by Jay Kristoff
“A snow hawk cut through the skies above me, mottled white and iron grey, calling upon the frozen air. My lancers ran onward into the blinding snows. The wind had shifted now, a howling northerly cutting like a sword down the Mère’s gut, the falling snow like razor blades. My collar was up about my face, my tricorn pulled low, but my eyes still burned, tears frozen on my cheeks, the chill making my knuckles ache.
“The blackened sun was slinking toward its bed now, a moonsless night waiting in the wings, and still, no sign of my quarry. But as the daystar dipped toward the horizon, long shadows blurring in the muted light, my heart surged as I saw it in the distance; the faint churn of powder thrown up by hundreds of feet. And I realized I’d caught them, caught them both: Danton’s horde running hard on Dior’s heels, the girl fleeing before them as if the devil himself came behind.
“She was bent over her sled, roaring for her dogs to ‘Run! RUN!’ and spurred on by their fear of the Dead, the hounds barreled down the ice like lightning. But as the sunlight failed, the Dead grew stronger, ran faster, drew closer, ever closer to their prize. The wretched ran first, like beasts before their masters’ whips. The highbloods came next, those dread cousins and children Danton had mustered to his aid, Ironhearts all. And at the last came the Beast of Vellene. I could see him now if I squinted. Rage flaring at the memory of him standing outside my home the night his father knocked three times on my door, bearing silent witness to the atrocities within.
“I owed his famille blood. And tonight, tonight, I vowed, I’d begin to repay the sum.
“The pipe was full and at my lips, and I breathed the color of murder into my lungs. All the night came alive, every sense aflame, the smell of dogs and fresh sweat, the sound of thundering footsteps and galloping pulse, the sight of the enemy before me and the blade I bore, now naked and gleaming in my hand. But with sinking heart, I saw the last breath of sunset flee the sky, and my mind rang with the echoes of my childhood in the halls of San Michon; one of the first lessons I ever learned, before my name became legend and my love burned like summer flame and my pride brought it all to an end.
“The Dead run quick.
“They were at Dior’s heels now, claws outstretched. I saw they’d catch her long before I did, and in desperation, I roared her name. She looked back to me through the falling snow, and I thought perhaps I might see fear in her eyes at last. But instead, I saw a gleam, glass-sharp and gutter-born. Not the savior of an empire nor the descendant of a God, but a street rat. A girl who’d grown up in dingy alleys and rotten hovels far from here, who’d survived by wits and guile, thief and trickster and incorrigible liar.
“The flintbox she’d stolen flared, and her fuses began to spark. The silver dagger I’d given her flashed, and her dog team was cut free from their moorings. The breath left her lungs as she leapt free, dragged by the hounds along the ice and away from her sled as it wobbled and flipped behind her, the barrels she’d loaded and lit now spilling across the ice, branded with tiny Xes—the twin scythes of Mahné, Angel of Death.
“‘Black ignis,’ I breathed.
“‘’ Ware!’ Danton roared. ‘’WARE!’
“The powder ignited, deafening blasts rippling across the valley and lighting the dark bright as the day. The closest wretched were engulfed or ripped to pieces by the explosion. But as the concussion struck the ice, reverberating hard enough that I felt it beneath me, at last I realized the genius of what Dior had done. The frozen surface of the Mère shattered in spectacular spirals, just as when Fortuna had bolted across the Ròdaerr. And just as I’d done that day, Danton’s legion found themselves plunging below the surface and into the icy depths of the still-running river below.
“‘Maggot trap,’ I smiled.
“A hundred at least, two of the highbloods among them, the entire shelf beneath them breaking apart. Only a few had mind enough to scream as the water washed the flesh off their bones and death, long-denied, wrapped them at last in loving arms.
“But others scattered, Danton among them, veering away from the gulf and skipping across the shattering surface. Like shadows, fleet and deadly, they danced along the cracking frost closer to the shore, where the river was frozen all the way to its beds, and there, they continued pursuit. Dior’s gambit had carved a bleeding gouge through Danton’s force, but dozens of the vampires still remained—most of the highbloods and the Beast himself among them—and now, Dior’s folly was laid bare.
“She was dragged along the ice behind her dogs, desperately clinging to the severed harness. I bent double, roaring at my own lancers to run onward, swerving around the gulf in the shattered river glass and riding on. But Danton was filled with fury now, he and his cohort drawing closer, ever closer.
“‘I said I would hunt thee forever, girl!’
“‘F-fuck you!’ she sputtered, holding on for dear life.
“‘You must say please, love!’
“‘Danton!’ I roared. ‘Face me, coward!’
“But the Beast ignored me, save to glance over his shoulder and gift me a murderous smile. I was still too far away to help her, barely keeping pace while the vampires gained with every step. If they caught her, those highbloods could keep me busy while the Beast made his escape with Dior, and all this, everything, would be for nothing. I heard that snow hawk calling again somewhere in the dark above, Ashdrinker’s voice ringing in my mind over the clamor of my pulse.
“Ride, Gabriel! We m-must save her! RIDE!
“And then, the inevitable happened. Dior’s dogs pounded onward, terrified of the Dead, heedless of the girl they dragged behind. They dashed toward a drift of snow, a foot or two high across the ice, veering around it. But Dior shrieked as she swung wide on the harness, closing her eyes as she plowed into the drift. Her grip failed, and with the sound of snapping whips, the harness broke free, sent her tumbling, sprawling, spilling through the snowbank and rolling to rest on the other side. She cracked her face on the ice, split her brow, blood on her hands and cheeks. I roared in horror as Danton howled in triumph, his highbloods swooping toward the fallen girl, his wretched scrambling, claws unfurled.
“One of the highbloods seized hold of her—an elderly fellow dressed like a country gent—lifting her up by the collar as if she weighed a feather. Dior cursed, scrabbling at his face, the vampire shrieking as her fingers painted crimson lines across his cheek. And where her blood kissed his flesh, fire bloomed, white-hot and blinding. He staggered back, howling, Ironheart flesh carved with great ashen rents by the merest touch of her blood.
“A silverbomb burst among the wretched, blasting a few to pieces. Another exploded, another, sailing from my hand and lighting up the night, silver caustic scalding Dead skin and eyes. Danton’s flock scattered as I unleashed another volley, leaping from my sled and roaring, ‘DIOR!’ And the girl cried, ‘GABRIEL!’ and scrambled to her feet. A tall, dead-eyed brute made a grab for her as she dashed toward me through the silversmoke, her fine frockcoat shredding in his fist. A wretched leaped atop her, trying to bring her down. But again, she lashed out with those blood-slicked hands, and again, the vampire fell back, its flesh burned black where her blood had touched it.
“She made it to my side, crashing into my arms, face slicked red. Ashdrinker sang in the air, scything through the wretched at her back, leaving them in smoking pieces on the ice. I hurled my holy water, my silverbombs, cutting through the rabble that charged me headlong, soulless eyes and open mouths. Dior lashed out with her silversteel dagger as I cut more wretched down into the bloody snow, the pair of us standing back-to-back as the song of the blade rang in my head: steel as mother, steel as father, steel as friend. I’d been killing these bastards since I was sixteen years old, and near the first of them I’d ever slain was a Prince of Forever—there was no way under heaven I’d fall beneath the teeth of a few dozen mongrels with a full dose of sanctus in me, with my sword arm whole and the fury of a widower, of a father undone burning within. And though I made a red fucking slaughter o
f those dogs, still, I knew it was no kind of triumph. Danton and his highbloods hung back, watching as I spent the last of my arsenal, backing away onto the ice now with nothing left to throw, no more tricks up my sleeve.
“And still almost a dozen highbloods to kill.
“They fanned out about us as we backed away, slowly encircling. I knew a few by name, by bloody reputation. A dark-bearded brute named Maarten the Butcher, who wore mail and carried a great two-hander in hammer fists. Another warrior named Roisin the Red, swift and sharp, her body clad in fur-trimmed leathers and her hair in slayer’s braids. A slender woman with wheat-gold hair and blood-red eyes called Liviana. A boy known only as Fetch, not more than ten when he died, dressed in pale finery spattered with blood.
“Ironhearts all, each the father or mother of decades of murder, each a nightmare to slay alone, let alone with ten siblings beside them. And at their head, a Prince of Forever, son of their dread liege himself. The butcher of a thousand maids, the bloodhound of the Forever King, the Beast of Vellene, now stalking toward me across the ice as his fellows slowly closed their circle around us.
“‘I warned thee, Silversaint,’ he said. ‘Ye should have stayed buried.’
“I clenched my fangs. ‘Papa should have killed me when he had the chance, bastard.’
“‘But he did kill thee, de León. Not the hero who songs were sung for, the chevalier who defeated undying armies, the man who became legend. Not even the boy who slew my sister dear do I see before me.’ Danton shook his head, their circle drawing tighter. ‘A shadow is all that remains of thee. A hollowed cur, a drunkard and a wretch, sodden with spirits and with spirit broken.’
“Danton raised his blade, the saber’s edge gleaming.
“‘But ye may still live to see the dawn, de León. Thou hast business with my dread father in the east, do ye not? Debts unpaid?’ He circled around us now, behind the wall of his highbloods, his smile ruby red. ‘Thy Patience? Thy Astrid? Thou didst slumber in thy cellar as my father had his way with thy bride, but still, certain am I thou hast imagined the sweet sufferings he bestowed before planting her in the ground beside thee. And more certain am I, thou doth desire nothing so much as to see my king again.’
“The leather on Ashdrinker’s hilt creaked as I squeezed it tight.
“‘A chance for vengeance I offer thee,’ Danton said. ‘Put up thy sword and step ye aside. Give the girl over to me, and ye may yet live to see thy vow fulfilled. Ye need not die for her, de León. For in the end, what is Dior Lachance to thee?’
“I glanced to the girl at my back, bloodied and shaking.
“Eyes wide and blue, rimmed with tears.
“‘Gabe…’ she whispered.
“And I saw the truth then. The truth of it all. No matter the vengeance I’d sworn, nor the life that had been stolen from me, nor the endless ache inside my chest. Because even in darkest hours, that ache let me know I was still alive. It was as my love had told me, as she’d always said. Hearts only bruise. They never break.
“And in the end, I knew I’d not take back a breath of it. Not the bliss I knew then, nor the pain I felt now. Not all the forsaken hours I’d spent without them, the ache of my lips without Astrid’s kiss, the emptiness of my arms without Patience’s embrace. In those few moments I had them, and if only then, I was immortal. Because they were immaculate. And they were mine.
“And no matter the God I’d turned my back on. No matter the father I cursed and the heaven I defied. Because in the end, it matters not what you hold faith in. So long as you hold faith in something.
“I tore off my glove with my teeth, wrapped my bare hand in Dior’s.
“‘I will never leave you,’ I vowed.
“It began as an ember, just a spark to tinder, finite and small. But like to the summer-bleached grasses of my youth, the spark began to smolder, and that smolder became flame, burning down my arm and into the palm of the hand that now held Dior’s. I felt it like fire in the ink Astrid had scribed upon my skin. I felt it like her lips upon mine. And releasing my grip, looking to the sevenstar on my palm, I saw it burning with light—not cold and silver as in days of old, but hot and crimson. Tearing my coat away, the tunic beneath, I saw the lion on my chest ablaze with that same furious light, red as the heat of my stepfather’s forge, as the blood I’d spilled and seen spilled in kind, as all the fires that surely burn in the hate-drenched heart of hell.
“I raised my hand, ablaze. And I saw them tremble.
“‘Which of you unholy bastards wants to be the first to die?’
“‘Kill him,’ Danton hissed. ‘Kill him and bring me the girl.’
“The vampires wavered, crimson light reflected in narrowing eyes.
“‘Obey me!’ the Beast roared. ‘You are ten, he is one!’
“Dior raised her dagger. ‘You mean two, bastard.’
“‘Count again, girl.’
“The whisper drifted across the ice. Danton turned, glowering as a now-familiar figure strode out from the tumbling snows. Locks of midnight-blue ran thick to her waist. Her long red frockcoat whipped about her in the howling wind, silken shirt parted from her pale chest. She’d fashioned herself a new mask; white porcelain with a bloody handprint over her mouth, red-rimmed lashes. And beyond, those pale eyes, drained of all light and life.
“Liathe still looked injured from our brawl in San Guillaume—her chest yet marred from Ashdrinker’s kiss, her hands yet charred from the blade’s touch. But she held her sword and flail nonetheless, both sculpted from her own blood, glistening red in my burning light.
“‘Who art thou?’ Danton snarled.
“‘Call usss Liathe.’
“The Beast of Vellene pressed his lips thin. He could sense the power in this one, wounded though she was. ‘Step aside then, Liathe. This prey belongs to the Blood Voss.’
“‘We will not,’ she replied. ‘The child comes with usss.’
“‘Us?’ Danton spat. ‘Thou art but one, cousin. Know ye who I am? Know ye my dread king and father in whose affairs ye now meddle?’
“The vampire tilted her head, long black locks flowing in that howling wind. ‘We know Fabién. Knew him, long before he laid claim to his hollow crown. Long before you did, Danton.’ She stepped forward, raised her bloody blade. ‘Tonight we drink your heartsblood, little prince. Tonight your father grieves another child.’
“Danton’s face twisted—fury and perhaps the slightest trace of fear. But a prince of the Blood Voss wasn’t about to be denied when so close to his prize, nor, I suspect, did he have any desire to explain to his father that the Grail had been plucked from his very fingertips by another leech. And so, he turned to his black circle and snarled with all the weight of the sovereign blood in his veins, ‘Butcher her! And I shall take the girl myself!’
“The highbloods obeyed, moving like a storm of crows, black and swift. I had time to see Liathe raise her bloody blade, sling back her bloody flail, and then Danton was upon us. I raised Ashdrinker to meet his charge, roared to Dior ‘Get behind me!’ as the Beast came on. His saber crashed upon my blade, sparks flying as the edges kissed. We stared at each other a moment over crossed steel, eyes burning with purest hatred.
“‘Tonight you sleep in hell, de León,’ he hissed.
“‘This is hell, Danton,’ I smiled. ‘And the devil loves his own.’
“And then, it began in truth.
“When last we’d faced each other, I’d been starving, weak, and he’d spitted me like a pig. The time before, with the weakling sun in the sky, I’d taken his arm off at the elbow and torn the heart from his daughter’s chest. But now there would be no excuses, no measure found wanting. The night was bitter cold and sin-black, the Beast’s full power at his command. But I burned like a beacon, my aegis aglow, the bloodhymn ringing in my veins. No mercy asked, no quarter begged, the debt I owed hanging above us like a headsman’s blade, and a pale shadow—a beauty of edgeless winters and lightless dawns—standing at my shoulder.
“I could feel them, I swear it. My angels. Their love. Their warmth.
“And with that inside me, I was unbreakable.
“But alas, so was the skin of my foe. It’d been years since I faced an enemy like this; an ancien Ironheart, a prince of the Dead. His flesh was stone as I struck it, Ashdrinker almost jarred from my hand with every blow, and though deep cracks appeared in his marble skin after each strike landed, I felt like I was chipping away at a mountain. Danton’s blade flashed quick as silver, reflecting the burning red light of my aegis, and though the glow kept his eyes part blinded, burned him as he drew close to strike, still he did, like thunder, like the monster he was—a bleak lord of carrion, too heavy with the weight of centuries to be bested by my faith alone.
“Ashdrinker caught him across the throat, a chunk taken from his pale skin. His riposte cut through my shoulder, blood sluicing across the snow and the burning lion on my chest. I reached toward him, desperate to get a grip and unleash my bloodgift. But the Beast of Vellene knew the fate that had befallen the Wraith in Red—knew that for me to get my hands on him might spell his end. And so, he kept his distance, circling like a snake and rearing back as I drew close, almost taking my hand off at the wrist as I reached toward him.
“He smiled, wagging a finger. ‘Learn a new trick, dog.’
“‘No dog, leech. The blood of lions flows in these veins.’
“‘Thou art weak, de León. So weak ye could not even defend that which ye loved most dear. And I shall make thee watch as I take another from thee.’
“Behind me, Dior raised her silversteel. ‘I’ll burn your heart out, bastard.’