Bloodchild

by Anna Stephens

  Another axe blow on to his shield was almost enough to break his wrist and he bellowed, kicked the man wielding it in the knee and rammed him off his feet, bringing the shield rim down into his face and hearing the snap of bone and teeth. Screaming filled the night.

  ‘’Ware!’ shrieked a voice and he dived, rolling over his shield and into clear space, up between two Mireces just turning to face him, stabbed one and missed, the chainmail turning the point, flicked the blade down and opened the man’s thigh instead, kicking into the open wound; he took the blow from the second Raider on the edge of his shield, chips of wood spraying his face and the blade skittering off and squealing down his breastplate.

  Spun side on and forced the man back with the shield, herding him until he tripped over a corpse, lashing out with a blow more a bludgeon and staving in helmet and skull. Sucking in lungfuls of air and letting all the rage of Rilporin surge up his throat and out of his mouth in a scream of pure violence, spinning to defend his back when his spine prickled warning, tucked in behind his shield so the attack was a glancing blow off the metal boss and his upward diagonal sweep made it below the chainmail and into groin and belly. Stink of entrails and the scream of a dead man, glimpse of Dalli darting like a fish from the darkness, spear red along a third of its length, twirling and ducking and dealing death.

  Another presence behind him and he twisted again, sword already cutting, and Jarl threw up his shield to deflect it. ‘About a dozen slipped through south if you want them, Commander,’ he panted when he saw the need for more violence, for release, in Mace’s expression, indicating a score of soldiers arrayed behind him with torches and bloodstained faces, ready to run.

  Mace took another deep lungful, adrenaline crystal-bright and singing in his veins. ‘Mop up here,’ he snarled, bloodlust thickening his voice. ‘I’ve got the runners.’

  THE BLESSED ONE

  Seventh moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus

  Red Gods’ temple, temple district, First Circle, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  Lanta, Blessed One and Voice of the Gods, and High Priest Gull crouched in the dark of the temple.

  They had the beginnings of a plan now, an outline that they were filling in through ritual, through communion and intuition and invention. The godblood Lanta had ingested and which even now stained her skin had lent her wisdom and understanding she’d never before experienced. She understood the gods; knew Them, in ways no other mortal could or ever had.

  The secret lay in learning how the Fox God had entered the mortal man Crys Tailorson. If they could understand that, they’d know better how to bring back the Dark Lady.

  Lanta had already offered her own flesh as host, but the connection had failed. They needed a focus, something for the Dark Lady to sense from wherever She was imprisoned, something big enough, bright enough, to draw Her back past the veil and into Gilgoras. And then into Her new body, mortal and divine mingling into a living goddess to tread the earth among Her children forever. Between them, the Blessed One and Gull were beginning to understand what that beacon might be.

  Holy Gosfath. God of Blood and Lord of War.

  The sheer audacity, the magnitude, of what they were attempting frightened her, but the alternative – a world without the Dark Lady, the endless agony of abandonment – terrified her far more. And Lanta did not deal in fear of this type.

  If they could … anchor Gosfath here in the temple, when the time came for the ritual, the Dark Lady would find Her way to Him through the channel of Lanta’s soul and the souls of sacrifices, the promise and whisper of blood spilt in Her name, and from there they could direct Her into the Bloodchild – the holy vessel – and restore Her to life and the world. For that, they needed to be able to bring the god to them. They needed to offer Him something. Tempt Him.

  Lanta took a deliberate breath of the rank air, the heat and smoke, tasting her fear and embracing it, and then she focused. The knife was sharp, but not so sharp she didn’t feel it slice into her arm; what would be the point in not feeling the pain?

  ‘I swear in Holy Gosfath’s name that I will not rest until I have brought the Dark Lady out of death and into Her glorious vengeance.’

  She cut again.

  ‘I swear in the Dark Lady’s memory that I will fly past what remains of the veil and search the Waystations and the Afterworld itself to find Her.’

  Another cut. The temple was thick with tension and the stink of old blood and new, sweat and death and fierce, brittle defiance.

  ‘I swear by my blood and my hope of meeting the gods in death that I will not cease until we have resurrected our Bloody Mother.’

  She cut once more, the pain lancing through her and making her stronger, more determined. A blood oath, carved in flesh and bone and will, new scars on top of old: a promise to the gods, to the Dark Lady wherever She was; and a promise to Lanta herself.

  This is faith. This is determination. This is how we win.

  Lanta gave the blade to Gull and he touched its tip to his lips, licking her blood from the steel. And then he swore the same oath, one cut at a time, and the heat in the temple grew, the stinking slaughterhouse smell drifting from the altar and the godpool they’d blessed with the blood of sacrifice, its clotted surface so thick it echoed back their words and the harshness of their breathing.

  Beneath Lanta’s hands a brass dish full of coals smoked and hissed as her blood dripped into it, filling her head with the path to the Waystation. Opposite her, Gull’s nostrils flared as he inhaled the fumes. Lanta’s fingers coiled through the smoke, sweat sheening her face.

  ‘Holy Gosfath, God of Blood, lend us your great strength in the quest to return your Holy Sister to you and to the world. Grant us the strength to do your will. God of Blood, we honour you.’ The glowing coals sizzled and burst into flame. Lanta smiled cautiously; He was listening.

  ‘Gosfath, God of Blood, separated from your loved and loving Sister, we beseech you to search beyond the veil for the Dark Lady, snatched from your loving arms and our yearning souls. We seek your mighty aid in helping us bring Her back from beyond death. Will you come to us?’

  A breeze rippled through the dry heat of the room, tickling Lanta’s skin, lifting her hair, stealing fingers inside her gown, beneath her breasts and between her legs. It carried the whiff of corruption, the tang of sulphur.

  ‘He’s near,’ she whispered and Gull scuttled further forward, his face a skull ill lit by the glow from the brazier. The heat was so strong it took all her will to keep her palms close to the coals. She sucked in a breath of smoke, held it against the urge to cough, tears stinging her eyes, and exhaled.

  ‘Bring Him,’ Gull murmured.

  Lanta strained, opening herself to Gosfath as she had for years to the Dark Lady. A tickle, a tentative poking, and then nothing. She strained harder, but He wouldn’t come. Gull had more experience with the god, but for this plan Gull would not suffice.

  ‘The God does not desire,’ she said.

  ‘The God always desires,’ Gull said. He put his hands on top of Lanta’s and, with one savage move, pressed them into the coals.

  Red screaming agony coursed through her hands and up her arms and Lanta shrieked, fought to pull away. Gull held her tight and suddenly there He was, bright and dark and vast in her head.

  Want. Need. Want.

  Lanta felt herself pulled along the Path, flying from the temple into the presence of her dread lord, pain and terror mingling into the perfect alloy of devotion.

  Heat pulsed around her, fingers of hot air stroking her now naked skin. Ahead, a shadow loomed among the stalactites of the Waystation, massive and misshapen. He was supposed to come to them, not her to Him. It wouldn’t work here. It had to be the temple. It had to be. Gosfath’s bellow brought her thoughts to a crashing halt and ignited her tongue.

  ‘As we call to the gods in times of pain and terror, so They take as Their due our blood and breath,’ she chanted. There was no time to worry about what had gone wrong;
Lanta was in the presence of the Red Father. ‘As fear brings us to the gods’ presence, I welcome you. Fear is your call; devotion is our answer.’

  Fear indeed, as the darkness parted to reveal Him sitting on a throne carved from the bones of a mountain. Or perhaps it was a mountain of bones. He rose, head bowed to avoid the cavern’s high vault, and stepped down, the black talons on one huge hand skirling across the wall, gouging lines, striking sparks, the noise an unholy screech that made Lanta’s eardrums flutter. She dropped to her knees and looked away as He shrank, a giant still but of a size she could comprehend now. Half her height again, three times her weight, muscles rippling like eels in oil.

  ‘Lord Gosfath, God of Blood, most mighty Lord of War and chaos, I am honoured by your presence, and honour you in turn with—’

  ‘Want,’ the God of Blood hissed, hauling her to her feet with one hand wrapped around her upper arm. ‘Want now.’

  ‘Your Sister wants you too, Father,’ Lanta gasped, raising her hands in a barrier as effective as a spider’s web. ‘The Dark Lady yearns for your arms around Her, Father, She yearns for you. We must find Her, bring Her back to you and this world, restore the balance—’

  Gosfath leant close. ‘Alone,’ He grunted and flung her down. ‘Want.’

  Lanta cried out as her head struck stone, again as Gosfath threw Himself on top of her, and then screamed as His talons and then His fat red cock dug their way inside her, screamed in an agony so close to ecstasy she understood they were the same. Screamed as the god honoured her.

  Lanta woke with a wail of mingled pain and exaltation, her consciousness slamming back into her body where it lay in abandon on the temple floor, her head pillowed on Gull’s knees and her skirts cast up around her legs. She exhaled a long, drawn-out moan as her hurts made themselves known in a rush that rippled through her body from the back of her head to her ankles.

  She gestured with scabbed fingers and carefully, so carefully, Gull undid her gown and peeled it down to her waist. Among the black god-stains and disappearing beneath her breast band, her skin was hatched with cuts, claw marks, bite marks, and at her core throbbed a deep ache that spiked into pain with every movement.

  Lanta looked down at herself and a slow smile spread across her face at the ruin of her flesh. She placed one hand between her legs. ‘The god honoured me,’ she whispered. Tears started in her eyes.

  ‘Then we have taken the first step,’ Gull replied. ‘The next time, you must draw Him here rather than go to the Waystation. We must be able to bring Him through the veil if the Dark Lady is to return.’

  Lanta forced herself to sit up, groaning against the flare deep within her pelvis. Next time? Even if she could go through this again, there was no saying that Holy Gosfath would come through the veil and into the temple. Not next time, maybe not ever. She breathed through the pain and pushed her doubts aside. It would work. He would understand and He would help them. He would be rewarded, first with Lanta to appease and comfort Him, and then by the restoration of His Sister-Lover.

  It would work.

  Gull scooted around to face her, put his hands on her shoulders, reverence lightening his features. ‘This is monumental, Blessed One,’ he said. ‘We have made great progress here today. No one has ever communed with the god so … thoroughly.’

  ‘Great progress, yes,’ she said, ‘but I will need time to heal before I call Him again. His desire and loneliness were so great, you can see what it has done to me.’

  ‘And yet time begins to run short. Perhaps some of the slave women could be trained to pleasure the Father until Mireces women arrive,’ Gull mused.

  Lanta’s guts twisted, not in pain this time. ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘It must be me. Only me. I am the Blessed One and this is my task, my holy purpose. I will see it done. I will bring the Father to Rilporin, to this very temple. He will come and we will make Him a beacon to guide the Dark Lady home.’

  I have known the love of the Father. May it sustain me until our Bloody Mother is brought back.

  ‘Come, let us get you to a warm bath and then the healer. You have done great work.’

  ‘It is only the beginning,’ Lanta stuttered as Gull helped her stand, the pain shortening her breath. ‘For the rest we need Rillirin and the bairn. We have to have her, Gull.’

  ‘I will speak to the king on your behalf, Blessed One,’ Gull soothed her. ‘I will inform him of our progress, of the urgency, the need, to find his sister. You should concentrate only on the god for now, on encouraging Him to leave the Afterworld and the Waystation and visit His worshippers here. Visit you.’

  She paused, tightening her grip on her priest’s supporting arm and then hissing as the blisters on her palm ruptured. ‘He said He was alone, Gull,’ she whispered, and her tears this time were of sorrow. ‘It broke my heart.’

  ‘You will soothe him, Blessed One, and tend to His divine needs as often as you are able. We must explain all we are doing to return His Sister-Lover to Him. Once He understands, it may be that His demands are less … onerous.’

  Lanta’s ice-blue eyes frosted over and she pushed away to stand unaided. ‘No task performed in service of the gods is ever onerous,’ she grated. Gull dipped his head in silent apology. ‘I will rest and sleep, take herbs for these wounds. Our great work begins now. All that has come before is as nothing.’

  CRYS

  Seventh moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus

  Seer’s Tor, Krike

  Despite the presence of the southern war leader and her warriors, the reception for the Rilporians at Seer’s Tor, Krike’s capital, was less than friendly.

  Warriors picked up their approach when they were still a few miles out and by the time the group had reached the outskirts of the great circular town with the tor rearing from its centre, the Warlord’s honour guard were ranged across the main road and the gates were shut tight.

  ‘There’s something very wrong here,’ Dom muttered to Crys as they walked steadily towards the line of warriors barring their way. He rubbed tenderly at his right eye. ‘Very, very wrong. Be careful.’ He hissed in pain and stumbled and Ash caught him under the arm, helped him along a few strides until he found his balance again.

  Crys didn’t miss that Ash let go as fast as he could. Dom didn’t miss it either. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ he asked the calestar. Dom blinked, surprised and pleased to be spoken to. Grateful just to be acknowledged. A twist of shame rose up Crys’s throat even as his palms dampened in animal instinct at the man’s proximity.

  ‘Things will not be as they seem. Truth and lies entwine like mating snakes and faith broken and put back together is stronger than faith forgotten and remembered.’ He stopped walking, stopped talking, his neck stretching long and to one side, blank brown eyes staring into the future. Crys and Ash got ready to catch him, but after long moments he came back to them and was still himself.

  ‘All right?’ Crys put his hand on Dom’s back. ‘Do you need some time?’

  Dom coughed, cleared his throat, spat, and then took several deep breaths. His right eye was screwed shut against pain that writhed across his features, but he began to walk, limping slightly. ‘Be on guard. We’re in more danger here than at any point since we fled Rilporin.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Ash muttered, but he’d noticed the hand that Crys still had on Dom’s back and subsided. Relief, confusion and disgust warred for possession of his expression, but he matched his pace to Dom’s and the three of them moved slowly to the line of warriors in front of the shut gate.

  ‘The tor’s here,’ Crys said, though it was pretty obvious, looming over not just the town but the entire landscape, visible for miles. ‘It’s where I was born, you know. The Fox God, I mean.’

  Cutta stepped in front of them. ‘Cutta Frog-dream, war leader of the south and confidante of the Warlord, with information about the war in Rilpor and god-news for the Seer-Mother. The Trickster has returned to Gilgoras in mortal form.’

  Whatever
they’d been expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. The warrior who she addressed opened and closed his mouth a few times, having no idea how to answer such claims. Eventually he clicked his fingers and sent another back to the town through a postern gate. ‘You’ll wait,’ he grunted, easing the axe in his grip.

  ‘As you say, honour guard. Two-Eyed Man, are you content to wait?’ Cutta asked, voice loud enough to carry to the warriors opposing them. There were startled exclamations and Crys approved the tactic. Whatever happened here, Cutta had both named him and given him authority over her. The rumour of that would flood through the town faster than anyone could think to curb it.

  He waved a hand. ‘We’ll wait.’

  It didn’t take long. More of the Warlord’s honour guard flooded out to surround Cutta and her warriors, and then the Warlord himself arrived with the gold torc of his office glinting on his thick neck beneath his blond beard and braided hair.

  A woman who had to be the Seer-Mother followed him out, dripping in ornaments and beads and charms, tattoos around her eyes.

  ‘Rilporians are not welcome in Krike,’ the Warlord shouted, his hands on his hips next to axe and knife. ‘And liars are welcome nowhere.’

  The Seer-Mother stalked past him and up to the Rilporians standing a little ahead of the others. The Krikites who’d followed Crys stepped away, shuffling their feet like children caught stealing apples. She circled the trio and Crys’s back prickled, waiting for a knife. Even without the Fox God’s confirmation or Dom’s partial knowing, it was clear this woman was not their friend.