Something blunt and hard struck Godwyn in the back of the head.
Clutching his skull, gulping in the squalid, blood-soaked air, vision swiftly blurring, Godwyn tottered forward to his knees. Filthy water and black beetles and Laijon knew what else forced their way down his throat. Head barely above water now, Godwyn tried to stand, every muscle in his body raging in protest. Mind swimming with fractured thoughts and delirium, he felt himself droop face-forward into the swirling, bubbling red, letting the sea swallow him whole. And I welcome death. . . .
Godwyn found himself cowering, hugging the seabed, willing himself to just die, and die quick, sifting his fingers through the sand beneath him, knowing that his life would soon be blessedly over.
Hooves of heavy horses stomped all around him, none striking that crushing blow that would end it, though. Sharks slithered over his back, pressing him farther into the sand, face-first, none of them taking off his head as he so desired.
Weariness had drained him, and his lungs burned for air . . .
. . . and he welcomed the death that closed in over him.
And then he heard a voice.
I ask for no man’s pity. The voice was muffled, as if from a distance. But it was the unmistakable voice of his father. Every day is a gift, son. We Godwyns push on. As would any man who values his honor. Today is not the day you die. Your great sacrifice has not yet come.
The words of his father bolstering him, and with every ounce of strength he could muster, Godwyn shoved himself up from the floor of the sea, arms straining, silt and sand embedded in every crevice of his armor.
Head now above water, chaos churning around, he hauled himself to his feet, searching the swirling tumult for a Sør Sevier knight to kill.
And his eyes fell upon Aeros Raijael.
The White Prince was still alive.
Helmetless, weaponless, Aeros was again standing chest-deep in the center of bloody turmoil. Yet it was no shark or Gul Kana soldier the Angel Prince fought.
It was Beer Mug.
The dog was attached to the White Prince’s left forearm, jaw clamped tight. The dog dangled and thrashed, teeth sunk deep into Aeros’ shiny vambrace. Blood, red and livid, welled from under the armor. Beer Mug’s hind paws clawed at Aeros’ legs and torso, front paws raking deep furrows in the man’s gleaming chest plate. The White Prince struggled to stay upright in the stomach-deep water, struggled to shake the dog from his arm. But Beer Mug clung tight, fighting.
“Kill him, Beer Mug!” Liz Hen yelled, pushing her way toward the fight. “Kill him! Drag him down into the sea, and I’ll help you drown the son of a bitch!”
Your great sacrifice has not yet come. Godwyn heard his father’s voice again. Without hesitation he charged toward Aeros Raijael.
* * *
I saw a myriad of battlefields, the pale white flesh of the young dead that slept and suffered no more. ’Twas I, Raijael, most gracious, most merciful, who yet suffers. ’Twas I who remained alive to sleep no more.
—CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
MANCELLOR ALLEN
5TH DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
SAINT ONLY CHANNEL
Lonesome Crown and Forgetting Moon are lost to the sea!
Ripe with fear, Mancellor Allen pulled with all his might, trying to wrest his sword free of the great white shark that had just killed his stallion. Up to his chest in bloody seawater, it was a desperate struggle. Horse entrails, gray, pink, and violet were afloat all around, sleek and glimmering wet in the sun. They swirled and snaked and bobbed in the choppy waves as if in merry celebration of Shine’s dramatic demise.
He couldn’t believe his trusted steed was dead, but so too was the monstrous beast that had bit the horse in half. His sword was still buried hilt-deep in the shark’s tough flesh, and the dead monster was rolling over in the choppy red waves now, his weapon slowly disappearing beneath it. His straining hands abandoned the sword.
It was then that he saw the blood welling from the wide slash in his right arm bracer just below his shoulder armor, a slash so deep he marveled his arm was still functional at all. He rolled his shoulder, almost fainted from the agony. But such was the slash and chaos of war. Ofttimes injuries went unnoticed until the end. But he felt it now—a near-crippling pain. His knees almost buckled. Grit your teeth and bear it! Pain is only temporary, Mancellor Allen; you cannot let it knock you out of battle. That was the Wyn Darrè way. For The Way and Truth of Laijon commanded all to shrug away the cloak of unrighteous doubt and carry on unwavering in battle. You were born to fight on! And Laijon hath set you on a path toward destiny!
Lonesome Crown! Forgetting Moon! Where are they now? The question struck Mancellor again like a cold ice pick in his spine. Determined, his gaze scanned the horizon. The rising tide had put everything at almost eye level now. And as far as he could see, it was all the same—a sunlit scarlet mayhem of staggering immensity. The once-cold waters were warm with blood. The entire Saint Only Channel appeared like a boiling fire of splashing red flame, a thunderstorm of screams and shouts that tore at his ears and scoured them raw. Bodies floated all around, sharks tearing at their flesh.
And then he sensed something else in the water at his feet. Something sleek and sinuous slithered by, some fishy creature that pulled at his mind, wanted to latch on to his legs and drag him down into the pooling red depths and drown him.
The pain in his arm was intense. He felt the light-headedness steal over him as the scorching agony pulsed through him. You cannot let it knock you out of the fight! He had to keep telling himself. In Wyn Darrè, you fought on, no matter how gravely injured, you kept in the fight until you either conquered your foe or were killed. Pain is only temporary. A second. A minute. An hour or a day. It will eventually subside!
He spotted Hammerfiss and Ivor Jace in the distance, both still ahorse, their white stallions bucking and braying in the rioting sea. Ivor’s sword flashed in the sun as he hacked at both man and shark. Hammerfiss’ round mace was a spiked ball of gore and blood, thunderously crushing heads. Spiderwood was there too, black daggers slashing. His Bloodeye steed was tearing and kicking at man and shark with a savagery Mancellor never knew could exist in a horse. But where are Enna Spades and Jenko Bruk?
Aeros Raijael was the closest to him, not twenty paces away, his skin now the pallor of a glowing full moon against the dark scarlet sea. He was helmetless, blond hair whipping about as he fought with—of all things—a big gray shepherd dog. The dog’s jaws were clamped tight around Aeros’ arm, teeth cutting into the silver vambrace. Blood poured from the armor.
“Kill him, Beer Mug!” shouted a plump Gul Kana knight with short-cropped red hair and a puffy round face full of freckles. “Kill him! Drag him down into the sea, and I’ll help you drown the son of a bitch!”
The red-haired Gul Kana soldier wore ill-fitting iron armor of a strange make, no gauntlets, no weapon. Still, the soldier was charging toward Aeros, bloody water welling up before him. Another Gul Kana knight in similar armor followed, a much smaller fellow, mousy in comparison, head barely above water. An old man with a soppy gray mustache trailed after the two, wearing the same strange armor as the others. All three were sloshing toward Aeros Raijael as fast as the thick red slurry would allow.
Mancellor pulled a dagger from his belt. It was only then that he noticed his own helm was gone. Everything lost in the confusion and horror. But the helm was of scant concern now, for he knew he would have to shed the rest of his armor soon lest it sink him. The tidewaters had risen so fast.
The red-haired Gul Kana knight reached the Angel Prince first, large body crashing headlong into both Aeros and the shepherd dog, all three sprawling under thick red water. Aeros rose from the sea quickly, scarlet seawater streaming from his stark white hair. He clutched his injured arm to his chest, the silver vambrace shredded, blood flowed viscous and dark. The gray dog resurfaced next, paddling straight towa
rd the Angel Prince. The red-haired knight burst back up from the ocean too, following the dog.
But the mousy Gul Kana knight was on Aeros before either could get there, tearing and clawing at the Angel Prince with small hands. “Smash his face, Dokie!” the red-haired fellow yelled. The old man with the drooping gray mustache joined the mousy one, and the two of them easily dragged Aeros underwater again.
Mancellor had never seen the Angel Prince injured before, and the raw fear in Aeros’ eyes had been real. He had to face it; everyone on this battlefield was going to die today. Mont Saint Only was nine miles behind him, its ever-burning beacon likely still visible to anyone who took the time to look. Lord’s Point was at least a mile in front of him, a dark line of buildings barely discernable in the distance.
And then he saw boats. Between himself and Lord’s Point, there were hundreds of them, all afloat, men scrambling from the blood-soaked sea to safety.
Aeros’ head burst from the sea again, mouth agape, gasping for air. The dog and redheaded knight swarmed over him, pulling him down swiftly with the help of the boy and old man, the four of them holding the Angel Prince under. Sharks circled the thrashing swarm of bodies.
Mancellor had never read The Chivalric Illuminations of Raijael, but had heard every one of Hammerfiss’ recountings of the scripture to the point he had most of it memorized. Within the Illuminations the sentiment was the same for warriors of Sør Sevier—you do not let the pain knock you out of the fight. Especially if you are the Angel Prince and indestructible! And Aeros was down there somewhere fighting for his life.
Almost neck-deep in water, dagger still in hand, Mancellor pushed his way through the sharks toward the pile of squirming bodies, one thing on his mind—I must get to the angel stones in the pouch at Aeros’ belt.
Mancellor pulled the old man off Aeros, dragging the fellow back and away, thick bloody water making his every move sluggish and slow. The Angel Prince’s head shot up from the channel again, open mouth sucking in air.
“Leave Godwyn be!” the red-haired knight swung a large balled fist at Mancellor. In water so deep, it was an awkward punch. Mancellor dodged the blow and shoved the big fellow away. The shepherd dog snapped at him. He shoved the dog away too. The red-haired knight drifted back toward him, rage blazing in round, bloodshot eyes.
“Liz Hen!” the mousy knight yelled, his own head bobbing below the ocean and then back up. “Watch out!”
The one named Liz Hen was swallowed up by froth and bloody spray as a charging white stallion chest-deep in the water bulled him over. It was Ivor Jace, atop Spirit, blond hair like a banner rippling in the wind, sword awhirl as he struck at the knight named Godwyn. The old man ducked beneath the sea, Ivor’s sword whistling over his head. Mancellor pushed the mousy knight named Dokie away from Aeros. He grabbed the Angel Prince by the waist, pulling him toward Ivor’s white stallion.
And that’s when he made his move.
With one swift stroke of his dagger, Mancellor sliced away the leather pouch at Aeros’ belt. Angel stones! His heart pounded as he stuffed the pouch with the two precious gems into the pocket of his leather breeches—a deep pocket. The deed was done quickly, unseen under so much bloody water, undetected in the raging storm of war.
“Climb onto the horse behind Ivor!” he shouted, shoving the Angel Prince up. “We’ve got to get you out of here. We’re all doomed to drown!” With all the strength he could muster, pain lancing through his shoulder and arm, Mancellor helped lift Aeros Raijael up onto Spirit.
“Even the seas dare not drown our Angel Prince!” Ivor declared, vigorously hauling Aeros up into the saddle behind him with one strong arm.
Liz Hen rose from the sea, clawing at Aeros’ leg. Spirit kicked the girl in the chest plate, sending her sprawling back. The stallion whirled in the water, kicking at sharks next. “The ax and the helm!” Aeros cried, gripping the blond Knight Archaic tight with his one good arm as the horse spun about. “We must find them!”
“They are lost to the sea!” Ivor shouted, gaining control of the animal, aiming Spirit toward Mont Saint Only. He set spurs to flanks and the muscular stallion bounded off, bloody water splashing up as it pushed through the frothing chaos toward Adin Wyte.
Mancellor was still floundering in the thick of war, a frenzied white shark thrashing before him. Liz Hen, Dokie, and Godwyn were lost in the battering torrent. The shepherd dog too. Mancellor’s heart failed a beat as he tried to move away from the gnawing, crazed shark. Up to his chin in the sea now, every move he made was a sluggish exertion, swathes of bloody spume rolling over him.
He lost his footing, felt his armor pulling him down. Fear raked his soul as he ducked below the surface, unhooking bucklers and leather straps as fast as he could in the slosh. He pulled off his cuirasses one at a time then came up for air, tearing at his vambraces next. He could scarcely see through the thick red seawater coating his eyes. Agony bit into him once his injured arm was wholly exposed to the salt water. It hurt, cold and dreadful, like a dagger constantly plying under his skin, driving stinging bolts of pain through his every muscle. Waves crashed into his face over and over, and then calm.
When his eyes cleared, he beheld a terrible yet captivating sight and wondered if he were hallucinating. Not ten paces away, a silvery-haired woman of striking pale elegance rose up out of the violet sea before him. She faced a stricken, wide-eyed Gul Kana knight, naught but his head and shoulders above water. The woman was young and naked, pale breasts streaked with bloody seawater as her slender body seemed to hover above the Gul Kana fighter.
She wielded long sharpened bones in both of her webbed, clawed hands. She struck swift and sure, sinking both crude weapons into the knight’s throat, then yanking them out just as quickly. The surprised fighter grabbed at his neck and drifted back.
The naked woman curled forward and dipped below the sea, her scaled fishlike tail glimmering like polished armor as it slapped against the bloody channel.
“Merfolk!” someone shouted.
Two more of the creatures spun up from the crimson waters, half human, half fish, both males, chests and arms corded with muscle, the lower halves of their scaly bodies aglitter in the sun, shining like jewels of diamond, copper, and emerald.
“Watch out for those gill-fucking monsters, Lord Kronnin!” Leif Chaparral yelled as he pushed passed Mancellor, neck-deep in swirling scarlet, black shoulder plate armor cutting through the sea. Leif was headed in the direction of Lord Kelvin Kronnin. The Lord’s Point knight was struggling with the mermaid now, her clawed hands raking his face. Hammerfiss was there all of a sudden, still on his stallion, massive spiked mace crushing both Kronnin and the mermaid straight into the sea. Water spouted pink and violet over the neck of his white stallion.
Hammerfiss was manic, grinning and laughing. Mancellor had seen his fellow Knight Archaic get like this before. Berserk. The large bearded knight was now alive and thriving in the only place he had ever considered home. War. And this was a bloody war beyond description. Hammerfiss gleefully spurred his mount straight for Leif Chaparral, his stallion half swimming, half galloping, in its ponderous charge.
Leif raised his sword to meet the mountain charging toward him.
Mancellor lost sight of the fight as a bloody wave lapped up into face and over his head. Then something brushed against his leg. He spun, kicking out, legs near useless in the water. Something snatched him around the hips, clawing at him from below.
And he was yanked beneath the sea.
Water folded over him, pressed inward with all-consuming stark red oblivion. He swung out madly, a desperate attempt to free himself from the hands that pulled at him, hands that found purchase and climbed up his body. Slithery arms encircled his chest, pinning his hands up around his own neck, clutching, squeezing the breath from him.
And then he saw her slender ghostly visage.
Inches away she stared with stony, glaring eyes, lids blinking, slow and delicate. Her thin-boned face was pale and fine
, her chin, lips, nose, and brows seemingly cut of glamorous white marble. As she breathed, a serrated row of gills fluttered along her sleek neck. She squeezed him, naked breasts pressing against his chest, fishy tail coiling around his legs. One webbed hand reaching into his pocket for the angel stones, stones that were growing warm in his pocket.
Mancellor struggled in her bitter grasp, mustering what strength he could, trying to wriggle free, trying to shake off her searching hand, surprised to find such strength in the mermaid’s dreary touch. Pain burned through his heaving chest. His lungs called for air. The wound on his arm ached so sharply that all other senses were pinched and frozen into immobility. A soul-shattering terror engulfed him as the mermaid opened her mouth with a muffled hiss, bloody and wet. Fangs, fearsome and sharp, hovered in the deep just a hairsbreadth from Mancellor’s face.
He felt himself losing consciousness as her tail constricted.
And everything changed before him. He found himself awash in a flame of crimson light. Bright pockets of fire pulsed in waves around him whilst runnels of bloody red seawater flashed and burned against his skin. It felt as if the entire Saint Only Channel were folding over onto itself. Sparkling water throbbed with ruby light, like gemstones, like angel stones. The mermaid’s webbed hands now curled around the two gemstones hidden in his own pocket. . . .
Crimson light blossomed brilliantly, a bloody bright redness that illuminated everything: the swarming sharks, the slithering mermaids, the churning legs of fighting knights, the dead bodies encased in armor littering the floor of the channel, and most strange of all, symbols. Flickering and wavering pockets of flame in every direction: squares, circles within circles, crosses, all of them a-twinkle, all of them aglitter and blooming with red-flowing fire.
. . . And the mermaid began pulling the angel stones free of his pocket. The entire ocean was suddenly pitched in black.
The Blackest Heart Page 87