The heel of my left foot pressed against the floor of the dais, my calf clenched, and then the muscles of my back leg exploded, driving me forward. My hips carried the force up into my torso, transferring the energy into my arm as it extended into a straight, perfect line. My weapon suddenly became weightless in my hand; there was no sword, not really. I am the blade.
A spark skittered along the God’s breastplate as the tip of the warsword struck against the hard steel and for just a fraction of a second it stopped there, metal against unyielding metal – but then the surface of the armour gave way, bending then parting, and a screeching sound filled the air. Tiny fragments of steel went flying in all directions and the blade slid with the ease of a lover’s tongue into the breech of the God’s armour.
He looked down at the sword sticking into his chest and we stood there, bonded together like a sculpture meant to last for ever. ‘We win,’ I said, then I twisted the blade hard, widening the hole in the breastplate as I withdrew my sword.
But the God only smiled.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
The Shot
Valiana stepped onto the dais with the heir to the throne beside her. ‘The duel is ended. Your champion has lost. Your so-called “God’s Needles” are dead. You will withdraw from this place, from this country, from this world.’
And that should have been the end of it. If life were fair, even to the smallest degree, my blade piercing the God’s heart should have sent blood gushing from the wound and a gurgle from his throat as he died at my feet. And just what, in your miserable life, has ever convinced you that you were that lucky?
The Blacksmith came forward, his expression one of shock and disbelief. I don’t think that even with all his Inlaudati genius, his ability to see all the patterns of the world, that he’d foreseen any way we could have won. ‘Remarkable,’ he said, sounding so much like Kest after a fight we should have lost that I almost broke out laughing. He met my gaze. ‘What you have done is wondrous. You should be proud. Alas, I’m afraid Gods aren’t killed by a simple stab wound.’
The God, despite the gaping hole into nothingness in his breastplate, lifted his axe and stepped back into the circle, waiting for us.
‘Shall we call this round two?’ the Blacksmith asked.
‘Wouldn’t that be cheating?’ Brasti asked, stepping onto the dais along with Kest.
I tried to lift the sword again, but it was hopeless. There comes a point when, no matter the odds or the stakes, you just can’t go on. I tossed the weapon aside. ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’m done with you.’
The Blacksmith signalled to the God, who raised the axe up high overhead. I felt entombed in its shadow, but I looked up without fear.
As the axe came down, Kest stepped in front of me and knocked it aside with his shield. ‘That would definitely be cheating,’ he confirmed for Brasti. ‘Though I suppose it’s to be expected. Fear is an especially venal sort of deity.’
The God growled and swung again, and once again Kest saved me. On the third attack, the shield broke.
‘It is over,’ the Blacksmith said. ‘You have failed.’
‘Possibly,’ Kest conceded, ‘but in fairness, I was only the distraction.’
Even the God’s eyes widened as Kest stepped aside, revealing Brasti brandishing an arrow, an oddly shaped stone tip attached to its end, aimed at the hole in the God’s breastplate. ‘My turn,’ Brasti said, smiling.
I could see the Blacksmith understood what we’d been planning now – that we’d figured out why a God so powerful would still choose to wear armour.
‘No!’ the Blacksmith screamed as Brasti fired the arrow.
A crack of stone striking against steel plate was followed by the snap of the arrow’s shaft. The God looked down at the broken remains of the arrow on the ground.
Brasti had missed.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The Arrow
Everything we’d planned for was undone in that moment. Brasti Goodbow, the man who swore he always shot true when it counted, had just missed his target.
We all watched in horror as our last, best hope fell apart.
‘What?’ Brasti asked. He looked at me. ‘How many times have I told you this? When you’re shooting with new arrows, you have to test-fire one to get the weight. How many times?’ He sounded exasperated.
All of us looked down at the arrow on the ground. That’s when I noticed it wasn’t tipped with the prayer-stone.
‘Stop!’ the God shouted.
‘Oh, do shut up,’ Brasti said, and with a single fluid motion, a perfect illustration of the beautiful harmony of the archer and his art, he nocked the second arrow – this one glittering at its tip – and loosed it.
The thrum of the bowstring was the only sound as the arrow found its target, burying the prayer-stone deep inside the hole within the God’s armour.
The God of Fear looked down at the arrow embedded in his chest, the shaft still shivering with the last vibrations of its flight. He stared at us, and all of a sudden he looked different to me. I couldn’t say I recognised his face now, but I’d seen that same expression on the face of hundreds of men who’d met their end in battle. His was a mask of fear: a mask of infamy.
The man who had just killed him stared right back at him. ‘My name is Brasti Goodbow,’ he said, ‘and I am the Queen’s Jest.’
The God fell slowly to his knees on the ground before us. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer.
Who do you pray to? I wondered.
Then what was left of his consciousness faded as he slid down on to the dais and into whatever hells await those Gods we no longer need.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
The Surrender
If I’d ever given any thought to the dying of Gods, I suppose I would have imagined it would be different from the ways of men.
‘Not all that impressive, is he?’ Kest said, coming to stand next to me as we looked down at the dead God.
Brasti joined us. ‘Fear becomes ever smaller, the longer a man faces it.’
Kest turned to look at him. ‘That’s actually quite astute . . . did you prepare that line ahead of time?’
Brasti grinned. ‘Been working on it ever since Falcio told me the plan. I want the stories to give my shining victory the weight it deserves.’
‘I suspect you probably shouldn’t have added that last part, then,’ Valiana said.
He shrugged. ‘Well, a man can only be so glorious, I suppose.’
What was left of the God of Fear looked up at us, his dead eyes disbelieving. I wondered what the others felt now, for I was surprised that I felt neither rage nor even relief at his passing. I had no desire to humiliate him, or to comfort him in his passing, so I simply turned to the Blacksmith and said, ‘It is done.’
He nodded to me. I thought perhaps he might try to attack me, or raise some tiny blade to his own throat to end his life, but he didn’t. He just knelt down on the ground before us and said, ‘I surrender.’
People surprise you, sometimes.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Aftermath
It’s strange how the world organises itself after it’s been upended. I half thought that the thousands of people in the crowd – the clerics, the soldiers, the noblemen, the peasants and well, everybody, really – would have gone completely mad. I wouldn’t have blamed them.
A God was dead; worse, we had learned that the Gods were, for the most part, as small-minded and petty as we were, their natures aligned to the basest instincts of a people whose response to coming here as slaves was forever to seek out new masters. Maybe we were simply born to kneel. The crowds appeared to agree as they wallowed in the disquieting silence that filled the open air, shuffling from foot to foot, uncertain and scared, with no idea what might come next.
Actually, not everyone, I thought as I looked over at the daughter of my King.
Aline stood before the throngs, barely fourteen. She was just as afraid as the rest of us –
in fact, she was probably more afraid – and yet it was she who had given us the chance to fight against the God, showing the rest of us how to rise in the face of fear.
It’s just possible that there are wonders yet in this country that are worth protecting.
Someone in the front, a young nobleman, shouted out, ‘The Queen stands before us!’ He knelt down on one knee and bowed his head.
‘The Queen!’ another shouted, and he too knelt.
People began to cheer and shout Aline’s title, and a wave passed through the crowds from front to back as men and women, the youngest and the very old, knelt before the girl I’d first met dirty and coughing in the ruins of a burned-down house in Rijou.
‘The Queen!’ shouted a wheezing Duke Erris of Phan.
‘Oh, and now the Dukes show up,’ Brasti said, pointing to a heavyset man further back in the crowd. He was not nearly so grandly dressed as I’d seen him on previous occasions, but he made up for it with his boisterous cheers of ‘Aline the First!’ Hadiermo, Iron Duke of Domaris had magically found his humility.
No doubt the two of them hoped that a show of enthusiasm might save their heads from the block when the time came for a reckoning.
I should have been happy in that moment: the Dukes would have no choice now; there would be no further resistance. The daughter of my King was standing amongst her people and they were kneeling before her. But somehow the sight made me empty inside.
You’re just tired, I told myself. You’ve won. Stop complaining about it.
But even as people shouted and cheered for Aline, the emptiness remained. I couldn’t spot Jillard, though I imagined he was somewhere close by, waiting to exact his due from me for my part in Tommer’s death.
I was pulled from my morbid thoughts when Aline cried, ‘Enough!’ Her voice wasn’t very loud, but when she raised her hand everyone became silent. ‘Enough.’
Nervous whispers filled the crowd. Though they were thousands strong and we only a handful, I could almost hear their thoughts. Now we’ll be punished. Now the new Queen will set examples of her enemies. Better keep low and quiet and hope she takes the next man and not me.
It would be her right. The Law allowed her the right to execute each and every one of them if she so chose. When she turned to look at me, I saw the temptation in her eyes. She’d been the target of murder and conspiracy every day of her life and that wasn’t likely to end any time soon. How better to banish fear and pain than by killing those who brought it to you?
Then she nodded to me, as though I’d asked her a question.
‘Why are you kneeling?’ she asked the crowd.
The nobleman who’d done so first looked up. ‘You are our Queen!’ He said the words as if he’d just crowned her himself.
‘One day,’ she replied. ‘Not today.’
‘The Queen of our hearts, then,’ the nobleman ventured, and others mumbled in enthusiastic agreement.
‘Perhaps that too, one day,’ Aline said. She looked around the crowd. ‘It’s not a job I ever wanted. Perhaps not one any of you would want me to have.’
That was too much for the young nobleman. ‘We are your loyal servants! We are yours to command!’
‘Servants,’ Aline said. Abruptly, she strode into the crowd, walking through the kneeling masses. I thought Antrim might have a heart attack as he rushed to follow behind her. She stopped in front of an old man who was shaking as he kept one hand on the shaft of his short staff. ‘Why do you suffer, Grandfather?’ Aline asked.
‘Forgive me, your Majesty,’ the old man replied, his head still bowed. ‘My knees ain’t so good. They ache whe—’
Aline extended a hand and placed it under his chin. ‘Then why are you kneeling if it hurts so?’
The old man’s eyes went wide. ‘Because . . . because we—’
‘Rise,’ she said.
For a moment I thought the old man might refuse, but his fear of disobeying her overcame his uncertainty about standing in her presence.
‘Is that better?’ Aline asked.
‘It . . . yes, your Majesty. It don’t hurt so bad once I’m off my knees.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Imagine that. I wonder if that’s why the Greatcoats don’t kneel.’ She turned to gaze back at me. ‘Is that why, First Cantor?’
‘I’ve found that it’s hard to stand for anything when you’re on your knees,’ I said.
‘How odd. Perhaps it is time we all gave it a try.’ Aline, daughter of Paelis, heir to the throne of Tristia, gave her first royal command.
‘Rise,’ she said.
*
‘Am I wrong,’ Allister asked, ‘Or did the heir just overturn a thousand years of royal prerogative?’
‘Sixteen hundred and twenty-seven,’ Kest corrected. ‘The first reference to the requirement to kneel before the monarch appears in the Ediacto Regiae Principe, though it’s likely that the practice was common even before—’
‘Kest?’ Allister said.
‘Yes?’
‘Please shut up.’
Then necessity took over: people had to be moved, the injured treated, the dead buried. After a quick consultation with the Dukes, Antrim re-took command of the Aramor guardsmen present and they in turn took command of the other troops. If anyone had any sliver of a thought about resisting this, they gave no sign. Sometimes people just know when it’s time to give up. Sometimes I wished they knew that more often.
The crowds, still in shock after Aline’s sole command, dissipated gradually, many of them helping their fellows where they could, but some just stood and stared, and a few started crying bitterly – maybe for their dead, or maybe for themselves as they began to realise all they’d given up or sold to get here. It would be a difficult return for them.
It was going to be a difficult return for all of us.
I leaned against my horse, Arsehole. We had left our mounts tethered outside the Busted Scales, but Arsehole had broken free somehow and made his way here, to me. His copper-coloured hide was covered in grey dust and I was trying to clean him off in a slow, haphazard way. He didn’t seem to mind, even giving me an encouraging snort now and again. ‘You’re a damned good horse,’ I said, and feebly brushed at his side. There were probably more important things I was supposed to be doing right then, but I was too exhausted to care.
‘You really do cut an impressive sight, my love.’ The voice was feminine but strong, soothing yet a little mischievous.
I looked over Arsehole’s withers to see Ethalia – except the eyes staring back at me were still brown instead of blue. The lips belonged to Ethalia, but the words were those of my wife.
‘I’ve had something of a day,’ I said.
She came closer and placed her palms against my cheeks. ‘Perhaps if you didn’t insist on throwing your life away at every opportunity, you would fare better. How many more times will you set your blade against the world, Falcio?’
Everything breaks if you hit it enough times. ‘Until I save you,’ I said, and felt the tears slipping down my cheeks and onto her fingers.
She shook her head sadly. ‘Ah, Falcio . . . That’s not a story that can be told. Don’t you understand yet? I’m the one who saves you.’
The tears were flowing faster now. ‘Every time,’ I managed. ‘Every time.’
She smiled then, as if we’d just made a beginning: a new start for me, for her, for both of us. Only life doesn’t work that way. ‘You have to go now, Aline,’ I said.
She pulled away and stared at me for a long time. ‘Husband, when did you become so very full of useless principle?’ She waved a hand. ‘You might fool all these others but you and I both know you weren’t at all like this when I was alive. Or perhaps you were, but you were also a little selfish, a little too easily cowed, more than a little lazy.’ She smiled. ‘And now, here you are, this . . . hero. Is there nothing left of the foolish young man I married?’
‘Silly woman,’ I said. ‘I can be more than one thing.’
I
expected her to laugh, but she didn’t. Instead her face grew deadly serious. ‘Ethalia doesn’t love you, Falcio. Whatever you had before, it left when she took the Sainthood.’
‘I know that. But it’s her life, and her choice.’
‘It was also her choice to give herself over to me – she knew the consequences, and she accepted them willingly, without reservation. Ethalia has given us this chance, to have the life together that was denied us.’
‘She has,’ I agreed. I took a deep breath and held it, hoping somehow it would strengthen my resolve. ‘And now you have to go.’
Aline sighed as she leaned in and whispered, ‘Very well.’ Then she smiled. ‘I will settle for one kiss, for old times’ sake. Let me feel my husband’s lips on mine this last time.’
I wanted the taste of that kiss more than all the wine in the world. I wanted that one moment, a tiny fragment of her love to carry with me for the rest of my days – hadn’t I earned it?
But . . . ‘They aren’t your lips,’ I said, before I could fall into that abyss from which I would never want to climb out. ‘Ethalia would not want this.’
Aline groaned. ‘Really? You think she would begrudge you this one tiny thing? Is she so selfish a woman as that?’
‘She isn’t selfish at all, and that’s why we can’t do this.’
Aline removed her hands from my cheeks and stood silently for a time, giving me a chance to change my mind, but when she finally said, ‘As you wish,’ the eyes staring back at me were Ethalia’s, and she turned and walked away without saying anything else.
*
I stayed there a long time, wallowing in my own loss, but eventually I had to move. I made my way into the ruins of the castle. There were still debts to be paid.
The steps below the wreck of the seventh tower were crumbled in places, but there was enough of the staircase left to reach the basement. The door to Aramor’s deathhouse was open.
Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 Page 51