Beer Mug let loose a sharp, venom-laced snarl, raised his hackles to full mast, and shot over the snow toward the beast, white powder kicking up in his wake. The lion leaped away amid a flurry of snow, darting behind a birch in an instant. The dog lunged, glancing off the tree gracefully and landing on all fours. Beer Mug rushed the beast again, tearing the cat’s side with his teeth. Blood welled from the wound. But the saber-toothed cat struck back just as quickly, its murderous large teeth snapping a hairsbreadth from Beer Mug’s muzzle as he danced away. Beer Mug spit and growled, slowly backing the big cat down. The dog’s bloody lips curled back, flashing scarlet gums and razor-sharp whites that glistened and gleamed, and the fur along his back and haunches rippled. The dog snapped at the saber-toothed lion again. But the big cat leaped over the fallen trees, scrambled away through the snow-covered bracken, and vanished.
“Fuck you and the fucking feline demon who spawned you!” Liz Hen shouted, throwing her dagger at the spot of whiteness where the lion had disappeared. She then snatched the one from Nail’s belt and threw it too.
“What’d you do that for?” Nail found that he was breathing through his mouth. His throat and tongue were dry and raw. He didn’t know if his heart would ever stop its pounding. And that lion’s roar—it had split the air and shook the very ground itself.
He still couldn’t believe Liz Hen and thrown the daggers into the woods. “Two of our only weapons and now they’re lost. I should send you after them.”
“Not with that thing out there, you won’t.” Liz Hen’s brow furrowed.
Atop Lilly’s back, Zane grimaced. “As Laijon is my witness, I didn’t think a dog could run off a saber-tooth.”
Nail had the urge to laugh but didn’t do so out of fear he might weep at the same time. That Beer Mug had chased off the lion was, at the very least, extraordinary. The daggers were of little use anyway.
“Why did you not let your arrow fly?” Liz Hen asked Stefan accusingly.
“I may have to kill men and merfolk.” Stefan slung the bow over his shoulder. “But I refuse to kill an innocent creature again, even if it is a saber-tooth bent on eating us. It was just doing what mountain lions do. It was no demon. It was only hungry.”
“What sort of bloody awful logic is that?” The red-haired girl looked at Stefan with pure disdain. “I’m the innocent beast! Me! Liz Hen Neville! I’m the one who’s most hungry! Did you ever think had you kilt that damn cat maybe I coulda ate it?”
It was late afternoon, and the snow was so thick it was clear to them all that they would not find the trail any time soon. Reaching the abbey before nightfall was out of the question. He had failed his friends again. They barely plodded along through a grove of tall pine and pale birch. Lilly could scarcely move, Zane still atop her. Soon the pony just stopped altogether, breathing hard, legs quivering. A rancid odor was coming from Zane as he slid from the pony to the frozen ground. Nail could smell his injured friend from ten feet away. As he lay on the ground, Zane began mumbling that he wanted to die, that he just wanted the pain to end. Liz Hen, Stefan, and Dokie began clearing a spot on the snow under him.
Nail unslung the ax from his back, used to the weight and bulk of it now. He made sure Shawcroft’s leather satchel was still snug about his shoulder, and headed into the trees to gather firewood. He found a host of fallen saplings covered in snow and began chopping at them with the ax, the heavy blade slicing through the wood as if it were naught but crumbled parchment. A stiff wind set the forest to creaking, branches clashing above in a slow dance.
Weary, Nail sat on a rock and stared into the blowing trees, body and mind numb from the cold. He didn’t think of anything, mind blank, muscles sore. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but when he was finished gathering firewood, the sun was going down.
When he returned to the others, he found Liz Hen kneeling over Zane, praying. The boy lay on his back atop one of the wolf-hide blankets, all of his armor removed, in naught but his stiff woolen underclothes. Liz Hen’s arms were extended, palms up, eyes closed, head thrown back like Bishop Tolbret reciting Eighth Day prayers. At first Nail thought Zane was dead. Then the boy coughed. Blood bubbled up from his lips.
Nail dropped the wood in the snow near Lilly and stepped closer to Zane. He really just wanted to retreat back into the gray gloom of the trees and be alone. Only the ceremonial weight of the moment being played out here in the midst of their encampment kept him rooted to the ground.
He listened to the words of Liz Hen’s prayer. “We give thee hearty thanks for delivering us so far from our enemies, dear Laijon,” she said, head raised to the heavens in supplication. “Keep us all from the miseries of this sinful world. And we beseech your gracious goodness to deliver Zane from the burden of his flesh. Hasten thy kingdom come, so that he may depart this existence to join you in the true faith of thy holy name. May you consummate our prayer with bliss, both body and soul in eternal everlasting glory through you, Laijon, forever and ever, amen.”
“Amen,” Stefan and Dokie repeated. Even Beer Mug, who appeared to be sitting in reverence next to Zane, lifted his head and let out a dismal howl.
“He’s too sick.” Liz Hen looked up at Nail. “The pain of his injury is too great. He can’t even breathe without crying out in agony.”
Dokie wept. Beer Mug lay at Zane’s side. There was sadness in the dog’s eyes. Liz Hen peeled back the fabric of Zane’s woolen underclothes. A great stench hit them all at the same time. The swollen flesh around the deep gash in Zane’s side was dull and waxen, the wound itself livid and angry, oozing blood and yellow pus. Zane’s entire midsection was naught but a bulbous, purple sheen.
“My pa said a wound goes rotten in a week,” Stefan said. “You can survive longer than a week sometimes, if your wound is on an arm or leg, that is. But one so near the heart will claim a man in just days.”
“What a glum thing to say.” Liz Hen glared at Stefan as she stroked her brother’s matted hair.
“Pa also said infection slows in such cold,” Stefan muttered, hanging his head. Then he looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Zane tried to sit up, watery blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. Liz Hen gently held her brother’s head in her lap. Zane’s placid gaze found Nail as he spoke, his voice shallow. “It’s time to pay the butcher’s bill, my friend.”
“What does he mean?” Nail looked up at Liz Hen.
“You must rescue him from the suffering,” Liz Hen said, lips quivering, tears freezing on her face. “He’s in dreadful agony.”
“The lions are attracted to my smell.” Zane’s voice was naught but a gurgle as more blood dribbled from his mouth and over his bluish lips. “You must send me away, Nail. If I stay, the saber-tooth will keep after you. And Lilly can’t carry me another step.” He reached up and squeezed Nail’s hand, and then his hand slipped away to fall limply at his side. “You have to release me unto heaven.”
“I can get you to the abbey,” Nail said. “Beer Mug can take care of the lions.”
“The abbey could be weeks away, for all we know,” Liz Hen said. “We’re lost. Even if we can find the abbey, he’ll still die. His injury’s too infected.”
“We’re not lost,” Nail lied. “The abbey is near.”
“You must end his agony.”
“You want me to kill him?” Nail backed away from Liz Hen.
“One of us has to,” Liz Hen said. “And . . . and . . . I can’t.”
“Nor I,” Dokie said. Stefan did not look up, just stared at the ground.
“I can get him to the abbey,” Nail said, voice resolute. “If I have to carry him myself, I can get him there.”
“He won’t last,” Liz Hen cried.
Nail looked at his friend on the snow. With each labored breath, the boy gasped in pain. “Please, Nail.” Zane’s voice was but a whisper. “Do it for me. I’m so sick.”
Nail felt great floods of emotion swell within him, but he held back his tears. His own voice cra
cked. “I don’t want to.”
“We don’t give a gob fart what you want.” Liz Hen loosened the dagger at Zane’s belt, stood, and held it out for Nail, hilt first. “Take it!” she roared. “You’re nothing but a bastard boy anyway. Everyone in Gallows Haven is dead because of you. What’s one more? Grab the knife! May the wraiths take you, but you’ll do as I say.”
Nail recoiled. Liz Hen was looking at him not only in anger, but with that same impatient glint in her eyes that Ava and Jenko had shown him in the prisoner tent. He knew at that moment that something terrible and hard was growing within him. He felt the first stirrings of anger. What do I owe any of them? He wanted to defy Liz Hen and carry Zane to the abbey himself. He would show them it wasn’t impossible. Show them he was strong enough. He was better than them all, more determined. He bent down and tried to scoop Zane up in his arms, but couldn’t lift the boy even an inch. Zane cried out in pain. Even without armor, Zane was big and Zane was heavy. Nail refused to give up. “Help lift him onto my back,” he urged the others.
Liz Hen huffed. “My brother’s nearly three hundred pounds, you clodpole.”
“But if you help put him on my back, we can keep going. I will alternate carrying him with Lilly. The pony can rest some.”
“You don’t understand,” Liz Hen said. “It’s over.”
Then Nail recalled Shawcroft’s words: You can also take life, son. . . . If any lag behind, you’ll have to leave them in the mountains. Remember Radish Biter. . . . I’m afraid Zane won’t make it far. You must reach Bishop Godwyn above all else. Shawcroft had foreseen this.
Zane would have to be put out of his misery. And the task had fallen to him. At that moment Nail wanted to run. Run so far away from this place it would be forever lost to him. He closed his eyes and took three deep breaths. The bitter air froze the insides of his nostrils, but at the same time awakened his mind. He recalled the unbearable pain Radish Biter had been in before Shawcroft ordered him to put the cow to sleep. It had been the right thing to do then. And it seemed the right thing to do now. But Zane was a person, not a cow. Zane is my friend!
It was that last thought that settled Nail’s mind. When he reopened his eyes, Liz Hen was already placing the hilt of the dagger into his hand, and his cold fingers were already curling around it. And Stefan and Dokie were already leading Lilly away into the woods. Liz Hen knelt and kissed her brother one last time and stood, crying. “Make it quick,” she said to Nail. “I don’t want him to suffer.” Then she too withdrew, following Stefan and Dokie into the snow-covered trees.
Only Beer Mug remained. Zane lay still as a stone on the wolf-hide blanket. The big gray dog growled deep and low as Nail approached. It took some effort, but Zane put one weary hand on Beer Mug, calming him. The dog’s tail wagged at Zane’s touch.
Dagger in hand, Nail knelt by his friend. He knew he must have had the most dreadful look on his face. Zane spoke to him calmly. “Don’t be sad, Nail, you’ll only make me cry. I don’t wanna go out of this world crying, you know.”
Nail knew his own eyes were wide with pain, but there were no tears. Zane looked up at the sky. A faint yellow glow illuminated his ashen features. Nail looked up too. The clouds had parted, letting the last rays of sunshine through, revealing the peaks of the mountains around them. Still, there was little warmth from the sun. And the soft wind whispered through the treetops above.
Nail took up a corner of the wolf-hide blanket to cover his friend’s face.
“No.” Zane’s pallid lips trembled. “I wanna see the sun as you do it, Nail. Watch it go down. Can you see it glistening off the mountains? So far up we are. Near where Laijon dwells. His kingdom on high, they say. Let me look at the sun for a moment. . . .”
So Nail sat by Zane and the two of them watched the sunlight gleam off the mountains. The peaks were broken by many jagged canyons. The sun danced off the snow and sliced into the shadows, creating a dazzling scene of brilliant reds and deep purples. It was beautiful. The howling wind and immense cold slithered around them, freezing Nail’s face stiff.
“I never properly thanked you for saving me from the sharks,” Zane said.
Nail shuddered, recalling his plunge into the bloody ocean and the cold grip of the mermaid. He had saved his friend’s life. Now he was to take it. Everything about the situation seemed cold, unfair. Nail wondered if anything he’d ever done in his life had truly even mattered. His friend was dying again, right in front of him. Who but me could save a life, only to see it wither away with infection and excruciating pain weeks later?
Zane took Nail’s hand in his own—the hand that held the dagger. Zane placed the tip of the blade under his own ribs at an angle and said, “Put the knife in under the bone and push up a little and to the left. That will do it clean. No worries. Little pain. At least I hope.” With his other hand, Zane pulled Beer Mug’s face close to his own and kissed the dog. “Do it now, Nail.” Zane looked up as the last sliver of sun vanished behind the mountain peaks. “Do it now.”
But Nail, feeling sorry for himself, for Zane, for Gisela, for everybody, couldn’t do it. He was frozen. Immobile. He could only stare at his friend’s pain-racked face. He looked at the dagger in his own hand, a hand that was poised to take a life. This can’t be happening. How can it be happening? We went on the grayken hunt together. I saved him from the sharks! Everyone was proud of me. Even Shawcroft.
Beer Mug was nuzzling Zane’s neck. The dog’s sad brown eyes gazed questioningly up at Nail, as if asking why he hesitated. And so, with every ounce of determination he could muster, Nail did it. He angled the dagger under Zane’s ribs, up a little and to the left. And pushed. One motion. Quick. Right in the heart.
Zane gasped, eyes widening. Beer Mug squealed a sad note.
Nail knew if he lived a thousand years, he would never forget that final look on Zane’s dying face. For there was one thing beyond all else still alive in his friend’s eyes: faith. Faith in Laijon. And in that last moment, Nail saw it.
Zane truly believed that Laijon was awaiting him in the hereafter.
Livid red blood drained from the wound when Nail withdrew the blade. But Zane’s countenance now glowed with a serenity not present moments before.
Nail knew he had done the right thing. Still kneeling, he cleaned the dagger in the snow, Beer Mug remained planted at Zane’s side, a low whimper in his throat.
Nail stood. “Come,” he said to the dog. But Beer Mug stayed put. The terror and love in the dog’s eyes hit Nail with such force he had to look away. Like Gisela, Zane would never be properly buried. Instead he would be left alone, Beer Mug at his side. But in Nail’s estimation, there was no more fitting monument than that.
Following Lilly’s tracks in the snow, he left his friend with the dog. Zane’s still-steaming chest bled a river of scarlet heat over the wolf-hide blanket and onto the frozen ground.
* * *
We, the last Warrior Angels, bear witness to the covenants between Laijon and mankind. For the wrath of our sin was taken out on the Atonement Tree. ’Twas the blood of Laijon that paid for all sin and banished all darkness to the underworld. It is by his grace that we are saved from the wraiths. Only continued sinfulness and sloth will bring back the Fiery Demons and their dread lords.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TALA BRONACHELL
7TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
Sterling says the bitch skewered me good.” As Jovan sat up in the bed, wincing, and motioned for Tala to enter, the covers fell from his chest. His torso was bandaged from stomach to neck. He wore a thin white robe.
Tala bid good day to Dame Mairgrid and the king’s chamberlain, Ser Landon Galloway, and made her way through the entry hall and of her brother’s chamber. The small foyer beyond was complete with plush settees and a small cordoned-off library. Jovan’s room itself was spacious. She heard Ser Landon close the do
or behind her, leaving her alone with her brother. The bedroom portion of the chamber was divided into several sections by partitions, in effect creating many smaller rooms out of the one big space. Jovan’s living quarters were filled with all manner of fine sculptures and ornately carved furnishings. His bed was in the farthest right-hand corner, near an open window overlooking the city. A cool morning breeze blew in, a bit chilly for Tala’s taste.
Jovan’s legs lay under a thick pile of blankets. “I don’t feel much pain.”
“That’s nice.” It was the only reply she could think of as she sat beside him on the bed.
“Sterling seems bent on pinning this on you. But rest easy, Tala. Pay him no mind. He will not question you again, lest he suffer my wrath. He’s all but worn out his usefulness anyway. If he so much as looks at you askance, tell me. I will deal with him. You’re but a pawn, I’m afraid. Insignificant. A piece in a bigger game my enemies play.”
“How are you feeling?” she asked, throat dry.
“My only disappointment is that the doctors won’t let me leave this bed. You’ll have to bring back a detailed accounting of this afternoon’s fights for me.”
“I hate the gladiator matches.”
“You hope that Squireck wins.”
“I just don’t want him to die. He was once my friend. Jondralyn’s betrothed.”
Jovan took her hand in his. “He will die today. Of that I am certain.”
“Can we not speak of such things?”
“Times are dangerous, Tala. You must harden yourself. This attempt on my life has awakened me to the truth. Be prepared. The time is soon upon us when I will have your sister brought before the king’s court and quorum of five on charges of treason against the Silver Throne. Not all in this family wish me well. Though I can’t prove it yet, I see Jondralyn’s hand in this. After all, that serving wench was with her. She wishes me ill. Denarius says it is so.”
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