‘Something is happening,’ Quentis Maren said, an odd sound in his voice that took me a moment to recognise as awe.
Aline glanced back at me, just for a moment. ‘Every day a Queen must conquer her fear.’ Then as the crowd looked on, and in defiance of the God of Fear himself, the daughter of my King rose to her feet.
The Prelate’s face went as pale as his robes. ‘That’s not possible.’
Moving so slowly I thought she might fall back down at any moment, Aline stepped past Obladias to stand before the God of Fear. ‘I am Aline of Tristia, daughter of Paelis, heir to the Throne of Aramor.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Now get the hells out of my castle.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
The Iron
For the longest time, no one moved or spoke. Then the God’s Needles stepped back, shocked by what they’d seen, and the pilgrims stopped singing their hymns. The God of Fear stared down at Aline and she stared right back.
He spoke, a single word: ‘Blasphemy.’
It was like a wind, hot and humid, crushing down everything in its path – but not Aline. ‘I am done bowing to fear,’ she said.
The Blacksmith had been quiet, almost disinterested, throughout the proceedings. Now he walked to the front of the dais and looked down at me. ‘And was this your great stratagem, Falcio? You intuited that because the girl had known fear her whole life she could resist my God’s Awe?’
I didn’t reply. Bottio calls the fourth deadly vice of the duellist canto anticipato, or unintentionally revealing one’s intentions for the final attack. The Blacksmith was vastly smarter than I was, and anything I let slip he would use against me; any plan I made, he could map out in his mind and find a way to defeat. Sometimes silence really is the best parry.
‘Clever,’ he said to me, still not bothering to address Aline herself, ‘but you forget that for all the girl’s courage, she is merely flesh and bone.’ He turned and gestured, and two of the Knights stepped forward and grabbed Aline by the arms.
I heard the other Greatcoats behind me grunt as they tried and failed to rise.
The Blacksmith reached down and drew the heavy hammer from his belt. ‘Flesh and bone will always give way before iron, Falcio.’ He walked back to Aline and looked down at her with an almost sorrowful resignation. ‘My daughter was almost your age,’ he said. ‘She was brave too, for a while.’
‘Damn it, he’s going to kill her,’ Allister said. ‘I still can’t move, can you?’
‘Wait,’ I said again.
‘I grieve for you,’ Aline said to the Blacksmith. I could hear the quivering in her voice. ‘You have suffered a father’s loss, and that loss has cost you your Faith.’
He gave her a wan smile. ‘Look about you, little Queen. I have shown you all the Faith there is in Tristia. I have shown you how power flows from man to God and back again. It is all mathematics, engineering. There is nothing else.’
‘There is this,’ she said, and very softly, she sang, ‘“The First Law is that all are free. For without the freedom to choose, none can serve their heart, and without heart they cannot serve their Gods, their Saints or their Queen.”’ Her voice was sweet and clear and true.
The Blacksmith turned to look back at me. ‘You see the foolishness you inspire, Falcio? The child could have run – she could have lived! Damn you for making me—’
‘Speak to me,’ Aline said. ‘You will listen to me, Blacksmith, for I will see your Faith restored and your blackened heart broken by it.’
‘Sing then, little girl, sing as the hammer falls.’
She turned to look at us, and we struggled to stand, but the weight of the God’s stare kept us down. I’m so sorry, sweetheart . . .
Aline smiled. ‘The First Law has been broken, Magistrates. In the name of that Law, I bid you rise and render your judgement. Greatcoats, report.’
She can’t see that we’re still trapped, I realised, horrified. The second part of our plan wasn’t working.
I tried to scream to her, but before I could she turned to the Blacksmith and said, ‘Come and show me the strength of your iron and I will show you mine.’
With a roar born as much from anguish as rage, the Blacksmith raised the hammer high above his head. As it reached its apex, a blur of movement caught my eye and the weapon was stopped in its downwards arc, frozen in mid-air by a pair of slender hands wrapped around the Blacksmith’s thick wrists. With strength born of the Adoracia she still fought inside herself, Valiana wrenched the weapon out of his grasp and sent it smashing down to the floor of the dais.
‘Impossible,’ he said, as he realised who she was and what she had survived. ‘There . . . there is no cure for the Adoracia. Without the mask you should be—’
She backhanded him so hard he stumbled backwards, dazed. ‘I am done with masks, you son of a bitch. I am Valiana val Mond, Realm’s Protector of Tristia, and I am the Queen’s Iron.’
*
It would have been nice if the Blacksmith had given up then, or if the God had magically faded away and all his followers had fled back to their homes. Unfortunately, and despite a lifetime of my wishing it were so, the world is never so accommodating.
The Prelate took charge again, declaring, ‘This is witchcraft! A violation of nature!’ There was not a trace of irony in his voice. He ordered the God’s Needles, ‘Make them scream for God’s mercy!’
One of the Needles, a young man of perhaps twenty wearing a silver-trimmed Viscount’s frockcoat and wielding a sword that, by any rights, ought to have been far too heavy for him, ran at Aline with a reckless glee. The blade caught the light of the morning sun as he swung it overhead, preparing it to come crashing down on her. The hem of a greatcoat whipped against my cheek as a second figure leaped past me. I saw the God’s Needle blink and sparks fly in the air as his blade collided with the shield that now protected Aline’s head. The God’s Needle growled in frustration at being denied his prey, but Kest withdrew the three-foot steel disc and smiled. For the first time in months there was no pain on his face.
‘I am Kest Murrowson,’ he said, ‘and I am the Queen’s Shield.’
The God of Fear, enraged at the sight of the man he’d consigned to death just days before, stepped forward and cast his gaze upon Kest. ‘Kneel,’ he commanded.
Even as Kest, mouthing his oath, struggled to remain on his feet, another of the God’s Needles – a big bearded man wielding an eight-foot-long axe-headed halberd – ran forward with surprising speed and swung his weapon at Kest’s neck.
With a single fluid motion, Kest spun around, deflecting the axe blade with the shield, ducked under a second attack, bridging the distance between the two men, then drove the edge of the shield down on his opponent’s skull, knocking him to the ground. ‘Fascinating,’ Kest said, looking first at his attacker and then at me. ‘It doesn’t hurt at all when I hit people with this.’
‘Great,’ Brasti said, grunting with the effort of getting to his feet and nocking an arrow to his bow. ‘Now we get to listen to him telling us how the shield is the most elegant of all weapons from now until – well, we’re probably all about to die, so maybe it’s not so bad.’
‘End this!’ the Prelate shouted to the Needles. ‘Now!’
They came for Aline like a pack of wolves, the Adoracia fidelis and the blood of Saints coursing through their veins. There was not even the slightest trace of humanity on their mad, grinning faces. We met them on that field, terrified, tired, repeating our oaths, over and over as we struggled to resist the will of the God. And whenever it threatened to overcome us, we would cry out our names.
Darriana, driving her sword through the neck of the former Margrave of Therios, shouted, ‘I am Darriana, daughter of Shanilla.’ She withdrew the thin blade and held it high so that a sliver of sunlight breaking through the dust glimmered on its crimson surface. ‘I am the Queen’s Fire.’
Antrim, his own weapon fallen to the ground, held back an opponent’s blade with his bare hands, gritting his te
eth as he grunted, ‘I am Antrim Thomas, son of Margarite of Lanjou . . .’ He kicked out, breaking his attacker’s knee, who then stumbled to the ground, losing his grip on the sword. Antrim had been holding the blade over the man’s skull; he flipped it back and knocked him unconscious with the pommel. ‘Be thankful, for I am the Queen’s Charity.’
Quentis, noticing one of the Inquisitors taking aim at Antrim’s back, fired his own wheellock pistol, declaring, ‘I am Quentis Maren, and I am the Queen’s Prayer.’
One by one, we used our oaths to break away from the Blacksmith’s God’s control, fighting against odds that would have brought a smile to the God of Valour’s face, were he not likely already as dead as his predecessors. We might have been mercilessly outnumbered, but now we understood the God’s Needles and we used their own ferocity against them. Darri was masterful at baiting her opponents, drawing them away, only to slip past before they could catch her, leaving Talia to use the greater reach of her spear to stab them through the back of the head. Mateo used ferin powder – we use it to remove rust; it’s incredibly itchy if you get it on the skin – throwing it into the faces of several of the God’s Needles. They might not have felt pain, but itchiness turned out to be another matter: they tore at their own eyes, blinding themselves even as they pursued him.
‘Damn, but we’re good at this,’ Brasti said, firing his third arrow and dropping a thin man who’d been coming at us with a heavy mace held almost negligently in his right hand. I looked around and saw that he was actually right. It was easy to forget, especially in all the relentless madness of recent days, that we had each been trained to duel any sort of opponent, from a Knight on the field to an assassin in a shadowy alleyway, and there were precious few who could beat us when we were ready for them.
‘Help Valiana protect the heir!’ Quentis Maren shouted, driving an elbow into the jaw of one of his former fellow Inquisitors and then neatly grabbing the pistol out of the man’s hand before turning and firing on a second Inquisitor who’d taken aim at Aline. Quentis dropped the pistol and then took two steps up to the dais and jumped onto a Church Knight’s back, knocking him forward to crash into two of his comrades who were converging on Valiana as she stood in front of Aline. Quentis Maren’s martial skill and unwavering resolve in battle were daunting.
Brasti fired two arrows, each of which found their target through the back of the Knights’ helmets, then he and I took up position around Aline, who was still singing softly over the din.
‘What in the name of Saint— Hells,’ Brasti swore, ‘there really aren’t any Saints to swear to any more, are there? What’s Aline doing?’
‘Singing the Laws,’ I replied, crossing both my rapiers above my head to stop the blow of a heavy warsword and then kicking my attacker in the belly and knocking him into Talia’s spear.
‘Wouldn’t it be more helpful if she threw rocks at our opponents or something?’
‘Don’t you feel it?’ Valiana asked. Her own blade flashed like a hummingbird, keeping an Inquisitor from being able to aim his pistol at her. ‘She’s reconsecrating the Laws!’
Something was happening – the air felt different, charged, like the moment just before lightning strikes. The Prelate Obladias was screaming at the Needles to fight, but there were fewer and fewer of them left. The God looked troubled for the first time – and even Brasti noticed. ‘So old Saint Erastian was right? The Laws do bind the Gods?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ I replied. The third part of our plan was based on our theory that the new God’s creation had been made possible by the weakening of the rule of Law since King Paelis’ death. If there really was something spiritual about the Laws, having the heir to the throne reconsecrate them might weaken the Blacksmith’s God.
‘Well then, can I suggest she sing louder?’ Brasti ducked the swing of an Inquisitor’s mace, came up the other side and drove an arrow into the man’s chest.
‘Someone is singing louder,’ Talia said, taking a moment to catch her breath.
I hadn’t really noticed until then; I’d been making a point of ignoring the pilgrims’ annoying hymns. But now that Talia had pointed it out, I could make out another song that had slipped inside the one they were singing; it had started as a gentle harmony but it was gradually spreading through the crowd, taking over the melody and words. And suddenly we all recognised the King’s Third Law. But how is that—?
‘It’s Nehra and Rhyleis,’ I said. ‘They’re using that unfathomable Bardatti ability of theirs to sneak the Laws inside the hymns!’ There was a strange beauty to the melody and I could see it bringing strength and joy to the other Greatcoats, even as it drove the God’s Needles more nuts.
‘That’s it. I’m quitting the Greatcoats,’ Talia said, driving the blunt end of her spear through a Knight’s open mask. ‘I’m joining the Bardatti so I can sing people to death.’
‘You do just fine with that spear,’ Antrim said as he withdrew his blade from the neck of a God’s Needle. He turned to me. ‘Falcio, is it possible that we’re actually winning?’
I looked around at the chaos. We were keeping our enemies from organising themselves, which worked perfectly for me. We’ve never fought so well, I thought. For so long it had felt like our time had passed, but now I saw what we could still do if we worked together, and I felt a relentless elation that I had never expected to feel again.
Which makes it all the more unfair that we can’t win.
I didn’t need Kest to tell me that the odds were too great: there were simply too many of them and too few of us, and sooner or later, the remaining God’s Needles and Church Knights and Inquisitors were going to overwhelm us. Besides, we still had a bigger problem to deal with.
‘You damned fool!’ the Blacksmith shouted, standing next to his God. ‘I could have saved this country. I could have given us—’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Brasti said, and fired an arrow at him. It would have been nice had it struck, but of course the God’s influence made the shaft fly harmlessly away. ‘I really need a way to get through that,’ he commented.
‘I’m working on it,’ I said, but stopped, my gut clenching, and watched in horror as the God lifted his arms and all the pilgrims rose as if a thousand nooses had descended from the sky and were slowly hanging them: men, women and children, their mouths gasping for breath, their heads beginning to loll to the side as their eyes rolled into the back of their heads.
‘This is your doing, Falcio,’ the Blacksmith shouted, his voice so full of righteous rage that for a moment I almost believed him. ‘If you won’t let me give this country the God it needs to be strong, then I’ll destroy it all and begin again!’
Allister raced into the crowd and grabbed a little boy who was on the very tips of his toes and struggling to escape the constriction around his throat. He lifted the child in his arms, but nothing changed. ‘It’s not working!’ Allister shouted, ‘there’s nothing to free him from!’ He called to me from across the distance, ‘They’re dying – someone tell me how to save them!’
‘Falcio,’ Ethalia said softly, her hand on my arm.
I turned to her and saw she’d taken a cut to the forehead. I reached out to wipe away the blood, but she stopped me. ‘It’s time, Falcio. The God acts out of weakness. Aline has shown them that his will can be resisted. The others have stood in defence of the Law. Now the Faith of the pilgrims is fading, and along with it the God’s power.’
‘Then how is he doing this?’
‘He is still a God, and these are his followers.’ She took my hand. ‘There is only one way this ends. It’s up to you and me now.’
I turned to look back at the God standing among the ruins of our home, his armour glowing in the light of the sun. He looked majestic, perfect . . . unbreakable. ‘All right,’ I said, and followed Ethalia. ‘Let’s go kill God.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
The Challenge
I’m usually the reckless one, but this time it was Ethalia who launched the first attack.
Even as we ran up the stairs of the dais, the glow of her Sainthood was flaring around her. ‘I know you, God of Fear,’ she called out to him, ‘and as the Law binds you, so too do I. You will be named Ingnavus, God of Cowardice. Others will know you as Relinquere, God of Despair. The rest will call you Timidus, Master of Cravens.’
The words seemed to shake him. ‘I am your God,’ he thundered, sending a shuddering wave of fear crashing down on us.
I started to fall backwards, unable to keep my balance, but Ethalia grabbed my hand and steadied me. ‘A God, perhaps,’ she said, ‘but you are no God of mine.’
‘Whatever she’s doing, it’s working,’ Brasti shouted suddenly. ‘The pilgrims are breathing, although just barely.’
I spared a glance back and saw them still standing on tiptoes, as if they were being stretched out. ‘Let them go,’ I said to the Blacksmith. ‘You want to end the Law in this country? There’s a way to settle this.’
‘You’re a fool, Falcio. Do you really believe you can chain a deity by invoking a set of rules no one even remembers, let alone uses, and then threatening us with . . . what? A futile act of valour?’ His eyes drifted to Ethalia. ‘Posture and shout all you want, my Lady, but you and I both know you lack the spirit for this fight.’
She smirked – an unusual expression for her. ‘I brought all the spirit I need, Inlaudati. Set your God upon us and let your black heart feel what burns hotter than fire and shines brighter than stars.’
What’s happened to her? The glow around her was making it hard for me to see. The wind was picking up, swirling clouds of dust through the ruins. I am so incredibly far out of my depth, I thought, I might as well throw stones at the moon to knock it out of the sky.
‘You will bleed,’ the God declared, throwing his Awe against Ethalia.
For an instant we were lost, drowning in a pool of blood and filth, then we were scrambling, grabbing for something, anything, to pull ourselves out. I started running through my oath again, clinging to the words like scraps of driftwood. I will ride these roads . . . I will judge fair . . . ride fast . . . fight hard. I will carry the law on my back if I have to. I reached inside my coat for my piece of amberlight and leaned over to trace a wide circle on the floor of the dais. The small piece of rock flared against the wood, sparks flying as the black line grew.
Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 Page 49