CRYS

Fifth moon, midday, day forty-three of the siege

South Tower One, southern wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

Whose bloody stupid idea was this anyway?

Oh. Yeah. Mine.

The guard wall was chill against his cheek as, breath by breath, Crys lifted his head to see down into the temple district below. The wall was a mess of broken weaponry and scattered bodies. The Mireces had forced the tower doors, swarming inside and killing their way up to the allure and then along it as the multiple breaches destroyed the defenders’ cohesion. Scores of the dead wore Mireces blue, but most were Palace, South and West Rank.

The catapult in South One had been intact and unguarded, so Crys had sawn through the rope connecting the throwing arm to the winch, then done the same trick with the candle and the pitch as he’d left in the gatehouse, wrestling some barrels into position as well. By the time the tower went up, he’d be long gone.

Parts of the long, wide temple district below were on fire, like much of the city. The grand temple though, where the royal family went to worship, stood serene and intact beneath him and Crys felt a stab of worry. That’s where they’d perform their sacrifices, washing the Light from the stone with blood. And Blood.

The thing inside snarled at that, and Crys felt a compulsion to throw himself off the wall and defend the temple. An urge he didn’t think was his. No. Patience. He could feel the voice’s resentment, but it held its peace and Crys focused on the men scurrying about below. No one was approaching either tower base, so he was probably safe for a while.

No, we’re not. Behind.

Crys dived sideways without wasting time looking, and an arrow clattered off the stonework above his head.

‘Captain Tailorson.’ The voice sent tendrils of oily anger curling into Crys’s gut, and he turned slowly, breath heavy and almost liquid in his chest.

‘Major, actually,’ he said. Galtas hawked and spat on to the allure. Dismissing the correction. ‘Your missing eye the reason you can’t shoot an arrow for shit?’

Galtas tossed the bow behind him. ‘Just getting your attention,’ he said. ‘Didn’t want you dying at someone else’s hands, did I? Besides, your presence – your corpse, I should say – will be the perfect alibi.’

Crys shifted his feet and smiled. ‘Treachery is like wine to you, isn’t it? Sorry to let you down, though, but you’re the one who’s going to die.’

They drew steel at the same time, stalked each other along the allure, their only witnesses the dead.

‘You sure?’ Galtas asked with a wicked smile as he limped on a bandaged, splinted leg. He was slow. ‘Your Wolf friend did.’

‘Ash?’ Crys laughed and the Trickster inside coiled in satisfaction. ‘Ash isn’t dead.’

Galtas frowned, clearly not believing him. He shrugged and his smile came back. ‘Whatever you say. Your family is, though, I know that for a fact.’

His tone was so calm and casual that it took Crys a second, but when his brain caught up with his ears he stopped moving, stopped blinking, stopped breathing. ‘What did you say?’ he asked.

A broad grin smeared across Galtas’s face. ‘You know, considering Mara’s had three children and one not that long ago – Wenna, your sister, right? Well, despite that, your Ma’s surprisingly tight. You know, down there.’ He gestured. ‘Well, she was at the start.’

Crys swallowed puke and felt the yellow glow start in his eyes.

‘Would not stop bloody screaming though. Mouth like a fucking fishwife. Had to take her tongue in the end, muffle some of the noise.’ Galtas watched him intently and obviously saw what he wanted to in Crys’s expression, because he nodded once. ‘There it is,’ he murmured, approving. He set his feet and waited.

Rage bubbled up in Crys’s soul and spilt into every limb, tingling with ice and fire and overtaking the voice murmuring restraint. He screamed, one long bellowing cry as he ran at Galtas. ‘Kill you,’ he raged, spit frothing from his mouth. ‘I’ll fucking kill you.’

There was nothing of caution and little of finesse in Crys’s attack. Blinded by tears and choking on fury, he threw himself at Galtas who, laughing, parried and thrust back, the blow screeching across Crys’s chainmail. Crys pivoted on his right foot, out of the line of attack, and elbowed Galtas in the face with his sword arm. The man staggered, staggered again as his injured leg took his weight, his single eye glittering with sudden tears. He pulled a knife in his free hand, swept low and sliced it through Crys’s thigh.

Crys howled and Galtas hopped back, fist on the guard wall to take the weight from his leg. Crys hobbled for Galtas and closed just fast enough to slam the knife out of Galtas’s hand with his blade. His sword came back up to cut into the armpit, but the man stepped into his guard and grabbed his wrist even as Crys did the same. They strained, holding each other’s swords at bay, both struggling on a wounded leg, panting into each other’s faces.

‘Fucking … bastard,’ Crys grunted, and headbutted the taller man. Missed his nose, but the rim of his helmet split open Galtas’s chin and rocked him back on to his bad leg. He stumbled, grip weakening for a second, and Crys managed to club him on the shoulder with the pommel of his sword.

Galtas dropped his head and rammed it into Crys’s chest, breaking their mutual grip. The air blasted from Crys’s lungs and in the second it took him to suck in more, Galtas disarmed him.

Crys leapt back again, his cut leg shaking and threatening to dump him on the stone. No weapons. He snatched the helmet from his head and used it to parry the next attack. All he could do now was defend.

No. Attack.

Crys ignored the voice. God or no, it clearly had no idea how to survive a fight like this.

Crys’s heels came up against the low wall of a small redoubt built into the inside face of the wall. He threw himself into it and the skin came off his palms as he hit the ground and rolled, shoulder taking a battering from his armour, and then he came up facing Galtas again.

‘Sword, spear, shield even …’ he muttered, but the redoubt was distressingly empty of all but himself and a slumped figure cradling his own guts in his lap. ‘Bollocks.’

Galtas lunged over the wall and Crys, roaring, battered the sword away with the helmet and then drove up, into Galtas’s face, the crown of the helmet splintering a couple of teeth and knocking him backwards.

Crys scrambled over the low wall and on to Galtas, snarling like an animal. He knocked Galtas’s sword hand away and got a grip on the helmet’s rim with both hands. Straddling the prostrate figure, he smashed the helmet again into the man’s face. And again: knocked the sword away with his elbow and hit him again. And again.

Hit him over and over, bash bash bash, until Galtas’s face wasn’t a face any more, was red and white and mush and splinters of bone and the twitching had stopped and Crys’s arms were shaking with the effort.

And one more blow, because he could, because the bastard wasn’t – could never be – dead enough for Crys.

Bash.

Crys was splattered in gore, the helmet dented and crusted with blood and hair and slimes of brain, and he threw it aside and forced himself to his feet. Chest heaving, he managed to spit on the corpse and stagger, groggy, for South Tower One.

Between him and it were three Mireces armed with bows and spears. Crys ran at them, nothing else for it. The archer loosed and on instinct Crys slapped the arrow out of the air. His hand spasmed in agony and as his arm came up again he saw the shaft had skewered the web between his thumb and forefinger.

He yelled in pain and ripped it free, using it to stab and gouge at the enemy. He knocked a spear aside as he barrelled into them, but they were three and he was one, and injured, and exhausted. A fist crashed into his jaw and he rocked back, punched in his turn and managed a glancing blow to the nearest spearman’s cheek.

Something, spear butt maybe, drove into the back of his head and stole his strength and sight. He felt his knees, chest and then face smack the stone. And then he felt nothing.

Ash …

Crys couldn’t quite tell if he or the thing inside opened his eyes and saw the world. He suspected both of them would react the same.

He was in the square outside the grand temple and there were bodies strewn across it like autumn leaves blown together, if leaves were bloody, torn and tangled. Some in Rank uniforms. Most in civilian dress. Men. Women. Children. Infants.

The sun’s position told Crys he’d been out for a couple of hours, though whether that was long enough for anyone to miss him he didn’t know. It wasn’t like they could mount a rescue anyway, not here. There were Mireces everywhere, and trickles and dribbles of East Rankers were filing in from the merchant quarter, the killing field, the breach.

Mace has surrendered First Circle. Enemy’ll be guarding the gates into Second, but enough can be here for … whatever this is.

That answers our question about a rescue then.

‘Sire? Sire, he’s awake.’

Crys grunted at the boot in his ribs, the pain triggering memories and hurts elsewhere. The rip in his hand was crusty with dried blood, the digits stiff and unresponsive. His leg was a sharp, throbbing, insistent hurt that pulsed in time with his accelerating heartbeat, and the back of his head felt as though someone was holding a burning coal against it.

A figure squatted in front of him, the sun behind him so Crys had to squint. ‘Oh, it’s you. Hello, Corvus. Killed any princes lately?’

The Mireces king put his head on one side. ‘It’s funny you should say that, though it wasn’t my hand that did the killing, just like it wasn’t with your beloved Janis.’ He winked. ‘But Rivil’s dead.’

Despite everything, Crys felt an unexpected stab of pain. No matter what he’d done, Rivil had been his friend once, had favoured him and laughed with him, drunk and gambled with him. ‘Who did it?’ he asked.

‘Our little friend and informant, the Godblind.’

‘The god-what?’ Crys’s peripheral vision was attempting to count the numbers of the enemy, possible escape routes. Straight into the smoke-filled roads leading east was probably his best bet. He shifted, rolling on to his knees.

Cold metal pressed against the back of his neck. ‘Easy,’ a voice growled.

Corvus smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Valan. He won’t hurt me, will you, Major?’

Crys managed a loose-lipped grin in return. ‘Won’t I? What makes you say that?’

Corvus stood, dark against the bright sky. ‘Because for a start, neither I nor Valan will give you the chance, and second, because you’ve been promised to a friend of mine.’

Crys snorted. ‘I can’t imagine having anything in common with any friend of yours.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you and Galtas will have a lot to catch up on. He’s been most insistent – to the point of fucking boredom, if I’m honest – on two things: that we capture you alive, and that we give you to him. Seems there’s some sort of blood feud between you.’

Corvus’s words dried up as Crys began to laugh, choking giggles halfway to being sobs jerking their way out of his throat. ‘Galtas? Galtas is dead. I smashed his head in up there on the allure. I’d apologise but, you know, I’m not sorry.’

Corvus’s pale eyes were unreadable. ‘Did you now?’ he said softly. ‘Well, isn’t it fortunate for us that we have other friends, like the Godblind, or Skerris and his Rank. Like the gods Themselves, here in Gilgoras.’ He winked. ‘I’m sure we can find someone to … deal with you as you deserve.’

‘Deserve? I’m just a soldier, mate. Execute me and get it over with.’

‘Sire, East Rank at the far gate, the one into the killing field,’ a Raider called.

‘They’ve taken the breach; the outer ring of the city is ours,’ Corvus shouted. A cheer went up. He turned to Valan, who was busy tying Crys’s hands behind him and threading a rope down and around his ankles so he couldn’t stand. ‘Second? How secure are we?’

‘Good as we’re getting, Sire,’ Valan said, tugging the knots tight and then kneeing Crys in the shoulder so he toppled sideways. The side of his face slapped into the stone and he grunted as he felt his eyebrow open up.

‘Safe to let them in?’ Corvus asked the messenger.

‘Aye, Sire. They’ve got prisoners, Sire.’

‘Good. Open the gate.’

Crys waited in silence, his eye stinging with blood and dust, until shouts and curses heralded the arrival of the reinforcements and their prisoners. He rolled as far as his bonds would allow and lifted his head. The East Rank marched in, prisoners in their midst: soldiers, Personals, civilians.

Skerris and the Blessed One walked at their head. At her side stalked a man, ragged, blue-clad, skinny to the point of skeletal, but familiar. He turned a glazed, mad face in Crys’s direction and Crys blinked. ‘Dom?’

‘Welcome, Blessed One, General. Skerris, I regret to inform you that it appears Lord Morellis is dead. Killed by his rival, in fact, Crys Tailorson, who we have captured …’ Dom jerked and his head swung, ponderous and slow, in Crys’s direction. ‘What?’ Corvus demanded.

‘The captain of Rivil’s honour guard?’ the Blessed One interrupted. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’

Corvus nodded and pointed. Crys pulled at the ropes binding his wrists, suddenly sure he didn’t want to be under their scrutiny. Even Galtas would’ve been preferable to the animal expression on that woman’s face.

‘Sire, while you fought your way into the city, the Godblind provided some very interesting information about that man. You – go and make sure. If you’re wrong …’ She let the threat trail off.

Dom advanced on Crys, the Blessed One and Corvus following at a distance, the king curious, the woman cautiously delighted. Crys was overwhelmed with the sudden desire to run, struggling against the bonds. He squirmed backwards until he hit the wall of the temple, the skin peeling from his wrists in strips as he yanked and twisted against the ropes.

Dom dropped to hands and knees in front of him and crawled forward as silence fell over the square, scores of curious faces turned in their direction. Lanta, Skerris and Corvus came closer still, but Crys couldn’t look away from Dom.

‘Hello, Dom,’ he managed. ‘You look like shit. What’s going on?’

‘I’m the Godblind. I killed Rivil last night, and then the God of Blood came and ate what was left of him.’

Crys swallowed hard. ‘Well,’ he managed, ‘how about that?’

Dom reached out and put his hand over Crys’s mouth to quiet him. His eyes were brown wells of torment, right eyelid flickering, his gaunt face ablaze with need. He pulled the hand away and inspected it, licked the palm, and then pushed his face into Crys’s and sniffed. Sniffed his mouth, his eyes, his hair, buried his face in the angle of Crys’s neck, sniffed his chainmail, hands pawing at his clothes.

‘The fuck is this?’ Crys yelped, shifting backwards again. It was like being smelt by a dog that could tear your face off at any second. ‘Dom? Dom, you crazy bastard, what are you doing? Get the fuck off me!’

Dom froze, his face a hair’s breadth from Crys’s, so close they could’ve kissed. A string of drool hung from his lip and then dropped on to Crys’s chest. ‘Splitsoul. God’s eyes. Godlight.’ He inhaled slowly, breathing Crys in, and then sat back on his haunches. ‘Trickster.’

This is the beginning of our trial—

Shut the fuck up right now!

‘Blessed One, Sire, he is the Trickster,’ Dom said, his voice carrying across the square. ‘He is the Fox God in mortal form. He is the godlight, leading his people into death – and back out of it.’ He swivelled on his knees in the dust, looking up at Lanta’s intent face; Corvus was frowning with confusion.

Dom reached out without looking and caressed the side of Crys’s face, wiped his thumb through the blood from his cut eyebrow, and sucked it clean. ‘Galtas is gone, but this one’s fate remains unchanged. Kill him, and you win the war.’