Galtas smirked. ‘I think we can safely say yes to his request. And the other?’
‘From Corvus via the prince. Must’ve used one of those pigeons you left with him. The West Rank has fallen.’
Galtas stiffened. ‘The Mireces won? Shit.’ He wandered back to the window and looked down on the men nailed to the posts in the parade ground. Most of them were dead now, but a few were still twitching. They were a constant reminder to the Rankers that their souls no longer belonged to them. ‘But how can Corvus know that? He wasn’t there.’
‘That many deaths, whether Mireces or not, will have caused a ripple in the veil. The Blessed One may have detected it.’
Galtas scrubbed his hand through his hair. ‘The last thing we need is a fucking Mireces army at our heels,’ he muttered.
Skerris shifted his arse in the chair. ‘Then the promise of the Western Plain—’
‘Was empty. We expected the West Rank to defeat the Mireces, of course. But an invasion gave us the perfect excuse to mobilise troops – you – who could then secure Rivil’s throne when he killed Rastoth and announced his faith.’
‘I see,’ Skerris said. ‘There was more, my lord. “Wheeler dead. Palace lockdown.”’
‘Shit,’ Galtas repeated. He paced the room, mind spinning; Skerris was content to watch without interruption. Lockdown would fuck up everything. Rivil wouldn’t – couldn’t – risk killing Rastoth during lockdown. Durdil suspected too much as it was. And who’d killed Wheeler? Wheeler was one of theirs.
Galtas froze, icy fingers down his back. What had Wheeler told his killer before he died? How much did Durdil know? Was the message even really from Rivil, or was he in a dungeon awaiting trial and this was Durdil’s way to draw Galtas out?
‘Our feet are on the Path,’ Skerris said. ‘Take a deep breath and think it through. We’ve got options and time. At the moment, the Mireces are the least of your problems. We need to get Rivil out of the city. Forget assassinating Rastoth – the man can die anytime we choose. Without Rivil, we have no coup.’
Galtas made himself sit. ‘Durdil’s too canny to lift the lockdown,’ he said. ‘It hamstrings us and he knows it. He’ll have used Wheeler’s death as the perfect excuse. Rivil’s a prisoner in a very gilded cage.’
There was a rapid knock at the door and it burst open before either of them could speak. ‘Men from Rilporin. Palace Rank,’ a soldier said. ‘Mile down the road and coming fast.’
Skerris swore. ‘Knife the sacrifices, cut them down and sink them in the shit pit, now,’ he snapped. ‘Then get the men practising ladder drills. I want them loud and sweaty and too busy to talk by the time they get here. My lord, I suggest we find you a hiding place.’
‘Fuck,’ Galtas said as he put it together. Durdil had blamed Wheeler’s death on him. The perfect excuse to haul him back to Rilporin and ruin any alliances or plans he’d made, while also keeping Rivil right where he could see him.
‘The infirmary, Major Renik. Just a few men in at the moment,’ Skerris boomed cheerfully. ‘Over-enthusiastic drilling – you know how it is. We were so shocked to learn of the death of Prince Janis,’ he added. ‘Please, Major, you would do me a great favour if you assured Prince Rivil of the East Rank’s absolute loyalty.’
‘Of course, General,’ Renik said. ‘In times such as these, loyalty is more important than ever. We must all be ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for Rilpor.’
Galtas lay under a blanket with bandages around his head and over both eyes. His hands and forearms were swathed in linen as well. He heard boots approaching, and Skerris’s stentorian breathing.
‘What happened here?’ he heard Renik ask and willed himself to lie still, relaxed.
‘Ah, a particularly nasty accident,’ Skerris said. ‘The private was working in the forge when a kiln exploded. The poor man’s hair caught fire. Terrible burns to his head and scalp.’ Skerris’s voice dropped. ‘Tried to put out the flames with his hands. Still, he remains as cheerful as can be expected, eh, private? Our physicians are optimistic.’
Galtas waved his bandaged hands vaguely.
‘I hope you will be soon recovered, private,’ the major said. Galtas waved again. The footsteps moved away. ‘And you’ve received no visitors, no correspondence from the capital in recent weeks?’ he heard Renik say.
‘Nothing, Major, except that from Commander Koridam, of course. Who is it you’re looking for?’ Galtas lay still as the voices were cut off by the closing of a door. Durdil had suspected them ever since they’d brought Janis back without his legs. Seems the old bastard had decided to do something about those suspicions. He couldn’t move on Rivil, but he could isolate him from his allies and cut off his means of communication.
Galtas relaxed in the cot and waited for someone to come and tell him Renik and his Hundred had gone. The major’s assurance on Skerris’s behalf of their loyalty would be all the confirmation Rivil needed that they were coming. He’d know to get out of Rilporin. He’d find a way to lift the lockdown. And if he didn’t, well, the Lady’s will.
GILDA
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Watchtown, Western Plain
Dawn was the pink inside of a lip across the ocean of grass as they marched the final miles to Watchtown.
‘Blessed One, we would all fight harder with words from the gods.’ Corvus was vibrating with energy and excitement, infecting the men around him and spreading ripples of bloodlust through the army.
‘The Dark Lady has words for them all,’ Lanta said. ‘Bring the Dancer’s whore to witness our power at first hand. Besides, I want her close when her people and her temple are trampled into the mud.’
‘I’m a little too old to be a whore,’ Gilda said from her place behind Corvus. Her face was impassive despite what the day would bring. ‘And even in my youth, I only ever had eyes for one man. But please, if it makes you feel better, call me anything you like.’
Lanta glared her into silence and stalked through the fringe of the army, her heavy blue skirts hissing through the grass. She favoured some with smiles, others with the touch of her hand. Behind her, men stood taller in the gods’ favour.
‘Why do you antagonise her?’ Corvus asked Gilda as she was led past him.
The old woman put her head on one side, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘I’m old, I’ll be dead soon. Why shouldn’t I? Besides, it annoys the holy fuck out of her.’
Corvus blinked and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘She may well torture you,’ he found himself saying. ‘If not for her, you’d have died with the others.’
Gilda’s face darkened. ‘With the innocent, you mean? I’d have been pleased to die then; I couldn’t think of finer people with whom to fly to the Dancer. But She has other plans for me, plans which don’t include me dying at your hands. So I’m free, am I not, to do as I please?’
‘Your goddess has told you that you’re to live?’ Corvus asked, almost shocked at her casual confidence.
Gilda’s smile was enigmatic. ‘It won’t be you who kills me, Madoc of Dancer’s Lake, and it won’t be poor, misguided Lanta. The Lady of Light has told me this.’ She inclined her head briefly and followed in Lanta’s footsteps, leaving Corvus reeling at her mention of his birth name.
Gilda raised her hand to her amulet as she walked. Sweet Dancer, let me be right. I don’t want to die like Janis did, nailed upside down to a post. Not without seeing Cam and my boys again. Not unless I must.
But it wasn’t just her death that was coming, was it? By the time this was done, she might well be the last Watcher in the world. She caught up to Lanta and stood beside her on a small hump in the grass, looking out over the army scattered before them, the army that had come to destroy her people. She wondered again how she could turn this tide, or whether the Dancer had put her here simply to bear witness. If the latter, she prayed she had the strength to do so.
Lanta inhaled and faced the army, arms raised to embrace them all. ‘Yo
u who are the army of the Red Gods, you whose feet walk the Dark Path swinging the hammers of Their just vengeance, hear me. The Dark Lady and the God of Blood have spoken. Our great people are destined to destroy the heathens and kill their false gods, to take these wide plains and thick forests for our rightful home. The feet of the Red Gods will leave Their bloody prints in Rilpor’s green plain. Their red hands will stretch forth to crush the unbeliever, to topple the towers of Rilporin itself.’
The men strained towards her in the lightening air and even Gilda felt the pull on her emotions. Oh, this one was good.
‘But before They descend to live in glory among us, we must prove our faith. We must prove our dedication to Their cause.’ Lanta gestured with theatrical passion. ‘Out there lies the walled and protected Watchtown, the nest of our enemies. Out there lies hate and bigotry. Out there lies death and glory. Theirs is the death, and yours is the glory!’
The roar was so loud that Gilda had to put her hands over her ears. Please, Watchtown, hear this and prepare your walls. Where are your scouts? Where are your patrols?
Lanta turned her triumphant gaze on Gilda. ‘Well, old woman? Now do you see my power?’
Got you. Gilda raised her eyebrows. ‘Your power? I thought this was the power of your gods,’ she said and saw shock pass over Lanta’s flushed features.
‘Of course it’s Their power,’ she stammered. ‘But I channel it so that our people can understand. The gods are complex. They don’t reveal Their intentions easily.’
‘Indeed. You’ve a gift for speaking, Blessed One, a gift for manipulation. Is that your gods’ power?’
‘Don’t test me, old woman,’ Lanta warned, stepping close so that her face was in Gilda’s. ‘You’re my prisoner, not the king’s. Mine. And I’ll do with you whatever I see fit.’ Gilda saw the thought blossom in the other woman’s eyes. She had time to move, even to duck but she stood still, hands folded before her as Lanta pressed a flat palm at the army to hush them and then slapped Gilda hard in the mouth, the flat crack echoing out across the multitude.
Gilda stumbled back a step as blood sprang from her lips. But only a step. Don’t give her more than that.
Lanta looked up at the pink dawn. ‘Well, Dancer? What have you to say to that?’ she shrieked and the army held its breath. Lanta grinned and looked back at Gilda just as the old woman bunched her fist and swung.
Her knuckles slammed into Lanta’s right eye and buckled her legs. She screamed with pain and shock and Gilda had the satisfaction of seeing tears stain her perfect, satin cheeks and red blood pump from her nostril.
Gilda looked out at the stunned army and shook the pain from her hand. ‘That’s what the Dancer says,’ she shouted into the silence and cackled. Guards pinned her arms and dragged her from the prostrate woman curled on the grass with her hands pressed to her face.
Corvus’s second, Valan, ran forward and hauled her to her feet. Lanta shook off his supporting hand and wobbled in a circle, taking in the slack horror of the warriors, the blank eyes of the king, the triumphant grin on Gilda’s lined face.
‘Blessed One,’ Valan hissed, ‘respond to the challenge.’
But Lanta did nothing. Gilda knew she wouldn’t kill her now. Oh no. She had to exact her vengeance first, had to balm her skinned pride, make Gilda pay for the shame and humiliation. Gilda doubted this one would kill her even if the Dark Lady Herself came out of hell to command it. Not now.
Slowly, Valan’s words penetrated Lanta’s shock. She forced a smile for the army, raised one hand in a dismissive wave, gave a slight shrug. Captives, eh? Rilporians. It wasn’t enough. They were waiting for more and Lanta didn’t have more. Gilda tried not to snigger and failed.
‘Take her away. She’ll face the Dark Lady’s inquisition,’ Lanta said and they all heard the ripple of disappointment, of confusion, from the assembled Raiders. ‘You men, do your duty to the king and the gods.’ And Lanta walked unsteadily away.
Gilda stood sucking her knuckles in a ring of steel, waiting until her guards began to feel like idiots for menacing an unarmed old woman. ‘Well,’ she said brightly to the man in charge, ‘either your goddess is as powerless as you say mine is, or She doesn’t get involved in petty struggles. What do you think?’
‘Shut up,’ the guard snarled, shoving her hard. ‘The Dark Lady sees everything. She’ll have a punishment waiting when the time is right. Now move.’
‘I’d’ve thought that was the right time,’ Gilda said and their silence confirmed it. ‘So, the Blessed One got that wrong then, did she? Interesting. Wonder how many times that’s happened.’
In the distance, Watchtown’s horns sounded a triple blast. The guards exchanged uneasy glances. ‘That means you’ve been spotted,’ Gilda said. ‘Time to die.’
‘Their time, not ours.’
Gilda smiled again, though there was no humour left in the day. ‘Perhaps.’ She walked between them in Corvus’s wake, the army streaming around them, flowing like a flood to lap at Watchtown and wash it away.
Gilda examined the reddened flesh of her knuckles with intense satisfaction. It wouldn’t change the outcome of today’s battle – nothing she could do would ever change that – but the Dancer had long ago taught Rilporians free will and resourcefulness, and that sometimes a fist was better than words.
RILLIRIN
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Road to the River Gil, Cattle Lands
Rillirin jogged through the trees. She was at the back of the group now and starting to lose touch with the stragglers as they flitted like shadows through the forest. It was the second day of the march and the pace was still relentless, even the injured Wolves pulling ahead of her now. She dashed angry, tired tears from her eyes and focused on the terrain, skipping over tree roots and stumbling into rabbit holes. She wouldn’t fall behind. She couldn’t.
Dom had had the knowing and told Lim what he’d seen, and then, before they could even gather the survivors to break the news, he’d stolen a horse from the stables and ridden south. He was going alone to Watchtown and nobody knew why, least of all Rillirin.
He hadn’t even told her he was leaving.
A stone turned under her boot, her spear got tangled between her legs and she went down hard, grunting as pain exploded along her ribs, her knife hilt burrowing into flesh. Rolling on to her back, she stared up at the sunlight through the canopy of green leaves, one hand pressed to her side, sucking in air.
Godsdamn bloody forests. Stupid trees. Rillirin wished she was back in Watchtown – a Watchown at peace – bustling with life that comforted her with its similarities to her childhood at Dancer’s Lake, and even, if she was honest, its reminders of Eagle Height. She’d hated that place, hated everything about it, everyone in it, but these endless trees with their treacherous roots, the sudden outcroppings of rock that broke the trail, the creaking, rustling silence was driving her mad. Too different to anything she knew.
Then again, she’d known nothing about a battle and she’d survived one, hadn’t she? Maybe she could learn to love living in the woods, a semi-nomad Wolf woman, never settling anywhere for long. Or maybe they’d rebuild Watchtown, begin the slow process of repopulating it, a new generation of Watchers.
It was no good. No matter how hard she tried to think of other things, her mind kept rushing back to Dom, racing alone into the jaws of the Mireces. ‘Why would you do that, Dom Templeson?’ she asked the trees, an angry creak in her voice. ‘What else do you know? Why do you need to be the one who faces Corvus?’
There wasn’t time to be tired, she knew, but she couldn’t get up right now. Just couldn’t. She wondered if the West Rank had decided to follow them. Mace had been discussing it with his staff when the Wolves had set out. She hoped they’d come.
‘Rillirin, are you all right?’ It was Seth Lightfoot, Dalli’s cousin. He reached down and lifted her to her feet without effort. Hours of running had done little to dent his energy. He put his hand
to her cheek. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, and his hand was hot on her face, invasive.
Rillirin’s skin crawled and she pulled away. Seth’s mouth turned down. ‘I’m fine. Just turned my ankle on a stone.’
‘I dropped back a few miles, checked our trail. The West Rank’s coming.’
‘Thank the gods,’ Rillirin said. ‘How long to Watchtown, do you think?’
‘At this pace, two days. If we wait for the Rank, closer to three.’ He didn’t need to tell her that was too long. Watchtown would’ve fallen by then. Might already have fallen.
Dom, alone in the ruins of Watchtown, surrounded by the dead.
Dom, for some reason known only to himself, confronting Corvus as Watchtown burnt.
Dom, cut down by Raiders before he got within a mile of the main army.
Dom.
‘Can we go faster?’ Rillirin asked, circling her foot to test the ankle. Sore, not damaged. Could she go faster? Yes.
‘Some of us, but not enough that we could risk engaging Corvus if he’s still there. We have no idea how many men he has, but they’ll be his best warriors. But Watchtown is strong; our people are strong. They won’t fall.’
The conviction sounded hollow in Rillirin’s ears, but it was all they had. She rubbed her ribs a last time and started moving again, twinges of pain in her calves and thighs. Got to get to Dom. Must go faster.
DURDIL
Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
The palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘May I see?’ Rivil held out his hand and Durdil passed him Mace’s report.
Durdil summarised it for Rastoth as Rivil read. ‘The West Rank was victorious, Your Majesty. They slaughtered the first Mireces army to the last man in the Blood Pass Valley, ordering the all-out to force the victory. The Rank suffered heavy losses but retreated in good order to the forts to recuperate.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ Rastoth boomed, slapping weakly at the arm of his throne. ‘Excellent, isn’t it, Marisa?’ he asked the empty chair at his side. Rivil twitched.
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