Lim was the same: strong and dour, silver at his temples, face marked with strength and too much introspection. But his eyes, too, dark like Dom’s own despite not sharing his blood, couldn’t conceal the greed and arrogance in their depths. The soul lived in the eyes, and those eyes weren’t his.
‘You’re going to lose. The battle, the war. Your soul. You know who it belongs to, and She’ll still have it, if you give it to Her. Not like the Dancer. That one will throw you away like spoilt food, not even fit for the pigs.’
‘I’m not doing this for the Dancer,’ Dom said.
‘Then why?’ Lim asked, such genuine confusion in his tone that Dom winced at the likeness to the brother he’d known, his throat tightening. His hand slipped on the staff and he stumbled, leg shaking as he recovered. Lim laughed at him and the resemblance was gone.
‘Because I’ve finally learnt what it’s all about,’ he said and staggered on.
‘And what is it all about?’ Lim asked with mocking amusement.
‘It’s all about where you choose to make your home. My home’s Rillirin and our daughter, and I might never see them again but I can make sure they live. I can give them the world and make it a good one. I choose Rillirin, not the gods, though They all seemed to choose me.’ He snorted. ‘Who’d have guessed I’d be so popular? No, all I want now is to put an end to this and if that means ending the gods – all of them – then that’s what I’ll do. For her.’
‘The Afterworld—’ Lim began.
‘No.’
Lim skipped ahead into his path; Dom’s laboured walk came to a halt once more. ‘But you don’t have to die. The Dark Lady needs a consort.’ Lim leered. ‘All those delights and pleasures you but kissed the surface of can be yours. She can be yours. Forever. The Dark Lady forgives you, Calestar, and She will take you into Her embrace and raise you up higher than you have ever been. Hale and whole and in Her arms.’
Dom could see it now, the images overlaying Lim’s face and the grey day. The Dark Lady in a mortal’s skin walking at his side as they ruled the land together, governed wisely, justly, and were worshipped for it. They would sit side by side on gold thrones at the heart of a unified Gilgoras and there would be peace. Happy children of Blood. Contented slaves.
Dom’s mouth soured and he cleared his throat, spat. ‘No,’ he said again.
Lim’s face hardened. ‘You are running out of chances,’ he warned. ‘No one refuses the Dark Lady.’
Dom shrugged. ‘Then if She wants me, She should come herself.’ He leant forward, right in Lim’s face. ‘In all Her hideous deformity.’ Grunting, he stepped around Lim and left him behind. The sounds of fighting were fading. He didn’t look back.
‘If you’re going to go through the list of the dead or the loved, it’ll take you some time,’ he said as he struggled on. ‘Or you could just come and talk to me yourself. I tire of your games, and I have no interest in your promises. So just come and let’s get this over with.’
The clouds darkened still further, thunder rumbling over the hiss of the rain.
Careful what you wish for, Dom thought a little unsteadily. He laughed, the sound mad and cackling as the urges rose up in him again, higher than the storm clouds, fiercer than the wind that blew his beloved Rillirin’s image far away. And he brought his left arm up to his mouth and bit.
CRYS
Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
The hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands
There was electricity in the air, an oppressive weight that hammered at his temples harder than the rain against his scalp and chainmail.
The small wood was alive with the sounds of fighting, the wildlife having fled or hunkered down in burrows and between roots until the madness passed them. There didn’t seem to be a line among the tangle of beech and ash and birch. It was just pockets of fighting, small groups of Wolves and Krikites against bands of Mireces.
They were badly outnumbered. Crys drew his sword; Ash’s axe was already in hand and he discarded the shield against a tree to pull his long knife. The soldier in Crys longed for shield and helmet; the Fox God yowled His amusement and pushed him into the melee, a fierce joy bubbling up as he matched strength and cunning and wits against a foe.
He skidded under a wild swing as a Raider saw him from the corner of his eye and flailed a spear at him. Crys came up inside his guard, punching his sword into the man’s belly even as he retracted the spear ready for another thrust. Sheer luck to make a kill against the longer weapon.
He wrenched it out of the dying man’s hands and sheathed his sword, spun towards the backs of the fifty or so enemies facing a mixed force of Krikites and Wolves. Ash was at his side, taking down the Mireces who slipped inside the spear’s reach, the two of them moving with one mind, one breath. Lethal. Beautiful.
The falling leaves and falling rain muffled the sounds of combat as they fought on, brief, vicious battles among the trees, random thuds and screams echoing from the trunks, impossible to determine direction.
Progress too was impossible, open ground big enough to make a stand non-existent, and enemies leapt from behind cover and forced him to change direction over and over until he didn’t know which way he was heading, the trees all beginning to look the same and every one harbouring danger. Claustrophobia began to eat at him almost as fast as fatigue.
Eventually they paused in the lee of two large trees, watching the flickers of movement in the gloom, Ash panting, sheathing his weapons to flex numb fingers. ‘Gods, how long have we been fighting down here?’ he gasped.
Crys shrugged, tired down to his bones. ‘It must be noon or past,’ he guessed. ‘Hard to tell under these clouds.’
‘Do you think we’ve made enough of a difference, given us a chance?’
‘Yes,’ Crys said, though he had no idea. He couldn’t bear to think about how many more Wolves might be lying dead, about how few of Ash’s people were left living. He’d need family … after. A sudden eruption of noise and clash of weapons off to their right, loud enough to be big. ‘Come on. We still need to find Dalli. I’m not losing another of Mace’s women.’ They exchanged a sad grin – if Tara had heard that, Crys would be wearing his own lungs as a hat.
It was a running battle, and it was the Mireces who had the upper hand, only a score or so Wolves backing, ducking, jumping sideways and behind trees, looking to make their final stand. Was this all there was? A score of Wolves from a once-proud people of thousands? It wasn’t a battle so much as a series of small, bloody melees as both sides slipped in mud, tripped over tree roots and scrabbled with their fingernails at the edges of death.
Crys charged the largest knot of Raiders, ramming into four facing off against two, backed against a fallen tree with nowhere to go. One of them was Dalli, her spear flashing faster than a kingfisher but she was hard-pressed, the shadow of death in her face as she thrust and dodged.
Crys leapt to her side with a wild yell and a swordsman faced off against him, cutting hard and low for his shin. Crys stepped back and off-line, sweeping the spear around. It jerked to a halt, fouled in the roots at his feet and Dalli leapt in front of him as he struggled to free it and the sword opened her up, hip to breastbone.
Ash howled and Crys drew his sword, thrust, missed, then parried and cut low, slicing below the chainmail shirt and into the lead thigh. The man fell back, blood spurting. Another took his place, pushing Crys back so he trod heavily on Dalli’s leg, his ankle twisting and dumping him next to her, legs splayed before him.
The blade took hair and the top layer of skin, scalping a trench in his crown that pissed crimson, hot blood and cold rain mingling to tinge his vision pink. He thrust upwards, the Mireces blocking and cutting back, Crys deflecting. Ash roared something and his hand axe sprouted from the man’s ribs, knocking him off balance and Crys thrust again, caught him in the mouth, sword tip driving up into his brain.
Ash ripped his axe free and engaged the next, and Crys spun to Dalli, ignoring the
chaos. A head wound made her face into something from nightmare, sheeted in red, green eyes darkening with each passing moment. So much blood.
Too much blood.
Her lips were blue. ‘Fox God,’ she managed. ‘Or is it Crys Bowman these days? Now you’re married an’ all.’
‘For you, right now, it’s Fox God,’ Crys said, ‘and be bloody grateful it is.’ He prised her hand away and blood pulsed free, faster and darker than it had any right to be. Dalli shrieked.
‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Dalli, you beautiful little bitch, just hold on.’ He pressed his hand into the rip in her flesh, so deep he could practically feel the silken smoothness of her liver pushing back. The silver light flared, bright and brighter still until the trees and Ash and the corpses were all limned in it and he had to squint. The flesh had barely begun to knit before it faded.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, no! Foxy?’ There was nothing and Dalli was unconscious, still bleeding. He pressed on the wound again.
It’s time.
Crys had wanted a way to prevent Ash following him to his final battle, but this wasn’t it. Not Dalli. And yet if he didn’t, she’d die.
‘Ash love, you’ve got to get her to the hospital. I can’t do any more for her.’ Ash backed up to him so he could glance at Dalli, then back into the trees again. Crys used the tree the haul to himself upright. ‘It’s time,’ he added, echoing the Fox God’s words.
This is where we say goodbye, he wanted to say, but didn’t dare. If he said that, Ash would protest, and the core of Crys that wanted so much to live would rebel, and he’d never find the strength in his drained limbs to walk away.
‘What about here? They called for you, Crys. They need you.’
‘The woods are lost,’ he said. ‘Get your people moving uphill and get Dalli to Hallos.’
They were alone but for her unconscious form and the dead. There was still fighting among the trees, out of sight but not earshot. They didn’t have long. Ash put his axe down head first, the haft leaning against his leg so he could snatch it up in an instant. ‘This is really it?’ he asked, a crack like a shiver in his voice.
Crys swallowed hard. ‘This is it.’ He could almost see the words dancing on the tip of Ash’s tongue: Don’t go, don’t leave me, let me fight for you, love me.
Love me.
‘I love you,’ Crys said. ‘I will always love you. In this world, in the Light, for always. Tell me you know that.’
‘I know that,’ Ash whispered, his voice hoarse as the croak of a dying raven. ‘Can I say I don’t want you to go?’ Crys took a step forward and collided with him, the embrace more the mutual clinging of drowning men than a declaration of love. ‘Can I say I hate the Fox God?’ he breathed.
Crys snorted, the sound halfway to being a sob. ‘Right now, you and me both,’ he whispered, ‘though we’re both lying. That Trickster’s a charismatic bastard. Turns out He can get people to do all sorts against their better judgement.’ He pressed a hot kiss to Ash’s ear and pulled away a little. ‘Don’t forget me,’ he begged.
‘Never,’ Ash protested.
‘No, Ash. Don’t forget me. Me, Crys Tailorson. Soldier, officer, gambler. Your husband. Don’t forget me.’
‘I won’t,’ Ash said. ‘I couldn’t.’ His smile was ghastly, a slash of pain in his face. ‘Go and save the world then, you bastard. You beautiful, stupid, heroic bastard. Go on, make us all eternally grateful to your skinny arse. Send that bitch back to the Afterworld and lock the gate after Her.’
‘That’s the plan,’ Crys said and he stepped away, breaking the embrace, breaking both their hearts.
They watched each other, neither willing to move first, and then Dalli’s breath stuttered in her chest and they looked down, severing the last link. Ash holstered his axe and then crouched and gathered her into his arms, and by the time he’d stood, Crys had backed away five paces, enough to break the intangible link that drew them together like a lodestone to the north. It was a gulf he’d never cross again. It was the entire width of the world, and yet he was there, right there. Close enough to taste and as far away as the sun.
‘Dancer’s grace,’ he choked.
Ash whooped in a breath, fingers white on Dalli’s shoulder and leg as he clutched her. ‘Dancer’s grace,’ he said.
Crys jerked his chin. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Let me watch you go.’
Lips pressed together against any final words, any last protestations, Ash backed three steps, turned on his heel, and walked away between the trees. Head down, shoulders hunched.
Crys choked again, fists clenched by his sides as he swallowed down the scream building inside him. Sucking in a great breath until his ribs creaked and holding it, he turned east and began to walk out of the trees.
He left his sword behind. He left it all behind. He walked to his final battle, stripping his armour as he went.
CORVUS
Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
The hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands
The two East Rank Thousands opposing the South Rank were faltering, skidding yard by bloody yard back down the incline. Where their line joined Corvus’s, gaps were beginning to open.
‘Mother-bastard-shit!’ Corvus roared. He’d been at the front three times but was now in the rear, a dozen strides downhill of the writhing mass, trying to evaluate what was happening. If the Rank faltered now it was over. He needed to steady them, bring them back in step with the Mireces.
‘Dark Lady, Holy Gosfath, come to us,’ he prayed. ‘Guide our hands, our hearts strong in your glory.’ Tett was at his side while Fost had the other end of their formation, against the Krikites and the Wolves on the wooded slope. They were making progress there and the Mireces line was curving across the hill – they must’ve taken the woods.
‘Tett, get me a hundred men. We’re going to reinforce the Rank seeing as the cunts can’t even do what they’re paid for without cocking it up.’ He didn’t wait for a response, just began to traverse the slope, boots squelching with each step and threatening to send him flying. The temperature dropped even more and the rain solidified into hail, bouncing from his helmet and chainmail, hitting his face hard enough to sting. ‘The Lady’s will,’ he panted.
It reduced visibility even further, until it was as if Corvus were cut off from the killing and dying all around him, adrift in an ocean attempting to devour itself. There was movement in the flurry of hail and rain as the wind gusted and twisted the weather into shapes that almost seemed to make sense before collapsing in on themselves.
Ahead of him the East Rankers resting at the back stood in grim, silent lines, shivering in the freezing wind, linen flapping as they bandaged minor wounds. He barged through the first of the recovering men and turned up the incline. ‘On me,’ he roared. ‘On me.’ He felt rather than saw them come with him. Whether it was because he was their king or because the gods urged them on, they shouldered their shields and began to pound up the muddy, treacherous hill behind him without question.
Ahead, a Ranker came flying down the slope, mouth and eyes wild, preparing to cast aside his weapons and flee. He came to a confused, guilty halt as Corvus thundered past and Tett flicked out his sword as he passed, half-decapitating him. Let those following and those ahead, turning to see who was running, understand what happened to deserters.
‘Stand,’ Corvus bellowed to the dark mass of struggling men ahead of him. He ploughed into their backs, sword sheathed and shield held crossways in front of him. His boots dug in, slipped, dug in again, and Corvus got his shoulder in and just pushed. The two men above him felt his resistance, realised that someone – reinforcements – were there, and shoved back with renewed hope at the enemy pressing down on them.
To left and right, the East Rank crashed into the rear of their own troops and forced them forwards. Forced them on to enemy spears and swords in places, but up and down the line he could hear shouted encouragement, warnings, anything to help the two rows ahead.
>
The line stiffened. The line halted. The line began to push.
‘Let me in,’ Corvus roared at the soldiers ahead of him. He released the pressure on his shield and slid his sword free, leapt into the gap they made for him before the Southerner facing them could seize the advantage, planted his feet, locked his shield with theirs, and braced. He wasn’t a Ranker, didn’t have their training, but he understood the need to stand firm and stay in the line.
Opposite in the driving hail was the South Rank, only two rows deep. ‘Hold the line,’ he shouted as they shoved and slipped forward. ‘Brace!’ The shields to either side locked more firmly against his. They couldn’t wait; it’d take only one man to slip on the treacherous slope and they’d all be down it. ‘Advance!’
The soldier behind him slammed his shield into Corvus’s back, forcing him forward a single, lurching step and tearing a screech of pain from him. He didn’t have a Ranker’s plate armour and the shield boss ground into his spine, but there was nowhere to go, no way out from under the pressure. He gritted his teeth, offered the pain to the gods, and pushed forward.
The spear of the man behind found its way past Corvus’s ear and up into a face, tearing skin. Corvus’s own sword followed it, lower, deeper, punching the man off his feet into the soldier behind, who staggered under the weight hitting his shield and then tipped the body off and tried to scramble over it. Corvus took him through the side of the neck. He fell, choking, and the third didn’t step into the breach.
Corvus did, and then realised his mistake. He was surrounded on three sides by the enemy, pressed closer than lovers. His shield covered his front, but his flanks were open. A hand gripped his chainmail and hauled him back so fast he nearly fell, but it saved his life. It was Tett, of course. His bodyguard didn’t do more than check he wasn’t dying before he jabbed his sword at the next man along, distracting him enough that the Ranker to his right could kill him.
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