Blood of the Gods

by David Mealing

  “Inland, then,” Sarine said, and the others nodded along. The provisions they’d stored in the canoe were still tumbling through the Divide; it meant scavenging for food, water, and shelter, and the villas were as likely a place as any to start, even in the middle of a battle.

  “Arquebuses,” Acherre said when they traversed the garden walls, stepping over the soldiers’ discarded weapons. “A hundred years behind Sarresant’s arms. Maybe two hundred.”

  “Best pray their knowledge of the Regnant’s magic is equally stunted,” Axerian said. “Yellow can protect us from their foot soldiers, but it will draw attention from the magi, if they’re here.”

  “Let’s move,” Sarine said. The estate they’d landed on was deserted, built in a combination of familiar and strange. Vines covered the stone walls, hanging from a canopy draped over top of a curated garden. Long boxlike halls extended out from the main building, with redwood framing under curved-tile roofs. Inside the main hall the furniture could have been from Sarresant, albeit from a distant, foreign era of art and decoration. Cabinets and armoires lined the walls, ornately carved and patterned with gold, with tapestries above them sewn depicting scenes of men and women in ankle-deep fields of water. Chairs were missing; the tables were situated at knee height, with cushions laid beside them in long rows.

  “This way,” Acherre called when they reached a fork in the hall, and the rest followed into the kitchens. Again the implements and décor echoed home without confirming it: three stone bowls dominating the space, with spice racks and a pile of neatly stacked firewood laid beside the hearth. Acherre vanished into the pantry while Ka’Inari descended down wooden steps into a cellar, leaving her and Axerian to pore over the spices.

  “It always seemed wrong, to me,” Axerian said, “that the Regnant’s people would enjoy the fruits of our victories. Shouldn’t they live in shadow, gas, and ash? At least as a form of homage, one would think.”

  “We need to decide what to do,” Sarine said. “Provisions first, but we have to find where their champions are likely to be.”

  “Not as easy as it sounds. On our side of the Divide, the moment of ascension is different for each line. No telling which Houses are chosen for this cycle, and even if we knew that, they will guard their prospective champions from us, all the more so if the Regnant has the means to tell them we’re here.”

  “They have pigs, Oracle be praised,” Acherre called from the next room. “Ham shanks, rashers of bacon—and beef! Cows, too!”

  “We’ll need sacks, or bags to carry it in,” Sarine said, rummaging through the kitchen in search of something fitting. “You called them Houses, are they physical places? Temples or such?”

  “Likely not,” Axerian said. “The Great and Noble Houses are schools of power, not unlike the Vordu spirits or the kaas’ bonds. Collections of people who share a certain affinity for magic. In some ages, they’ve ruled an Empire; in others they warred between themselves until the end. From the look of things I’d say we’re in the latter—too close to the end at this point for city fighting to be coincidental. But which side is which? Which do we want to aid, or oppose? Who can tell?”

  He said it as though it were a joke. Sarine frowned, midway through upending a sack of what looked like radishes to repurpose it for carrying jars of spices, smaller sacks of grain, and iron pots. “You agreed to follow me through the Divide; didn’t you have an inkling of what we’d do once we passed through?”

  “I expected us to die,” Axerian said. “When hope is exhausted, one accepts risks one might otherwise eschew.”

  “Well, we’re here,” she said. “If Ka’Inari can see threats, we can follow his spirits’ guidance. That’s something.”

  Axerian nodded. “Reassuring, if the Vordu gifts aren’t impaired by the Divide.”

  “You didn’t know …?”

  “How could I have? The Divide was always down when we came to face his champions.”

  She stuffed a few more jars into the bag, shaking her head in disbelief. Had he really expected them to die? The enormity of the task loomed in front of her. From the sound of it, they would have the spirits’ visions to guide them, and they had the kaas’ gift with language, to say nothing of their collected prowess at protection and, if it came to it, fighting. Four of them against an entire world, equal in the depth of its nations and magicks to the one she knew. She could solve it one step at a time. Food first, then a bearing on which armies were fighting here, and why. There would be civilians caught in it, or soldiers to capture. They would have the first kernels of information, and offer a path to find the next. She could do this.

  Ox, Anati thought to her.

  She frowned, as Axerian darted his head around, peering through one of the kitchen windows.

  “Where?” Axerian asked.

  “Wait,” she said. “What does that mean?”

  “Magi coming,” Axerian said, then again, louder, for Acherre and Ka’Inari’s benefit, “gather here—it’s time to go.”

  Acherre came around from the pantry holding two sacks slung over her shoulder. “What is it?” she said, at the same moment Ka’Inari came trotting up the stairs from the cellar, carrying three glass bottles in either hand.

  A roaring crash struck the house, shattering glass, blasting apart the walls from the pantry. Screams sounded as stone and mortar scattered through the kitchen, and a boulder the size of a tree stump came to rest in the hallway. The outer wall hung open like a wound, letting sunlight stream into the wreckage of the pantry, where Acherre would have been standing had it struck a moment before.

  This time Sarine put up Shelter by reflex, a barrier as thick as she could handle. Thundercracks sounded immediately following the boulder, and more glass shattered, though the bulk of it impacted on her Shelter, dissolving into hissing smoke.

  “Out,” Acherre shouted, leading the way through the breach created by whatever had thrown the rock through the wall.

  “Careful,” Axerian called after her. “There will be a magi with them. An Ox.”

  The rest dimmed as Sarine followed behind Acherre, Red and Body giving her the speed and agility to keep her footing through the rubble. They emerged into the outer courtyard of the estate, where a fresh line of red-armored soldiers had dropped to their knees, busily reloading their guns after delivering their volley. Anati gave her Yellow as quick as she could think to ask for it, and she felt the tableau of the soldiers’ emotions: steadiness, fear, exhilaration, obedience. She pressed on fear at the same moment Acherre tore into them with Entropy, a ripping explosion engulfing the leftmost part of their line in billowing flame. The rest broke, save for one man among them, already hefting another boulder when his fellows deserted their line. He looked toward her and Acherre with bewilderment, then threw his rock as Acherre tethered another binding, enveloping him in a cloud of fire.

  A fresh Shelter barrier absorbed the boulder’s impact, sprung up moments before it hit. Ka’Inari emerged from the hole in the pantry wall as the rock exploded into fragments against the white haze, and he cowered back before he had time to realize it was safe.

  “I’d almost forgotten how lovely it was fighting at your side,” Acherre said to her, grinning.

  “Careful!” Ka’Inari cried out.

  Acherre’s Entropy had left behind a cloud of black smoke where it must have caught the soldiers’ powder, but a creature emerged through it, a silhouette suddenly made real. It was as though the man had been replaced by a creature of gray stone, or perhaps he’d conjured armored plating, a thick layer of it covering him from head to toe. Another boulder formed in his hands, and he threw it before he cleared the smoke, a splintering crash where it struck the Shelter again, making a ripping sound where the barrier drained from a rich blue to a pale white.

  Lakiri’in added its blessing to Red, and Body, and she surged with speed.

  Stone formed in the magi’s hands, and the rock-armored man raised it midformation to ready another throw. She struck first, mareh
’et’s claws growing from her fingers as she slammed them through the magi’s armored neck. Stone cracked, and the skin beneath it split clean, a single heartbeat’s worth of blood staining her hands as his head fell to the ground.

  Pleasure spiked through her in a rolling wave.

  She felt her blood thrumming in time with her breath. Sweat dripped from her forehead.

  No, Anati thought. Fight her. Don’t let her have control.

  She muted the upstart kaas. She was the Veil; it was never her place to be told what to do by such a creature. The storm spirits granted their blessing at her demand, and rage burned through her body. She whirled to face the traitor, Axerian, and the other two fools who had accompanied him on this deadly-stupid foray into her rival’s claim. The Regnant would offer no quarter, if he took them here. Even the kaas could not grant them passage back through the Divide, and the enemy would have his revenge for coming here at all. Killing them first might be the start of penance, if she could entreat the Regnant to listen.

  She discharged lightning toward them, and Axerian moved, leaping to intercept the bolt.

  The energy tore through him. He fell, covered in wisps of smoke.

  No, Anati thought to her as she readied another strike. This body is not yours. I am not yours!

  The pleasure receded, and Sarine sucked in a hard breath, her hands shaking as her senses regained control.

  “Sarine!” Acherre shouted. “What the bloody fuck are you doing?”

  The memory of what she’d done played again in her mind before she registered the cause. Not her. The Veil. Killing had triggered Black’s waves of pleasure, and let the Goddess escape. She raced forward, dropping to her knees beside Axerian. Ka’Inari already held his hand, rolling him over to face the sky.

  “The Veil,” Axerian croaked. “You lost … you let her …”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Sarine said. “Black came, and I lost control. Axerian, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  Axerian managed a rasping laugh. “Forgot I’d already used White,” he said. “Should have let the girl die.”

  Life obeyed her as she wove it into his body. His lungs had charred from the inside; she fought to repair them. Blood poured through rips in his organs. Red and Body coursed through her as she worked, slowing each blood vessel as it burst. She sealed them shut, bolstering him with as much energy as she could handle.

  He’d gone quiet, and pale, staring at her with sadness in his eyes.

  “More coming,” Acherre said. “We have to move.”

  Axerian’s heart stopped, and suddenly Life went sluggish as she worked the strands into his body, the same as if she’d tried to bind them into a stone.

  The pleasure of death, of killing, came again.

  She recoiled from it, fought it down as soon as it rose.

  Cheers filled the manor garden as soldiers in yellow-painted armor streamed onto the grounds. Acherre moved to put herself between them, but the newcomers greeted them with shouts of welcome and relief.

  “Lord Isaru’s magi,” the nearest ones said. “They’ve arrived!”

  45

  ERRIS

  A Trench Overlooking a Hillside Fort

  Cadobal Highlands, the Thellan Colonies

  Artillery bellowed behind their line, sending tremors through the ground. Mud spattered from the sides of their trench, painting most uniforms shades of brown rather than the usual deep Sarresant blue. Spades lay discarded for the time being, and the smells of piss and excrement had yet to be washed away by the late-season rain. If the sun was shining, it was hidden behind a layer of clouds and gun smoke. The regiment-colonel in command of the 16th was the only bright spot, meeting her Need with a crisp salute and thick mustaches unstained by soot or grime.

  “High Commander, sir, it’s an honor,” the colonel said. “A true honor, straight from the stories.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” she said in her vessel’s voice, a deeper, harsher tone than hers, though still a woman’s. “Report. How is your line disposed?”

  “Dug in, sir. The Thellan are cowards, hiding behind walls we’ve no need to risk assaulting. I ordered us dug in to ring the hills here, with support from Calenne’s artillery. We’re spread thin, but with Brouard in reserve on the left, we can react to any enemy movement if they try to leave the fort.”

  She translated the words into materiel in her mind—Calenne had the 22nd Battery, and Brouard the 41st Cavalry. Nine guns, with some seven hundred soldiers surrounding the fort.

  “What strength does the enemy have here?” she asked.

  “Not more than a half-strength regiment, sir,” the colonel said. “Four, maybe five hundred. Easy enough to crack, if we assault the walls, but I valued my soldiers’ lives over a swift attack. Our guns will push them out in short order. Unless you think it better, if we press our advantage?”

  “No, Colonel. Hold this position. Send word to Major Calenne to conserve as much ammunition as she can, but drive them out. Bombard them through the night, if you have to. And keep a clear eye for any attempts to flee.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Do you have a spyglass, Colonel?”

  He patted his coat before an aide produced one.

  She panned the glass along the walls. Thellan soldiers in their mustard-yellow coats were visible behind the palisade, hunkered down where Calenne’s battery hadn’t torn holes in the fresh-built wood-and-mud-brick barricades. A dozen more forts like this one had sprung up in the Thellan march, as though the enemy had planted a garden of nettling bushes in her path. None were any better defended than this one, nor had there been any sign of reinforcements set to break her sieges. The enemy had stationed just enough soldiers in each to threaten her with raids if she ignored them, but not to offer any serious defense. A few weeks’ delay, at best, before she’d taken them all, if these forts continued into the Thellan heartland.

  She’d almost given up and collapsed the spyglass when she found what she’d been searching for.

  A Thellan officer, standing proudly in plain view, holding a spyglass pointed straight back at her. It took a second look to recognize the golden light of Need spilling from the end of the enemy’s glass tube, the same as it would be for hers. They held each other in view for a moment, until the enemy lowered his glass, raising his fist to his chest in what she could only read as a mocking imitation of a salute.

  She collapsed the glass, handing it back to the aide.

  “Keep morale up, Colonel,” she said. “We have the advantage, on the fields to come. This fort is only the beginning.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” the colonel said.

  She let Need fade.

  “Any updates, sir?” one of the aides asked.

  “Nothing new,” she said. “The Sixteenth is where you have them, still besieging their fort.”

  Another aide reached to add a token to the map near the 9th and 16th, signifying a freshly reported position. She left the table, heading for another group of officers standing nearby.

  “Sir,” they said collectively, moving to make way as she took a place overlooking their work. Brigade-General Vassail headed the table, though she did it sitting down, her leg raised atop a second chair, lashed with wood splints and linen wraps from the break she’d suffered while drilling her troops, some days prior to the southward march.

  It took a moment for her eyes to focus on their maps. Her days had become an endless chain of tabletops and planning, one theater in sequence with another, while her nights had been spent with more of the same, only with politics and the concerns of state thrown in for seasoning. These maps were hand-drawn, and freshly done. An approximation of the tribes’ lands beyond where the Thellan part of the barrier had fallen, far to the south.

  “Report,” she said. “Where do we need updates?”

  “We’re well enough situated, for now, sir,” Vassail said. “The western front is quiet; I was preparing orders for Wexly to move in support of the Second Corps. But it can keep ti
ll morning.”

  Thank the Exarch for small graces. “Very good, then,” she said.

  Vassail grabbed wooden crutches and rose to her feet as Erris turned to leave. “Sir, may I accompany you for a moment?”

  “Of course, General,” she said, and paused while the cavalrywoman hobbled forward, falling in at a lopsided gait as they moved toward Erris’s private offices.

  “You’re finished with the morning reports, sir?” Vassail asked.

  “Yes. And you’re interrupting my downtime, General.” She said it with a smile to take away any malice, but there was truth to it. Conserving her energy while the army was active was imperative.

  “Yes, sir,” Vassail said. “Apologies. I’m concerned as to why the enemy is throwing his soldiers away with these makeshift forts. It doesn’t make any sense to me, sir.”

  “What do you think he’s up to?”

  Erris pushed through the double doors leading to her office foyer, holding them open while Vassail swung her crutches through. Aide-Captain Essily greeted them, rising from behind his desk in the receiving area; that much she’d expected. But Marquand was there, too, already on his feet by the time she’d cleared the door, and Omera, the servant who’d attached himself to Voren.

  “High Commander, sir,” Essily began, while Marquand said, “About bloody time,” and Omera said nothing, merely stared at her with his unnerving one-eyed glare.

  “What’s this about?” she asked.

  “The colonel insisted he be allowed to—” Essily began.

  “I Gods-damned need your attention, d’Arrent,” Marquand said.

  “Enough,” she snapped. “Did you forget our last exchange? I asked for decorum, Colonel. I expect to see it here, waiting for me when Brigade-General Vassail and I are finished.”

  Marquand smoldered, but said nothing.

  Vassail went ahead into her private offices, ushered through the door by a smug-looking Essily.

  “This is about Voren, isn’t it?” she asked Marquand, pausing halfway through the room.