The pain only grew as they made the walk from the hospital to the north barracks in Second Circle. His father had been laid out in the colonel’s quarters there, and torches and candles burnt with a clean bright light, illuminating the desk on which lay Durdil Koridam, Commander of the Ranks.
He was very, very dead, his chest plate caved in and merged with the flesh beneath so they couldn’t remove it without tearing him further, but his face was strangely untouched. Someone – probably Dalli, Mace thought numbly, it’s the sort of thing she’d do – had washed his face and hair, cleaned the blood and dirt from it and his hands, and he lay staring up at the flickers of light and shadow bouncing among the eaves with an expression of comical surprise, as though someone had burst in on him having a shit.
The room began to spin and Mace pressed his forehead to the table, fingers holding tight to the wood, the room echoing to his harsh breaths. The last days and weeks and months and all the deaths, all the losses, all the pains and aches and fatigue and the will to keep going, keep marching, keep fighting, all rose into one maelstrom of emotion that teetered over his head like a thundercloud and threatened to unleash everything in a single great deluge and Mace knew he’d never stand it, he wouldn’t be able to cope, and he was going to drown just as he’d nearly drowned in the tunnels—
He caught a whiff of old sweat and then small hands and arms wrapped around him and Dalli’s head pressed against his back and his burns yammered their hurt and the thundercloud grumbled, roiled and sullenly, reluctantly, retreated. Mace reached back and pulled Dalli around to his unburnt side and she clung there, silent and filthy and sweaty and there, right there where he needed her, and together they stared at the corpse of his father and the pain came again. Tears came too and there was no shame in them, not for Durdil.
‘Tailorson,’ he said softly, and Crys stepped to his side. His blue eye blazed with alien intelligence, the brown reflecting Mace’s hurt back at him. ‘Will you try?’
‘We will,’ Crys said, and Mace was dully surprised to see tears on the man’s face. Crys placed a hand on Durdil’s forehead, the other wedged as far as it would go down under the breastplate. He closed his eyes and the room fell silent, men and women holding their breath. Crys was shaking with effort, cords standing out in his neck, vein throbbing in his temple.
Nothing happened.
Crys slumped, shaking. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.
‘Try again,’ Mace said and heard the danger in his voice. Dalli squeezed him; he ignored her. ‘Try again.’
Crys did, eyes closed, trembling and straining. There was a pop of silver light from his hands, like a flint striking steel that made them all jump, and then nothing. Crys slid on to his knees, his rasping breath echoing in the room. ‘He’s gone, sir. We – I – can’t. He’s gone.’
Mace stared down at him and felt nothing but a yawning, empty chasm within. ‘Get him out of here,’ he snarled and Tara reached down, helped Crys up and led him out.
‘Forty years I was friends with that man,’ Hallos murmured, reaching out to tweak the blanket straight. ‘Treated more wounds of his than I care to remember. He was always going to be a soldier, and I was always going to be the man to heal him. Rotated through the Ranks together for a quarter of a century before he settled here and was made Commander.’
He put his hand on Mace’s shoulder and Mace’s breath hitched. ‘I will miss him every day of my life until I see him again in the Light. But one thing I know about him, and about you: you’re no fool and he didn’t raise you to be one. Don’t blame Tailorson, and don’t blame yourself. Men die; soldiers die. Even Commanders of the Ranks die.’
‘Sir,’ Edris said from behind, ‘the office of Commander is yours, sir. I know you will perform as well as he did.’
Mace remained silent, so Hallos turned him from the table. ‘Do you have the will?’
No.
Yes.
I don’t know …
‘We have the will,’ Dalli said for him and her voice was the strength he needed. ‘Between us we’ll see this war ended. For Durdil. For all of us.’
‘I’ll make him proud,’ Mace whispered and Hallos’s expression hardened. He grabbed him by both shoulders, unmindful of the burns or Mace’s grunt of pain.
‘You did that every single day of your life, you idiot,’ he said roughly. ‘Just concentrate on winning the war.’ He let go and straightened Mace’s jacket for him. ‘Commander.’
RILLIRIN
Fourth moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
The road to the South Rank forts, Western Plain
‘What do you think’s happening now?’
‘Men are fighting and dying,’ Gilda said as they trudged south, their pace agonisingly slow. ‘Gods are being invoked, pleas for mercy ignored. All the things that usually happen in wars, and none of which we can influence.’ She coughed and took Rillirin’s arm to steady herself.
‘How does us running away help them?’ Rillirin asked, more to take Gilda’s mind off the pain than anything.
Gilda laughed, the sound breathy and weak. She’d aged a decade in the days since Rillirin had found her, since she’d had to tell her that both Cam and Sarilla were dead. Husband and daughter-by-marriage both. Gone.
Rillirin wondered if she’d aged too, on learning that Dom was … a Darksoul, a betrayer, everything we’ve been taught to hate … was ill and even more plagued with visions than before.
‘We’re not running away. We’re taking word of the siege to the South Rank – who I hope will sort out my arm – and then to Krike.’
Rillirin’s eyebrows rose. ‘Krike? What can Krike do for us?’
‘I had a lot of time to think when I was Lanta’s … guest, and this morning I felt the truth of Dom’s words come alive in the world. Did you feel it, feel something wake?’
Rillirin shook her head, taking a little more of Gilda’s weight. They’d need to stop again soon. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I spent all morning trying to work out if I felt pregnant.’
‘I remembered all the knowings Dom had before he left us and what they might mean. It’s Crys,’ Gilda said and Rillirin frowned. ‘The godlight Dom said lived inside him. It’s woken now and the Krikites, well, they worship the Fox God even over the Dancer. If they felt the awakening too, they’ll fight with us. I’m sure of it. You want to know what an old priestess and a fledgling warrior carrying a babe can do in this war? I’ll tell you: we can bring Crys, Dom, Lim and all the others an army of Krikites dedicated to Crys and his cause, and together we can wipe the stain of the Red Gods from Gilgoras.’
Rillirin’s mouth opened at the vehemence in Gilda’s tone. ‘So you’re saying Crys is … what are you saying Crys is?’
Gilda’s smile was slightly bemused as she wiped at the sweat on her forehead. ‘I’m saying I believe – and I think Dom believed, or at least suspected – that Crys is the Fox God Himself. The Great Trickster.’
Rillirin screwed her face up and started to giggle, then laugh. ‘Crys?’ she gasped. ‘Crys is a god?’
Gilda smiled and then stumbled, and Rillirin’s laughter dried up. ‘Remember,’ Gilda croaked, ‘He’s called the Trickster for a reason. There are tales of His shape-changing, His many disguises to defeat Gilgoras’s enemies. Why not disguise Himself as a mortal man?’
‘Bloody good disguise,’ Rillirin quipped, shaking her head.
They skirted a boggy stretch of ground, grimacing as mud sucked at their boots. ‘The ways of gods are beyond our understanding. But Dom’s knowings all point to it.’
Gilda’s voice was hoarse with fever and infection, and Rillirin wondered if it was her sickness speaking, if the poor woman was hallucinating. It wasn’t her faith in the gods that made her doubt, it was that the Fox God would choose someone like Crys to be His mortal disguise. She giggled again, unable to help herself.
Rillirin’s hand went to her belly, as it did every few minutes, it seemed. Something else she s
truggled to believe was that she was carrying a child, Dom’s child. After the abuses in Eagle Height and the abortions they’d forced upon her there, she hadn’t thought she’d be able to. And yet she was filled with warm certainty, a joyous knowledge. And dread.
If I’m the herald that Dom foretold, surely I should be there with him, not here, despite Gilda’s protestations. If he saw me, he wouldn’t give me up to Lanta. He wouldn’t.
She urged Gilda a little further, the old woman stumbling more frequently as her strength failed.
Is the child what I herald? Herald of the end, he called me, but how is that possible? The child is a beginning, not an end. Unless … what is it that I will birth – a monstrosity, a plague? Will its beginning be our ending?
The herald will bring death to love. And love to death.
The words echoed in her head, words she’d tried to dismiss and yet which always came back to haunt her. She coughed harshly and swallowed as a thick swell of nausea rose in her throat. Her hand dropped from her belly. Would Rillirin be destined to love an evil creature borne of fearful passion and a black-canker heart? Had Dom even then been falling, lost, his seed infected with rot?
What exactly was it that was growing inside her?
‘Gilda?’ she said when she couldn’t bear the churning of her thoughts any more. Her voice was small. ‘What if it’s … bad?’
‘I’ve borne a child myself and delivered hundreds,’ Gilda comforted her, though she didn’t look as though she could do much more than stumble along, let alone help a labouring woman. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’
Rillirin hesitated. ‘Not the birth. The … the child. If Dom is what you say, if he’s fallen, then the babe might be …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence, in case speaking it aloud made it true. Gilda stopped; she reached out and tucked a strand of russet hair behind Rillirin’s ear. She was pale and clammy, her eyes too bright, but the love in them shone through.
‘Dom was still true to himself and the gods when you lay together. Whatever has happened to him since, it was not there at that moment. It was just you, and him, and love. Don’t fret on the babe. All babes are innocent; it is this world that moulds us, not the circumstances of our conception. Many a babe conceived in hate or haste has been raised with love. This one was conceived in neither; she’ll be fine.’
‘She?’ Rillirin asked.
Gilda shrugged. ‘Or he. Impossible to say.’
Rillirin walked on through the lush grass at the side of the straight road leading to the forts. Was Gilda telling the truth? Dom was being visited by the Dark Lady in his dreams weeks before that night. He was already tainted.
What if She’d been there, inside him, when they made love? Had his love even been his, or just put there by Her? Gilda couldn’t know for sure that all would be well. No one would know until the thing was born.
Baby, she reminded herself viciously. It’s a baby, not a thing. Think about it like that and it’s got no hope. It’s up to me; I have to love it enough for everyone, love it into being good.
Though she was afraid, the thought strengthened her. She had a purpose now, other than just survival. She had meaning. She’d fought with the Wolves because they’d taken her in, protected her, because she owed them a blood debt.
She’d fight now, with everything she had and everything she was, to love the child in her belly and ensure it was raised in the Light. Raised to love, not death.
‘I will fight for you,’ she whispered. ‘I will always fight for you.’
CORVUS
Beltane, evening, day forty-two of the siege
Mireces encampment, outside Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘You understand the risk you take,’ Corvus said. The Godblind stood before him devoid of collar or shackles, washed and shaved and wearing a fresh blue shirt. He slumped under the weight of the armour. Still, he almost looked human again, if you didn’t consider his gauntness, or the flicker of madness dancing in his eyes.
Excitement and anxiety swirled sickly in Corvus’s stomach. If the Godblind won, victory was assured and treachery avoided. If he lost, though …
‘I understand, Sire. Rivil killed my wife; I am prepared to test that truth against whatever excuse or justification he can find. Gods willing, I will kill him and clear your path to the throne. If not …’ He shrugged, appearing supremely unconcerned.
‘We all have to die sometime?’ Corvus said, but the flippancy was forced.
‘Yes, Sire. And on what better day to do it than today? Beltane,’ he added, when Corvus didn’t speak. ‘The Dancer’s festival of life, one of Her most sacred days which we will now mark with blood? I thought it fitting.’
Corvus waved away the comment. ‘And Galtas? You said he was part of her murder.’
The Godblind’s nostrils flared. ‘He raped her, yes, but it was Rivil who did the killing, Rivil whose blood must answer for hers. The day may come when I kill Galtas too, but it isn’t today.’
Corvus folded his arms. ‘Our purpose is far greater than your pathetic vengeance, Wolf. We are here for a higher purpose. We serve that above all else.’
Dom rubbed his hands over his face. ‘What do you think I’m doing? I speak the truth as shown me by the Dark Lady. Rivil plans treachery. He wants you all dead and he’ll risk his chance at taking the throne to see it happen. But if I kill him today, victory will be yours. We both get what we want.’
‘Valan can kill Rivil. Fuck it, I can kill the little shit myself.’
The Godblind’s eyes shadowed and his neck stretched long in that way he had when it wasn’t his words he was speaking. ‘I have seen your victory; I have seen the Dark Lady stand in the middle of Rilporin itself. I have seen all bow to you. My destiny does not affect yours; if I die here tonight, the outcome remains the same. Let me have this, I beg you. The last lingering pain from my past. With that gone, there is nothing tying me to my old life.’
Corvus drummed his fingers on his upper arm and stared at the Godblind, then at Lanta. ‘Well?’
She was serene, confident. ‘If the Godblind wins, we win the war. If the Godblind loses, you kill Rivil and we still win the war.’
‘We risk much.’
Lanta smiled. ‘We always have, Sire. It is in our nature to do so. We are Mireces, not Rilporians; we understand the nature of risk.’
Corvus swore, glaring at Dom. ‘Fuck this up, and I’ll kill you myself.’
The man bowed, his smile feral. ‘I won’t.’
‘I will fetch Skerris,’ Lanta said. ‘We should know in advance if he will be a problem, and he will not lie to me.’
The enormous general nearly brought the tent down when he squeezed in through the flaps and saluted.
‘General, thank you for coming,’ Corvus said. ‘I would know where your loyalty lies.’
‘With the gods, Your Majesty,’ Skerris said without even the breath of hesitation. ‘Always with Them. They are my guiding light.’
‘And the Prince Rivil?’
‘Rivil will be my king, gods willing. If the gods do not will, then They have Their reasons.’
‘If Rivil were to die?’ Lanta asked.
Skerris examined her for a long moment, his piggy eyes shrewd in the sweaty flab of his face. ‘My loyalty is to the gods and then to my prince. If I were to suspect treachery—’
‘If he fell in Hoth-Nagarre?’ Lanta broke in.
Skerris’s eyebrows shot up his head. He sucked the end of his moustache into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, pudgy hands squeezing the wide leather of his belt. He spat. ‘Hoth-Nagarre is rarely invoked and never lightly. If the prince challenged someone, he would—’
‘The prince is the one being challenged,’ Lanta said and Skerris’s eyebrows vanished into his hairline once more.
Skerris stared up at the tent roof, and then around at Lanta, Corvus and the Godblind. Carefully, wincing, he lowered himself to one knee. ‘I serve the gods. My desire is to see my prince rule; if that is not meant to be
, I will do as They command me, and I will serve who They raise up in his stead.’
And there it is. Don’t fuck this up, Godblind.
‘Thank you, General. In Lord Morellis’s absence, will you act as the prince’s adviser through the ritual?’
‘I will, Sire. May I know the identity of his adversary?’
Corvus flicked his fingers at the Godblind. Skerris turned to look at him, and instead of laughing, as Corvus expected, he sucked the end of his moustache into his mouth again with a worried slurp. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘By your leave, I will make my prince ready.’ And without waiting for permission, he hurried from the tent.
Corvus exchanged a bemused look with Lanta. ‘Looks like you’ve got the fat man scared,’ he said to the Godblind.
Dom bared his teeth. ‘So he should be.’
DOM
Beltane, night, day forty-two of the siege
Mireces encampment, outside Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘Prince Rivil Evendoom, last of your House, I invoke the rite of Hoth-Nagarre, a battle to the death in which the Gods of Blood Themselves will weigh our truths. Step into the circle and be judged.’
The chainmail was heavier than Dom remembered, but comforting too, a favourite coat long abandoned and put back on. The sword was his own, taken from him when he’d surrendered, and so was the dagger. Other old friends reunited. The wound in his shoulder and the swollen tear in his cheek throbbed, but they would not slow him. All would be as the Lady willed.
‘My feet are on the Path,’ he murmured. The Dark Lady breathed on the back of his neck and even Gosfath was here, crouched on the other side of the torn veil, His presence thick with curiosity, pressing down on Dom’s head like the beat of a heavy summer sun.
‘Whose side will you be on, my love?’ he asked the goddess whose presence lingered like a whiff of rot on the sweet breath of an infant. The Mireces were used to him talking to himself by now; no one paid his words any mind as Rivil shrugged his armour to check it moved freely and then drew his sword.
Darksoul Page 19