Saint's Blood

by Sebastien de Castell

  ‘I am the God’s Needle!’ Evi cried with ecstatic fervour, raising the knife for another strike, but before she could stab again, Ethalia had grabbed her arm and was holding it back. Brasti struck out at her, trying to jab the arrow in his hand into her shoulder, but it failed to get through her coat.

  I was moving towards them to help Brasti when I felt something heavy strike me in the side: one of the Knights – the pig-faced one – had swung a broadsword at me; luckily for me, the plates in my coat had successfully blocked the blow. Hurt like the hells, though, but I resisted the urge to fall back and instead stepped in close, cutting off the distance he needed to bring his sword back for another swing. He tried to push me away with his other hand but I deflected it even as I jammed the pommel of my left-hand rapier hard against the rectangular slit in his helmet that allowed him to see. The steel around it bent inwards – not quite enough to cut off his vision but more than sufficient to give him a good scare. He stumbled backwards and I helped him to the ground with a hefty kick to his groin.

  Normally there’s nothing quite as entertaining as watching a Knight on his back trying to get back up, but I was too worried about Ethalia and Brasti to properly enjoy it. Instead, I sought them out again, in time to see both of them struggling to keep out of the way of Evi’s lethal dagger. Brasti was still standing, but he was horribly unsteady on his feet and using Ethalia to steady himself.

  ‘With this act my Sainthood is assured!’ the woman screamed, now sounding completely crazed as she raised her blade again, but at the last instant, just as she was about to lash out, Brasti jammed his arrow into the only part of her that was exposed: the side of her skull. Even over the din I could hear the sickening sound of the iron head punching through bone.

  Brasti looked pale, and not just because of his wounds. In less gruesome circumstances I might have made a joke about archers not being used to getting their hands dirty, but I was feeling rather nauseous myself—

  ‘Falcio, focus!’ Kest said, his warsword coming within a hair’s breath of my head as he blocked a blow that had definitely been intended for me. His voice was so full of pain I thought he must have been hit, but I saw no sign of any injury. The loss of his hand was once again causing him some kind of agony I couldn’t understand.

  ‘We need to get into the forest!’ Allister shouted.

  ‘No,’ Kest said, pushing off the Knight who’d been attacking me. ‘There are only four of them.’

  I drew my second rapier as the Knights started coming at us in formation. They still didn’t charge, though, instead moving together, blocking the road behind them and pushing us backwards. The only way out was the forest.

  Which is exactly what they want, I realised, too late.

  ‘Don’t go into the woods!’ I shouted, but my voice was drowned out by the shouts of a dozen or more men coming from the dense undergrowth. They had no helms nor armour. Most were carrying spears or shortswords, but I counted three with bows getting into position on the other side of the massive spiked logs, obviously intending to use the barricade as protection while they fired upon us.

  So this was why the Knights had delayed their attack, and why the girl had led us to this position. Her little story about a dead Greatcoat and the men responsible had inflamed our anger and used it to ambush us. The Inquisitor had warned me that we weren’t strong enough to protect Ethalia and here I had dragged her straight into a trap. I hate it when other people are right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Smile

  Four Knights, three archers and nine men brandishing assorted spears and swords surrounded the five of us. We had no place to run, no way to manoeuvre and no plan. We’d faced similar odds in the past – hells, we’d faced much worse at times – but we’d had more opportunities, places to move to, ways to sow confusion amongst our enemies. As it was, I reckoned we were going to have to get very lucky, very fast. It was a shame luck was an infrequent companion of ours.

  ‘You’ve got to hold off the Knights,’ I said to Kest.

  ‘All four by myself?’ he asked, which worried me; it wasn’t like Kest to undersell his own abilities.

  I glanced at Brasti who was now struggling to get the crossbow bolt out of his leg, using his one good arm and with Ethalia helping, without passing out. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I can give you two minutes,’ Kest said. ‘After that one of them will outflank me on my weaker right side to—’

  ‘Just do it.’ He needed to keep them off us for long enough Allister and me to get around the spiked logs and deal with the archers, which would give us a decent chance of surviving the next two minutes. ‘Allister, take out the—’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to fight, Falcio,’ he said, using his long staff as a pole and vaulting neatly over the logs. He landed surefooted as a cat on the other side and shifted his grip on the staff before swinging it around in a heavy arc and smashing the iron-shod end into the face of one of the archers. The man went down hard and Allister went for the next bowman, who was already backing away, trying to get enough distance to take aim without running into the third.

  ‘Interesting,’ Kest said even as his warsword swept in a wide arc to knock away two opponents’ blades with one blow. ‘Slower than a sword, but I can see the—’

  ‘Focus,’ I said, pointing at the two unarmoured men rushing us with long two-handed swords. What’s the world coming to when I’m the one telling people to shut up and fight?

  Brasti gave a scream as the bolt finally came out of his leg. For a second I thought he might pass out – but then his eyes went wide. ‘Falcio look out!’

  Too late I saw the fourth archer hidden in the forest aiming for me. I swore and as he fired I dropped my rapier and brought the arms of my coat up to protect my head. I felt the stunning force of the arrow strike me in the side, sending a shock through my ribs, but the plates in my coat held. Few bows can match the force of Brasti’s longbow, and I thanked whatever Gods weren’t already arrayed against me for that. Pulling a throwing knife from the bracer clipped inside my coat, I breathed through the pain and threw it at the archer. The knife buried itself in his shoulder.

  ‘That was a nice shot, Falcio, given you’ve just been hit by an arrow,’ Kest said.

  ‘I was aiming for his belly,’ I grunted, glancing at Kest, only to catch sight of another man coming for me from the forest, his axe swinging in a horizontal arc intended, I had no doubt, to separate my head from my shoulders. I dropped to my knees, the axe blade slicing the air above me and whistling past, and grabbed my rapier from the ground.

  I rose quickly, hoping to stab the man before he could attack me again, but he’d used the thwarted momentum of his swing to try and take Kest’s head instead. It was an awkward manoeuvre, which Kest easily ducked, then used the force of his own spin to bring his warsword slicing just a few inches above the ground, at ankle-height. There was a terrible crunch as the blade first shattered our opponent’s bones, then cut right through. The man screamed as he tumbled to the ground, four inches shorter than he’d been when he started his attack. I was simultaneously reassured and unnerved by the strength and precision Kest displayed with just one hand.

  ‘You know,’ Kest said, rising and preparing to take on his next opponent, a great bull of a man wielding a heavy spear, ‘I really am more comfortable when we’re outnumbered.’

  As absurd as it sounded, he had a point.

  You might think a large group of men would simply rush at their opponents and overwhelm them – but have you ever tried to strike a target while ten other people are running headlong beside you, jostling your arm and getting in the way of your swing? In a confined space, somewhere like the martyrium’s preparation room, and properly arrayed, the way Quentis had prepared his men, the fight might have played out very differently. But these people weren’t at all organised, which made me think they were more likely brigands bribed or pressed into service by Sir Belastrian and his fellow Knights. And that suggested that
none of the four were high-ranking, and so were more used to following orders than giving them.

  We’d probably been outnumbered four to one when the fight started, but like I said, winning on numbers alone isn’t as easy as people think; now only two Knights remained and maybe five of the unarmoured men. Besides, Kest, Brasti and I are very good at fighting ridiculous odds, which is probably why, despite the chaos and blood and burning anger over having been tricked and ambushed, I was smiling for the first time in weeks.

  ‘You see, Allister?’ Brasti shouted around the arrow held between his teeth as he knelt on the ground reaching for his bow with his right hand, ‘Falcio’s back.’

  But Allister was having his own problems now: the archers on the other side of the logs were all dead, but two men with heavy clubs were pressing him back and I could see Allister’s left arm was hanging uselessly at his side.

  ‘Brasti, shoot one of those bastards,’ I called.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Kest said, and hurled his warsword through the air, pommel first.

  Throwing a sword is, by and large, one of the dumbest things you can do. They’re really not designed as projectiles, and the odds of hitting your target aren’t good. That’s why I was especially annoyed when the pommel struck one of Allister’s attackers squarely on the side of his head.

  ‘What?’ he said to me, looking a trifle miffed at my expression. ‘You’re not the only one allowed to throw a blade, you know.’

  ‘No!’ Allister shouted, and Kest and I turned to see him stumbling back against the logs – the second club-man had managed to trip him, and though his coat had protected his back, now he was trapped between the spikes and his attacker was lifting his weapon, preparing for a heavy blow. I reached into my coat for another knife as Kest took off at a run for the logs, but I knew neither of us would get there in time.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Brasti shouted.

  I turned just in time to see Brasti, sitting on the ground using both feet to push against his bow as he held an arrow between two fingers. He nocked and released and the sharp twang of the bowstring was followed by the whoosh of the arrow as it flew through the air. An instant later its journey ended in a soft thunk as the point buried itself in the neck of the man with the club.

  Kest and I watched in awe as he slid first to his knees and then fell to the road.

  Allister twisted out from between the spikes and then clambered to his feet. He looked utterly baffled, then he caught sight of Brasti, still on his arse, and worked out what must have happened. ‘Saint Merhan-who-rides-the-arrow . . .’

  ‘For now,’ Brasti said, grinning despite the obvious pain he was in as he started getting to his feet.

  But Allister hadn’t been praising Brasti’s skill, brilliant though he was. As I moved closer I saw what he’d seen: the woman in the stolen greatcoat had risen from the forest floor – with Brasti’s ironwood arrow still buried in the side of her skull – and was walking towards us.

  She was smiling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The King’s Spear

  ‘I am the God’s Needle,’ the woman said, and the feathered end of the arrow bobbed up and down as she walked slowly towards us.

  ‘Which God would that be?’ I asked, reaching down to pick up both my rapiers from the ground. ‘Because if he were here, he’d probably tell you that you don’t have long to live.’

  She laughed, and under normal circumstances I would have appreciated that from an enemy, but not with the blood dripping down the side of her head from a fatal wound. Then, because apparently that wasn’t disturbing enough, she turned to Ethalia and said, ‘Hello, sister.’

  Ethalia recoiled, though I couldn’t tell whether it was from the madwoman’s greeting or because of some other influence I couldn’t see. She folded at the waist as though she were about to vomit. ‘You . . . are . . . no sister of mine.’

  The God’s Needle spread her hands beatifically. ‘Do you not sense my Awe, sister? Do you not feel it slip and slither inside you?’

  Ethalia forced herself upright, raising one hand in front of her. The first touch of her Awe pushed at all of us – it was weaker than before, but still enough to make Kest, Brasti, Allister and me begin to stumble. It didn’t have any such effect on the woman with the arrow through her skull. ‘Ah, ah ah. I’m sorry, sister, but I’m beyond your Awe.’ She took a step towards her. ‘How do you enjoy mine?’

  Whatever she was doing, she did more of it, and Ethalia began to convulse, teetering like an uprooted tree. I couldn’t imagine what sickly sensation was worming through her. Wait – why can’t I imagine it? ‘Ethalia, stop using your Awe.’

  Her mouth was open, her jaw slack, and I wasn’t even sure she could understand me. ‘Sweetheart, please, stop now.’

  I don’t know whether Ethalia heard me or whether she just couldn’t keep fighting, but she fell to the ground and instantly the pressure on us disappeared.

  ‘Clever,’ the God’s Needle said. ‘You figured out that—’

  She didn’t finish that thought, because I’d thrown myself at her and used every ounce of my strength and momentum to drive the pointy end of my rapier deep into her chest, shattering the bone plate inside the stolen greatcoat and piercing her lung. My left blade was embedded in her belly – but to my everlasting revulsion, she began giggling as she grabbed at both blades, ignoring the great gashes they opened on her hands and instead holding them in place, preventing me from withdrawing them.

  Laugh all you want, I thought, I’m not done with you. A long time ago, I’d paid far, far too much money to have my rapiers custom-made for me, with the blades held against a coiled spring that could be released with a press of a lever near the top of the grip under the guard. It was a great idea; unfortunately, the physics hadn’t been quite worked out and instead of flying through the air when released, which is what I’d intended, instead they flopped unceremoniously to the ground. In this event I didn’t care: I pressed the levers, releasing the blades, and with my fingers still clutching the heavy steel guards, I punched the God’s Needle so hard her jaw shattered.

  She still wouldn’t drop.

  ‘We . . . aren’t like you, Trattari,’ she said, her jaw hanging off, her voice almost unintelligible. ‘We fear neither pain nor death.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I said, and drove my left fist into her shoulder. Something broke there, so at least she wouldn’t be able to grab me. ‘I imagine we’ll have lots to talk about once we get you tied up and haul you back to Aramor. Then you can tell us all about how powerful and beloved of the Gods you are. And you can tell us who you work for.’

  For the first time, I saw something akin to concern in her eyes. Her voice was almost a growl when she said, ‘He who forges our destiny is far beyond any man. You will never know his name.’

  She struck out with her other arm – even off-balance and half dead she had impressive strength and I staggered back a few steps until Kest caught me.

  The woman smiled. ‘It is true, I cannot defeat all of you, so I leave you with a message from the Gods, Trattari.’ She reached up a hand and gripped the shaft of the arrow lodged in her skull. It made a sickening sound as she pushed it in harder, then twisted it and finally pulled it from her head. The laugh she gave sent my guts into knots. ‘We will hunt down every Greatcoat who seeks to put the laws of men above those of the Gods. And we will slay the heretic Queen, for her life is an abomination.’

  Brasti stumbled towards me and leaned against my shoulder. ‘I really don’t think you should be calling other people “abominations”, you know,’ he pointed out.

  She ignored Brasti and turned her gaze back to me. ‘You above all others will suffer, Falcio val Mond, for you would make your blasphemous ideals into a God of your very own. I hope you are there to witness the glorious moment when one of us buries our Needle deep inside the false Queen’s mouth.’

  The woman looked down at the arrow in her hand and for a second I thought she might try to hurl it at
us. Instead she opened the front of her greatcoat, tearing it against my blades, then she slammed the point of the arrow deep into her own belly. She looked up at me and her smile widened. ‘It feels so good,’ she said, though her voice was now barely a whisper, and she ripped it out – only to drive it straight into her chest.

  ‘Stop!’ Ethalia screamed, visibly sickened by the sight, but the madwoman ignored her.

  Again and again the Needle stabbed herself, each time letting out a moan that was half agony and half some mad ecstasy, until finally she fell to the ground. Kest, Brasti, Allister and I stood over her and her eyes went to each of us in turn. ‘Each of us needs kill only one Saint,’ she said, ‘and for that, eternal pleasures are promised to us.’ She opened her mouth and showed me her tongue, which was the blue of the pertine. ‘The Greatcoats we kill for free.’

  I felt so sick that I couldn’t speak, but Ethalia rose to her feet and said suddenly, ‘She’s lying.’

  The woman’s eyes went wide, and so did mine. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  She ignored me and knelt down to lean over her. ‘I was next to you when you stabbed Brasti. You could have taken him in the throat or the chest, but you went for his arm.’

  ‘Ethalia’s right,’ Kest added, ‘You could have ordered your archers to fire at us from the forest, or given more of your men bows, but you didn’t. I think whoever commands you has ordered that you capture Greatcoats if you can, not kill them.’

  The woman’s mouth spilled blood as she spoke through her broken jaw. ‘You deceive yourself, apostate—’

  ‘No,’ Kest said, ‘I don’t think so.’ He looked at me. ‘Think about it, Falcio.’

  Allister shook his head. ‘This is wishful thinking, Kest.’

  ‘No,’ I said, letting the patterns and possibilities tumble around in my head, ‘he’s right. Alive, they can interrogate us for what we know or use us as hostages, or for whatever damnable rituals they think their Gods might want them to inflict.’