The road from the city into the Wheat Lands would curve and split and divert but it would, eventually, take her to Dom, and Dom was home, he was her guiding star and she could do no more than steer a course towards him, and if that meant walking a hundred miles in too-big boots then that was what she’d do, she and Macha, walking home. And when they were all back together, she’d stop moving, just settle, him and their babe and whoever was left of the people she loved. Just stop, and build a home, and be peaceful.
She told Salter as much, and he agreed that that sounded like a good plan, and that the best way to find Dom was to find Mace, because he was their Commander and their king. If there was still fighting to be done, Salter and the rest were Rankers and they wanted to be a part of it.
‘But we have to wait for Tara,’ Rillirin added in an exhausted monotone.
‘Major Carter’s orders were very specific, miss,’ he said with an effort, ‘and I for one am far too scared of her to disobey.’ Numb fatigue crashed into her like a giant wave and she stumbled; Salter put his arm around her waist and then a huge man, a civilian so big there were almost two of him, scooped her up in his arms and began to walk. ‘Name’s Merol,’ he said, ‘and I reckon you could do with a bit of a rest.’
She tried to tell him to stop, that they had to wait for Tara. Instead she slept, her daughter pressed warm and vital and alive against her skin.
DOM
Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
The hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands
Hate want kill lust need hate want hate hurt scared kill scared want alone need betrayed hurt hate kill …
It was an endless barrage, an assault not on Dom’s senses but on the very core of who he was, what he was. A battering away of his soul, his mind, a gibbering mad cacophony eating his sanity, his reason.
And he could see Her. Them. It.
The Bloodchild offering had failed or been thwarted and the Dark Lady, in Her lust and determination to return to Gilgoras, had taken the closest body She could find and made it Her own. Gosfath’s body. But Gosfath wasn’t a weak and newly made soul like Dom’s daughter; He wasn’t giving up His life for anyone, not even the Sister-Lover He missed so much. And so They had formed a new thing, of rage unconstrained, a melded madness. The … Blood Lady.
And She’d – or They’d – found Dom again, found the godspace within him, the site of Her former glory. It called to Her across the veil, drew Her. If She could claim that space once more and set up dominion over Dom, She could compel him to kill the Fox God and release the last of Her essence. With it, She could oust Gosfath for good and take control, become Herself again, not the hideous, shambling wreck that Her merging had made of Her.
Remade, She could be the sum and pinnacle of Dom’s glory and Dom’s depravity.
The idea that Her agony was the God of Blood’s fault wasn’t Dom’s, as the urge to tear himself free of the physician and find the Fox God and bite Him to death wasn’t his. He knew the urges for what they were, and for the very first time he had the strength to resist. It wasn’t the Dancer’s words and love that bolstered that strength, nor the Trickster’s faith in him, nor the knowledge Rillirin and their daughter still lived and were the only safe harbour in the storm of Dom’s world. It wasn’t the task he still had to complete that lent him aid.
No. This time it was simple: the newly formed, newly named Blood Lady repulsed him in a way that went beyond abhorrence. He couldn’t lose himself in this thing the way he had when She was Herself. And She knew it. Her lust turned Dom’s stomach, the memories of him in Her arms a horrendous counterpoint to what She was now.
He made no effort to hide his revulsion, almost glorying in the hurt She sent him as punishment. My last fight. It had a kind of justice to it.
Gosfath’s lusts were in there as well as Hers, stronger than Dom had ever felt them, His wanton love of cruelty apparent in the flashes He sent of Rillirin, of her suffering through the agonies of childbirth in a place that would tear her daughter away before she’d even drawn breath. Of Tara’s torture and her fate, her broken body lost now in the tumbled ruins of the grand temple, sealed away from sunlight and life and hope by tons of stone. Alone. Of Dom’s own hands wielding pincer and knife, chisel and hammer, as they carved the Fox God free of Crys’s shivering flesh.
Dom was aware, in a distant sort of way, of his body lying heavy and unresponsive on the cot in the tent, as if unconnected to the battle he fought in his mind. A battle he surged to meet, throwing Her every betrayal back at Her; and the more She wounded him, the brighter shone the Light he’d once believed guttered forever. And in that Light, Rillirin’s face and the shadowy outline of their little girl.
I walk with the Fox God, and you will not have Him, he promised. You have been thwarted, destroyed, brought back by your own followers to agony and degradation. And we’re going to kill you again, and keep killing you until you can’t come back. There’s nothing for you here. Give back the Light you stole and twisted for yourself; give up. Give up.
Who are you to talk to me? the Blood Lady demanded, and Dom could feel how She tried to control the impulses and wild emotions that floated through Her like poison. I am your goddess; I own you and I will make you suffer—
I already suffer, though I am no longer yours. Do what you will, Dom replied with mad glee. Break me, twist me, torture me, whatever the evil inside you tells you to do. Your selfishness has turned you into a monster and it’s not you I’m talking to any more. It’s you and Gosfath. Melded and mad. A horror.
So do what you will to me, make me a horror just like you if it will ease your fright and pain. That you can do. What you can’t do is destroy me, or take away the Light that burns inside. I defy you.
The godspace was raw and bleeding, and Dom could feel, on the periphery of his awareness, the slow creeping paralysis sliding through his left arm and leg, numbing the side of his face, a dark and dead weight pulling at him.
Still, the confusion and panic on the Blood Lady’s hideous split face was almost worth it. She withdrew from him a little, pulling back as if to observe him from the outside. Dom braced for the mockery and resumption of pain; it didn’t come.
My children worship and love me, She tried, and he noted with a spark of hilarity the uncertainty in Her.
Your children worship and fear you, he corrected. As for me, I just hate you. I don’t worship you; I don’t love or want you. I defy you, and I’m going to help kill you.
She slammed back into him so that he bucked and flopped.
You will kill the Fox God!
I will not!
‘I will not!’ Dom’s eyes opened, vision blurry, the echo of his slurred shout in his ears. Faces peered down at him, and he knew them though he couldn’t name them. He shied back on instinct, laughed but didn’t know why, tried to lift his left arm and couldn’t.
‘Kill you,’ he mumbled. An old woman leant over him, concern nestled in the wrinkles of her face. He didn’t know her name. He slept.
He woke with the Light shining so bright and hot inside him it was as if he’d swallowed the sun.
Dom let his head slide sideways and found Crys lying on the next cot over, hand pressed to his side. The Fox God was pale, beads of sweat standing proud on His face. When He saw Dom was awake He slumped back, shaking, and let the silver light flow back into Him, slow as starlight.
‘Motherfucker,’ Crys gasped, raising a shaking hand to his brow, ‘make it easy for me next time, will you, and just have a leg off or something. Gods alive.’
‘You should have saved that,’ Dom croaked. He was blind in his left eye, left arm and leg barely there, barely alive.
Crys smiled, drawn and gaunt. ‘Should I know why?’
‘Battle,’ he replied.
Hallos was on his other side, fingers jammed against the pulse in his wrist, lips pursed among the tangle of his beard. ‘Remarkable. A significant improvement; thank you.’
Crys grunted ack
nowledgment, eyelids sagging with fatigue. ‘Thought it best to see what I could do for you now, before the fighting starts.’ The colour was coming back into his face even as Dom watched, straining to hear him over the stutter-skip of his heartbeat.
‘Because my task is not yet complete,’ he said, throwing the Fox God’s words back at Him. Crys winced but said nothing. ‘You’re right though.’
‘The Red Gods?’ Ash asked, pacing like a caged animal. ‘Tell us what’s going on, Dom, please.’
‘The Red Gods … something went wrong when the Blessed One cast her great ritual to resurrect the Dark Lady. There is only one god now – Gosfath and the Dark Lady have merged somehow, become one entity, though not by choice, it seems. Water, please.’
Crys sat up, wiping his face on his sleeve. Gilda passed him a waterskin and they both drank. ‘I felt something was wrong, but I couldn’t find out what,’ he said. ‘I don’t envy you the understanding of it.’
Dom didn’t either. ‘I call Her, Them, the Blood Lady,’ he said and the torches seemed to gutter under the name. ‘Powerful yes, so powerful, but mad too. Their essences have combined, but They’re at war to separate Themselves again. Two minds struggling for control, supremacy over one … form.’ He shuddered. ‘There’s no other body for the Dark Lady to inhabit, but She’ll be looking for one.’
‘And She needs what’s inside me to do it,’ Crys said, arms wrapped around his belly. Ash stopped pacing and stood behind him, hands on his shoulders. ‘Any idea how soon They’ll be here?’
Dom grunted a negative.
‘Rillirin and the babe?’ Gilda asked. ‘What happened to them if the Dark Lady didn’t get … inside her?’ She was drawn with worry.
‘Rillirin and our daughter live,’ he confirmed. Gilda’s face lit up, Ash’s too. Even Crys seemed pleased.
‘Oh, I can’t wait to meet her,’ Ash said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Her uncles Crys and Ash are going to teach her every bad habit they know.’
Crys’s face became carefully blank; he knew, at least, though like Dom he did nothing to disabuse his husband of his delusion. Better to let him dream and go into battle believing that they’d get to go home afterwards. That there’d be a home to go back to.
‘And this thing, this … Blood Lady, does it still control the Mireces and the East Rank?’ Crys asked.
Dom rubbed his left eye, but no matter how often he blinked, there was nothing but blackness there. He didn’t mention it. If the Fox God hadn’t managed to heal his blindness, it was beyond anyone’s skill. His stomach gurgled, but the thought of food made him sick.
‘Dom?’
He focused back on his surroundings. ‘Sorry. And yes, maybe even more than before. Gosfath’s never really been one for interfering in Gilgoras, but now He doesn’t have a choice. Besides, He’ll be looking for every advantage to free Himself. Their merging has doubled Their influence, though the struggle for control makes it fluctuate. But when that awareness is focused on you, it’s almost impossible to disobey – and the Mireces won’t want to.’
He understood the look that passed between Gilda and Ash: how long would he hold out? Did he want to hold out? His head began to pound and Crys’s gaze jerked to him, as if he’d sensed something. Something coming.
Gilda was asking him something and Crys was saying they had to get back, but Dom’s head was hurting and it was hard to stay awake. He closed his eyes.
Blood Lady. Appropriate, isn’t it? He asked Her, Them, as They pounced. They screamed Their rage at his disrespect, and They began to tear. Dom lay still, focusing on his breathing. He’d try and keep it quiet this time, so that the Fox God or Hallos didn’t waste any more time on him. Any more healing.
Any more life.
CRYS
Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
The hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands
Crys and Ash held the centre of the line with Colonel Thatcher as the Mireces toiled up the mud and slick grass of the hill towards them, Jarl on their left flank awaiting the advancing East Rank.
The distance had spoilt the archers’ aim to begin with, but now volleys darkened the already heavy air and thrummed downhill towards the advancing enemy huddled behind their locked shields. The Mireces prayed aloud, a cacophony of shouted entreaties and threats, curses and expletives spat from slavering mouths as the gods whipped them on, faster, gaining momentum, arrows glancing from their shields and soon too close for archers anyway. Colonel Thatcher pulled them back to the flanks.
Crys could feel the beat of blood all around him, hearts twinned with his, moving as one, a shoal of fish, a flock of birds, an army of the faithful with their god in their midst. On his order they locked their own shields and planted their feet, waiting for the Mireces to smash into them and try to force them on to the summit and level ground to even the odds.
Faster still and holding formation, divine madness sparking like steel on flint from one man to the next to the next, infected with battle lust, a flood rising until they were running, charging, screaming. And driving into the line.
The Mireces pushed, pressing them, harrying them, cracking shield rims down on to feet and up into faces, spears and swords poking through and over the wall and jabbing into Rilporian flesh.
‘Wedge,’ shouted a tall warrior in the front and the Mireces flowed into the new formation as if they’d practised a thousand times. The tip drove at Crys and his lips peeled back. He crouched slightly to accept the attack, shoulder into the back of his shield to brace and felt Ash lock into position by his side.
The lead warrior crashed into him, hooked Crys’s shield with his sword and curved the blade in around it. Crys batted it up with his, then chopped downwards into the warrior’s arm, but then the wedge’s momentum surged on and his foot skidded in the grass and it was step back or fall. He let them past.
Crys roared, the Fox God surging up inside him and bellowing His bloodlust, His battle joy, and Crys stiffened his legs and pushed inwards, straining, the men to either side doing the same.
Another Mireces yelled an order for the flanks to re-form into wedges of their own and now they had a three-pronged attack gnawing away at the Rilporian line.
‘Shoulders in,’ Crys screamed over the din, heard the order repeated and then they were shoving forwards and downwards, flattening the wedges, pushing the enemy back step by step and moving down the slope. It was slow, agonisingly so, with men on both sides slipping in the rain and blood, tripping on the fallen, gaps opening in line and wedge both for an enterprising killer to slip a blade into.
The day was growing darker, not brighter, though it wasn’t even noon. Rain fell in sheets until it was impossible to see the base of the hill or the western flank where the Krikites were, the Wolves in the smudge of trees towards the bottom.
They took a step forward, killing those in front of them. Step, kill. Step, kill. The Fox God bellowed His challenge. They stepped. And killed.
The Rilporians were holding, just, holes gouged in the front line by multiple wedges that were crushed only to re-form further along, like teeth tearing away chunks of flesh until their front was ragged and bleeding.
The Mireces had finally forced them up on to the flat ground at the top of the hill and there the fighting steadied, swirling madly back and forth with the eddies of war, where misfortune and bad luck were as deadly as spear or blade.
The topsoil was thin so there wasn’t much mud, but the scrubby grass was as slick as ice and every time a knot of Rankers went down, the Mireces surged and attempted to force them down the rearward slope. Not even the Fox God would be able to stop it if the Mireces got them on the run.
Crys slid from one almost-rout to the next, rallying the soldiers, killing or assisting in the kills of the fiercest Mireces, stiffening the line wherever it began to twist, encouraging exhausted, soaking, mud-streaked, blood-washed soldiers.
Ash at his left side, always, his hand axe darting like a silver fish even in th
e gloom, crusted with blood and bone, the cumbersome Rank-made shield floating on his arm as though it weighed nothing.
They rotated out of the front line as another Mireces wedge collapsed, moving three rows back to suck in air, shoulders and backs pounded in thanks, Crys’s arms touched with reverence.
The Fox God’s call – the triple falling notes of a trumpet repeated twice – that he’d set up with Mace drifted through the rain and jerked Crys around like a horse fighting the bit. ‘Someone needs me.’ He glanced at the line; they were holding well here, steady and disciplined. Jarl and Thatcher both had the enemy pegged back, at least for now. The trumpet sounded again. ‘Let’s go.’
They shouted encouragement and promised to be back soon, that they were doing great, got them on the run, and then headed across the top of the hill towards the command post.
‘Listen, when I’m called to battle the Blood Lady, you need to go wherever the fighting’s thickest and rally the troops. They might falter when I leave the field.’ He winced at the arrogance of it, but it needed to be said.
‘Bollocks,’ Ash gasped, affronted. ‘I go where you go. That’s the deal.’
‘Not this time, love—’
‘You’re going to need someone to watch your back. Me.’ Ash’s tone was implacable as he concentrated on his footing, the pair of them moving faster than was wise in the slippery grass.
‘This is beyond you, Ash. I’m sorry, there’s no other way I can say it. If you stand with me there, you’ll die before I do. And the Rank will need you.’
‘You’ll need me, and they don’t rally to me,’ Ash protested, a note of panic creeping into his voice. He dragged Crys to a halt. ‘They won’t fight harder for me; they won’t stiffen the line or step into a breach the way they do for you. I’ll be useless here. I’m useless without you.’
Crys found a heartfelt smile for him despite his dread at what was to come. ‘Useless without me? You survived thirty-eight years without me, you idiot.’
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