Godblind

by Anna Stephens

  Crys thrust his sword into the air. ‘Run,’ he shrieked. He brought his blade slashing down across a Mireces’ back, hurdled the body and chased down the next.

  RILLIRIN

  Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  Yew Cove tunnels, River Gil, Western Plain

  Rillirin was at just over eighteen hundred in the count, huddled against the wall to avoid the hundreds of men crowding into the tunnels and storerooms, when the roar sounded from the tunnel ahead and more and more men started pressing forward. The count stuttered and faltered and she winced up to one elbow to watch.

  There’d been a flood of humanity as the message was passed forward, but not enough. Nowhere near enough. There must still be thousands in the tunnels ahead, running towards the dam instead of away from it.

  ‘Shit.’ Dalli had wrapped fresh bandages around her wound, but the pain was monstrous and unrelenting, the blood still seeping, and she was so cold. She pulled herself up the wall to sitting and watched for a few more seconds. ‘Shit,’ she said again, dragging herself to her feet, left hand pressing her side. She grabbed the splintered spear from the water, water that was nearly up to her knees now, and pushed her way into the mass of men jamming the tunnels ahead of her.

  ‘Dom. Got to get back to Dom,’ she muttered, swaying and dizzy and so, so cold. Rillirin paused and looked back behind her. She raised her voice. ‘This way, down here, back towards the exit,’ she yelled as loudly as she could. ‘We’re breaking out. Come back.’

  Ahead were screams and clanging echoes and the last of the torches. Only the dimmest sliver of light illuminated the hell ahead of her. She could barely make out the slower, injured figures hobbling determinedly after the army. The hairs on her arms and nape stood up and she sensed the water rushing on them. Knew it was coming. Somehow just knew.

  A whimper choked its way out and she limped faster, grinding her teeth against the pain, fizzing spots in front of her eyes. Running footsteps and a few men dashed past her from behind and joined the crowd. She struggled forward, passed a couple of the slowest wounded and saw two black mouths open ahead of her.

  Panting, she looked from one to the other, then a stab of movement between the two caught her attention and she inhaled, choked on her own spit, coughed, broken spear wobbling about in paltry protection.

  ‘Rillirin?’

  ‘Sarilla? Fucking thank the gods.’ Rillirin limped forward. ‘Hurt?’

  ‘A bit. Need to move though.’

  No way Rillirin could help her, state she was in, but she held out her hand anyway, groaned when Sarilla used it to drag herself to her feet. ‘Let’s go then, eh?’ she managed, wondering if this made them friends now after all this time.

  They staggered down the right-hand tunnel, hands on each other’s shoulders to keep themselves upright. Rillirin couldn’t take a full breath and her ears buzzed, muffling the sounds ahead.

  The tunnel wound on, black on black, Sarilla’s breathing beside her harsh and stumbling, a high whine in her chest. Twists and turns and they reached the back of the army, still shoving forward, waving steel they couldn’t use, hollering to hurry, keep pressing, gonna drown back here cunt-faces.

  Rillirin led Sarilla into the mob, worming her way into gaps whenever they appeared, bloody fist tight on Sarilla’s shirt. She could just see the glow of torchlight ahead when a cold wind blew against her back and the faintest rumble tickled the soles of her feet, her eardrums.

  ‘Run, run,’ men shouted and the shoving increased, voices high-pitched, desperate.

  She was crushed against the man in front of her, her cheek slamming into his backplate with shocking force, and her fingers slipped from Sarilla’s shirt. She caught a wooden finger, tore the whole thing from Sarilla’s hand as they were swept apart, and she had a last glimpse of Sarilla’s white, terrified face through the tangle of bodies, swallowed and gone beneath them.

  She reached for her, mouth wide in a scream, and a sword hilt clubbed her crown, an elbow crunched into her chest and robbed her breath and she stumbled two paces, looking back and straining, Sarilla’s crippled hand there and then gone.

  A knee or elbow into the wound in her back and all her breath stolen, all her reason, as the agony flared up and down and into every limb and there was no air in the world to wail. Mouth sagging open she reached back, straining still for Sarilla’s hand, until a short Ranker shoulder-barged her and she lost her footing, fell to her knees.

  Men were tripping over her, boots slamming into her ribs, one shockingly into her nose to set off explosions of colour and pain. She raised a hand to her face, grunted as the fingers of her other hand were crushed beneath a heel, and roaring filled her head and body.

  Someone fell over her. The water was a screaming animal filling the tunnel behind but he hooked a long arm under her belly and hoisted her up on to his shoulder, arms and legs dangling, and staggered on. Seth. Out of nowhere, Seth.

  ‘Sarilla!’ she screamed. ‘Stop, go back, it’s Sarilla,’ but Seth ran, the water close now and then he was dodging right, into a sliver in the tunnel wall that he had to jam her through, skinning her arms, hips and shoulders, and force himself through after. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her across to the far wall. Trapped.

  Rillirin was sobbing, crying for Sarilla, for Dom, babbling to the Dancer through waves of pain. Seth hauled her up on to a shoulder-high ledge and scrambled up after her, kicking jars and bottles out of his way. He pulled her head against his chest so she wouldn’t see the water coming and she closed her eyes, put her head beneath his chin, Sarilla’s wooden fingers clutched to her chest.

  Wouldn’t die alone. At least there was that.

  CORVUS

  Third moon, year 995 since the Exile of the Red Gods

  Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  Four thousand Mireces warriors drawn up in a square outside Rilporin, and a quarter of a mile north across the field, five thousand soldiers of the East Rank.

  Corvus, Valan, Lanta and the other war chiefs rode the horses they’d stolen in Shingle forward to meet their allies. They stopped at the centre of the road leading all the way to the gatehouse and Rivil and Corvus leant out of their saddles and gripped forearms.

  ‘King Corvus, welcome to Rilpor.’

  ‘Prince Rivil, or is it King Rivil now?’ Corvus said, noting the battered armour and the man’s sweaty hair. ‘You’ve had some trouble?’

  Rivil waved away the comment. ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ he said, ‘and it’s Prince Rivil for now, but I expect the scarlet of mourning to be flying from those towers by tomorrow. The king is grievously wounded.’ He patted the hilt of his sword with smug glee.

  Corvus inclined his head. ‘This is excellent news. The gods will be well pleased. For my part, you have my finest warriors and the West Rank and the Wolves have been taken care of.’

  They stared at the city in silence for a while. The great gatehouse’s portcullis was down, the iron-banded gates firmly shut behind it. The two towers either side of the gatehouse bristled with men, and more stood silent and watchful along the wall.

  ‘Formidable defences,’ Corvus said, leaving unspoken the fact that Rivil was supposed to have ensured the gates were open on their arrival. The Lady’s will.

  ‘We have the numbers, Sire,’ Rivil countered. ‘And once Rastoth is dead, they will be resisting the rightful King of Rilpor. They’ll open the gates.’

  Rivil twisted in his saddle and stared at Corvus’s army. ‘How many?’ he asked.

  ‘Nearly four thousand.’

  ‘I had hoped for more,’ Rivil murmured.

  Corvus beckoned Lanta. ‘The prince worries we do not have enough men,’ he said and Lanta laughed, the sound high and girlish. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with genuine delight.

  ‘Prince Rivil, we have something far greater than warriors,’ she said. ‘We have the gods.’

  ‘Of course—’ Rivil began but Lanta cut him off.

 
‘No, Sire, you don’t understand. The gods have returned to Gilgoras. The veil is torn. The Dark Lady and Gosfath, God of Blood, walk the world again.’

  Rivil’s mouth was hanging open and his retinue urged their horses closer, stammering questions. Lanta raised her voice to include them all.

  ‘Our presence in Rilpor, as true worshippers of the Red Gods, and your conversion, Prince Rivil, yours and the lord’s and the East Rank’s, has combined to weaken the Dancer’s grip, the power of Her shields. Rilporians’ lack of faith and our true belief are powerful tools. The destruction of our army of the Blessed, every one a living sacrifice, in the Blood Pass Valley began to tear the veil, and the annihilation of the West Rank and the Wolves upriver thinned it even further. But in the end it was the breaking of the calestar that finally allowed our gods to return.’

  ‘The calestar? The Wolf prophet?’ Rivil asked as Galtas and Skerris muttered prayers of thanks in stunned voices. ‘What has he got to do with anything? Isn’t he a myth?’

  ‘The calestar is the Dark Lady’s tool, Your Highness, and he is very much a living man. Well, for now, anyway. The calestar is broken, lost, my lords. His mind drowns beneath a torrent of images and the torments of the gods. Whether the Dancer or the Dark Lady, all he’ll ever see now is what They show him.’

  ‘He is godblind,’ Corvus said, a delicate shiver running up his spine and Lanta nodded affirmation. ‘His torture must be exquisite, his mortal mind lost in the mysteries of the gods.’

  ‘It will break him,’ Lanta confirmed. ‘His mind will shatter into a thousand pieces. And when we find him, when the Dark Lady delivers him up to us, we’ll see Their power tease his very soul into threads, watch Their hands snap those threads one by one. Watch him unravel.’ Her voice dropped to an exalted whisper. ‘And none who see it will be able to deny Their power. And he will tell us such things, such secrets and dreams, visions of the Afterworld seen in waking life. He will be a living reminder of the power of the gods.’

  The Rilporians were mute with shock and awe and Corvus relished that it was they who’d known it first, that the Dark Lady had chosen to reveal Their return to the Blessed One before anyone else.

  ‘What must we do?’ Rivil stammered. ‘To properly welcome them, I mean.’

  Corvus raised his arms to Rilporin. ‘Break the city, slaughter its inhabitants, and destroy the Dancer,’ he said.

  ‘With fucking pleasure,’ Rivil said fervently. He gestured and Skerris wheeled his horse and kicked it into a heavy canter towards the waiting army, the blue patch on his sleeve catching Corvus’s eye.

  ‘East Rank! Trebuchets! Loose!’ he roared.

  King, prince, lord and Blessed One sat their horses under a clear sky and a bright sun and watched the three trebuchets send the first artillery shots of the siege into Rilporin’s walls.

  The war was only just beginning.

  EPILOGUE

  DOM

  Third moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  Watchtown, Western Plain

  Dom sat with his back against the water trough in Watchtown’s assembly place, legs splayed before him, right wrist crammed into his mouth, teeth seeking the source of the burrowing, itching, burning. It was in there somewhere. He’d find it. Just a little deeper.

  The bodies around him were bloating in the sun, millions of flies feasting, buzzing, rising and falling in clouds from corpse to corpse.

  Dom watched as men and women flipped and tumbled deep underground in dark water, bouncing off walls and each other as they flailed with heavy steel at floors and other people, until eventually they spoke streams of bubbles and then spun, limp and agape, boneless in the rush of water.

  More pictures, of a man in a crown covered in blood, a soldier gaunt by his bedside, a beautiful woman carving open a man’s belly in honour of the gods.

  The gods. The Dark Lady and Gosfath, God of Blood, Their hands forever upon him, Their wills forever bent to crush his.

  So beautiful. So black and red and beautiful.

  Blood streaked Dom’s chin as he ate himself. And he laughed and laughed at the pretty pictures.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’m not entirely sure where to start with this, as writing thank yous means I’ve actually written a book, and I still can’t quite believe this isn’t a dream. If it is, please don’t wake me up.

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my family – Mum, Dad, Sam, thank you for letting me grow up in libraries and books and the inside of my own skull, and for never stifling my somewhat odd imagination. Without you, this may never have come to be. My favourite phrase as a child (and to some extent still today) was ‘I could be a …’ followed by whatever took my fancy at that moment. Well, ‘I could be an author’ has finally become ‘I am an author’ and much of that is down to you.

  To all my extended family, from Scotland to Belgium to five minutes down the road, cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts and in-laws, you’ve all cheered me on and supported me through the craziest fourteen months of my life from agent to editor to published book – you’ve been amazing and I’m so grateful for all your help and excitement for me and for Godblind.

  And to Mark, the best husband I could ever hope for, you’re my best friend and greatest teacher. Not only that, you’ve been my biggest fan and most steadfast supporter and you never complained about the hours I worked or the number of times you had to do the housework on your own so I could write. Your belief in me has got me through some really difficult times and I promise to always do the same for you. Godblind is as much a product of your love and patience as it is of my brain. You mean everything to me, love. Thank you.

  And to the people who took the slightly chaotic mess that was the original book and helped me polish and improve it – Harry Illingworth, literary agent extraordinaire, who worked tirelessly on my behalf to get Godblind into the right hands – you’re a legend and I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks for your belief. And Natasha Bardon, editor, publishing director and all-round babe, you waited out my whining and pleading with the patience of a saint and then made me do it your way anyway – turns out it was the right way and Godblind is the richer for it, so you have my undying gratitude. This doesn’t mean I won’t whine and plead next time, though. Just so you know.

  Thanks also to Cameron McClure at Donald Maass for your efforts in getting Godblind to North America, and to Louisa Pritchard and The Marsh Agency for your foreign rights work in France, Germany and the Netherlands.

  The support I’ve received from other authors I’ve met in the last year has been incredible – publishing really is one big crazy family, so thanks to you all for the advice, the nudges, the laughs and the introductions. Mark de Jager, for taking me under your wing, Stu Turton, for the laughs and the beers, and Ed Cox and Jen Williams for your wisdom and hellos at conventions. And to all at Birmingham Writers’ Group for the collective creative knowledge and all the Doctor Who chats.

  And finally, to the people we’ve lost in the last few years who would have been so proud – you’re in my thoughts and my heart always. Thank you for making me me.

  About the Author

  Anna Stephens works in corporate communications for an international law firm by day and writes by night, normally into the small hours, much to her husband’s dismay. Anna loves all things speculative, from books to film to TV, but if you disagree keep it to yourself as she’s a second Dan black belt in Shotokan Karate.

  Godblind is Anna’s first novel.

  You can follow her on: Twitter @AnnaSmithWrites or www.anna-stephens.com

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

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  HarperCollins Canada

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  New Zealand

  HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

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  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

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  London, SE1 9GF

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  United States

  HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

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