can shelter in the church!’
“We trudged between tight-packed buildings, down a snow-clad boulevard. The storm was pummeling, but the houses were silent and still. Winfael seemed more a memory of a town than a town itself, doors a-hang like broken jaws, old bloodstains on dusty glass.
“Truth told, it reminded me a little of my Lorson …
“‘So much for tha’ idea, Silversaint,’ Saoirse growled.
“Looking ahead, I saw the cathedral in the town square—hollowed by flame, broken rafters scraping the sky like an empty rib cage. The belfry tower still stood, but the clapper had long since rusted and fallen free, leaving the bell to swing in the bitter wind.
“Voiceless.
“Pointless.
“Rafa was almost dead ahorse, Chloe and Dior both shivering uncontrollably. There was no respite on holy ground here, but there was shelter at least, just across the square.
“‘Let’s go to the pub!’
“It was a two-story affair, its sign bearing a bearded man with a leather apron swimming in a tankard of ale. THE HAMMERED SMITH was printed in faded letters beneath. The windows were barricaded, door locked tight, but a swift kicking would see it open …
“‘Hold!’ Dior shouted. ‘You smash the door off the hinges, what shelter will it be?’
“I lowered my boot as the boy bustled past. ‘You’ve got a key, smartarse?’
“‘To every lock in the empire, dumbarse.’
“Dior fetched a flat leather case tucked into his boot. Within, I saw iron picks, a torsion hook, a small hammer and wedge, all well-kept and oiled.
“‘Thieves’ picks,’ I growled. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
“‘Not just a fuckugly face, I s’pose?’ the boy muttered.
“I glanced to Chloe, and the sister simply flashed me a wry smile. And though it was freezing, his fingers trembling, the boy had that lock open quicker than a pisshead’s purse when the pub bells ring. With a triumphant grin, Dior pushed the door wide, dropping into a flashy bow as Saoirse gave a small round of applause. And stepping inside, he jumped three feet backward with a frightened yelp. ‘Shit!’
“Grabbing his fancy coat, I hauled the lad from the doorway and stepped inside, Ashdrinker raised. I looked about the commonroom, fangs bared: musty, cold, empty.
“‘What?’ I demanded. ‘What did you see?’
“The boy pointed. ‘Rats.’
“Sure enough, the floor was crawling with them, thin and black and sleek, peering at me with eyes like jet. But they scattered as I stepped inside, swarming through splits in the floorboards, up into the moldy walls. I glowered at the boy over my shoulder.
“‘I fucking hate rats, aright?’ he pouted.
“Shaking my head, I led the company inside while Bellamy took the horses to the stable. Dust coated the furniture, old wine bottles lay on tables or scattered on the floor. The walls were spackled with dark mold, and all smelled of rot and ratshit. But we were out of the wind at least, and with any luck, I’d find something to drink.
“‘I’ll look upstairs,’ I said. ‘Saoirse, stay here with the others.’
“‘A please’d be welcome.’
“I tilted my head at her. ‘What did you say?’
“The young slayer rested her axe on her shoulder. ‘I’m nae some hammerman ye fought wi’ in days of glory. Nor some lackey to be ordered aboo
t. A please’d be welcome.’
“‘We’re half-near frozen to death. In the corpse of a town that’s obviously been gutted by coldbloods. And you want to pull out our cocks and measure them now?’
“‘Ye’ve been swingin’ yer tadpole aboot every chance ye get already, man. Why should now be any different?’
“I walked across the creaking floorboards until we were chest to chest.
“‘Pretty please. With fucking sugar on it. Stay here with the others.’
“Saoirse scowled. I turned on my silver heel and stomped upstairs, paying a visit with my boots, door to door. Ashdrinker was singing an old nursery rhyme in my head, and I did my best to ignore her as I went from room to room. The bedchambers were small, dusty, all empty save for a handful of rats who looked slightly outraged at my presence. But it seemed we had somewhere to sleep at least—presuming we were allowed to.
“Bellamy came in from outside, slamming the door against the weather just as I returned to the commonroom, sheathing Ash to quiet her disjointed song in my head. The others were in the kitchen—rusty knives on the walls, pots of old cast iron. But there wasn’t a trace of food. Nor liquor, more’s the pity.
“‘Clear upstairs.’ I glanced to Dior, shuddering. ‘Save for all the rats.’
“‘Gabe, stop it,’ Chloe murmured.
“‘Huge bastards, they are.’ I measured a yard with my hands. ‘Well fed too, by the look. I swear God, one of them was wearing a waistcoat of human skin.’
“The boy flipped me the Fathers. ‘Suck my cock, hero.’
“‘We can wait here until the weather breaks,’ Chloe declared. ‘Warm up. Sleep.’
“Rafa was slumped by the hearth, shivering head to toe. The sister knelt beside him, arm around the poor old bastard for warmth. Bellamy scruffed the snow from his still-perfect three-day stubble, stomped his feet to get the feeling back. ‘I’ll get a fire going.’