Pulse.
Down steep and slippery stairs into the empty pool. None looked at the body of Tinia Speaks-Not. It was ever the way with warriors—to ignore what could easily be you during a battle. Death was not to be mentioned or acknowledged lest you attract the attention of Xus the unseen, but I could not help staring at her. Aydor kept hold of my arm.
“There will be a time to remember her, Girton,” he said, pulling me on, “but it is not now.” I tore my eyes away from her body and we moved carefully forward into the dark maw of the tunnel. Was this how death had looked for Tinia? A darkness slow approaching? Was this what awaited me when the knives finally passed my guard?
Pulse.
“How long is the tunnel, Girton?” said Aydor.
“I swam through it and it nearly drowned me. I can hold my breath for seven minutes.”
“Longer than we’d like then,” said Aydor, and wiped blood from his face with his forearm before setting off.
The tunnel was thick with the hard, cold smell of damp and the floor slippery with the slime that had been suspended in the water. It was not hard to think we ran through the veins of one of the dead gods, from one chamber of a great heart to another. The screams of those fighting and dying echoed down from the chamber behind us, twisting and turning against the wet stone, becoming something inhuman, something unreal and dreamlike. Before me swam the red and gold life of those the Landsmen had saved from death. I counted eight, floating in the null of the souring around the throbbing wrongness that was Darsese, once high king.
Pulse.
And behind me, lying across the drain that had exposed the slippery floor of the pool, was the body of Tinia Speaks-Not, but she did not cry out or glow in my mind. She had taken the hand of Xus and waited in his dark palace with her master and Feorwic.
“Coil’s piss!” A warrior slipped, falling in a crash of armour. Aydor nearly slipped himself, having to swerve to avoid her body and then flailing comically to keep his balance.
“Dallad’s arse,” he said, “it’s like walking on ice.” I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find Giffett, an old warrior, her face pulled into a permanent grimace by a scar.
“Blessed,” she said quietly. Meagre light gleamed from the sweat on her skin. “If they lock their shields at the top of the stair on the other side we are done if we simply charge ahead in this slime.”
Pulse.
I nodded. I had not thought. Tinia’s death had filled my mind: the panic of the water and the shock of her sacrifice. It was good, in a way, that after so long serving Xus, death could still surprise. Still hurt. Still overwhelm.
Breathe.
Out.
In.
“Bows to the front,” I said. Red and gold, glowing in my mind around the throne of Darsese the sorcerer. “I do not think they will be waiting for us on the stair. I think they will have drawn back to protect Darsese.” I knew this, but could not tell anyone why. “But you are right, Giffett.” I raised my voice a little. “Four bows to the front. The rest be ready to protect them. We go forward slow but sure,” I said. A scream echoed down the tunnel from behind us and I felt the unspoken question in the air. “Gonan will hold the door for us. Concentrate forward, I want you all whole for the throne room,” I said. “No slipping and breaking bones. I am small in stature and if I have to carry you into battle it will sorely hamper me.” I heard laughter among the troops and the tension dropped a little. Then we moved again, through darkness, into another world to be reborn as many had been before us. As the light of the sepulchre grew. I stopped the troops again. The sounds of battle still echoed around us and now they were eager to be on. A soldier fears little more than the enemy coming up on his rear.
“Listen,” I said. “I have kept silent on what I saw in the sepulchre, but I must warn you now the Landsmen are not what they were. They have let the Children of Arnst defile the place.” Gasps around me. “Do not be distracted by what you see. Xus walks with us and if Aydor is right—”
“Always am,” said Aydor. Nervous chuckles.
“If Aydor is right and I am the Chosen of Xus then he has chosen me to stamp out what has been done here. Are you with me?” Nods around me. “Do you walk with Xus?” I said it urgently, but quietly, and the replies came back.
“Yes.”
“Aye.”
“Unseen pass over me.”
“Aye.”
Pulse.
“I walk with Xus.”
“Yes.”
“Always.”
“And I,” said Arketh, last of my nine. From there we went on in silence, the arc of light from the sepulchre growing with every step, and I could feel the attention of the troops being cast forward. We heard nothing from before us, no chinking of armour, no voices whispering, nothing.
“Maybe the room is empty,” said Aydor.
Pulse.
“No,” I said, “it is not.”
The silence of those waiting for us was as oppressive to me as the stink of damp in the empty pool.
“Careful. Make the spear.”
I led us forward, at the head of a spearpoint of troops. Taking us up the stairs step by slimy step and into the sepulchre.
Pulse.
Up a step.
The statue of Xus appears first, torches everywhere. There must be some secret way up the walls as they go far higher than anyone could reach. The ragged hood of Xus bobs on the false horizon of the pool edge as I ascend. It is like he rides a great ship through the night. The illusion of the sea is increased by the depth of the souring below me and the nausea it causes. Great waves wash over me.
Pulse.
Up a step.
The covered face of Xus, the clothing of ripped and painted canvasses, an army’s worth of tents raised in mockery of a god I have known all my life. Tree-branch arms ride into view, chains falling from them. With each step up I feel like I fall. The souring below me is like no other. It is past the death of the land, deeper, impossibly deep. How could anything be past death? How could something be lower than zero? I do not know and it staggers me. I slip and only Aydor’s hand stops me flailing back down the steep stairs.
Pulse.
Up a step.
Adallada and Dallad come into view, but the queen of the gods has changed. The Children have been at work on her in the hours since I have last been here. Tears of blood painted on her face and, where she had been exquisitely beautiful before, she was now scarred. Someone, or more likely many someones, have made attempts to break her statue, but she resisted. I see myself in her: once-perfect flesh covered in ridges and pits; scars run along her shoulders, round her neck and elbows, at all the weak points of a statue. But still she stood, defiant. Opposite her, Dallad remained untouched.
Gasps from behind me.
“Men made these?” from Aydor. “It seems impossible.”
“Then it was probably women.” Arketh let out a quiet chuckle. “Though it seems men are happy to destroy it.”
Pulse.
Up a step.
More of the goddess. More of the god. More of the mockery of Xus.
“That is not our god, Girton Club-Foot.” A voice from behind me.
“No,” I said. “It is not.”
Pulse.
Up a step.
The cage comes into view, empty now. Is this responsible for the depth of the souring below? The terrible void that makes me doubt the solidity of the ground below me? That has me feeling like I float when I walk? Is it magic made upon magic? A scar in the land that can never heal, no matter how much blood is poured into it.
Pulse.
Up a step.
An image: the land a great wide mouth, of thin white lips, of rotted teeth. Blood. Pouring into the mouth. More blood than I imagined possible. Huge hands breaking men and women apart, tipping out their blood and throwing aside the husks. The mouth can never be sated, I know it, feel it. It drinks the blood: it screams in pain.
“Girton?” Aydor’s steadying hand on my elbow. I had stopped quite still.
“I am well,” I said.
Pulse.
Up a step.
The points of the throne, the anchorages of the chains that hold the slumped body of the high king. A sudden thirst upon me. A weakness in my legs. A fullness to my bladder.
Pulse.
Up a step.
Eight wait for us. Dressed in the green and tree. Utterly silent. Visors polished to a mirror. Huge shields held by their sides and longswords in their hands. They do not move and it is not the stillness of those who wait, it is the stillness of the dead. As the last of the water drained away, her body moved: a firework hope within me, but it was only the movement of death: the slack and meaningless rocking of limbs in water, moving without the volition of a mind. No, not the stillness of the dead, that is a peaceful thing. This was the stillness of something past death. Something I did not understand, or want to understand. Something that knew no peace.
Pulse.
The last step.
Troops come to a stop around me: they marvel at the statue of Dallad, are appalled by what has been done to Adallada, recoil from the statue of Xus that mocks the god they know.
“When they are dead,” I point at the eight who wait with my blade, “then we will burn that.” I point at the canvas and wood Xus. “I promise you all.”
“Do not make promises you cannot keep.” The voice is breathy, muffled by the visor it wears. I stare, seeing if the man who leads the eight will say anything more, but instead he raises his visor. White make-up still clings to his skin and where I cut him across the face in Ceadoc town is an open, bloodless scar. His eyes are red with blood.
Pulse.
Danfoth.
“You are dead,” said Aydor.
“Plainly I am not,” said Danfoth. “Xus bestowed his gifts upon me. I am reborn to lead my people.”
“This is sorcery,” spat Aydor. “Bowyers! Cut them down!”
Arrows sing through the moist air. Arketh shouts, “No!”
Pulse.
Heavy shields come up and the arrows bounce off them.
“No arrows,” shouts Arketh. “You may hit Darsese. No arrows.” There is a pause, just before she says “Darsese,” one I may not have noticed but for the strangeness of the atmosphere in the sepulchre, but one I cannot act upon or wonder about because …
Pulse.
… Danfoth and his eight are coming forward.
“Shields!” shouts Aydor.
I remembered the ferocious strength of the man I had fought in the menagerie.
“No,” I said. “Three take bows. Look for angles. These men are not as others. Do what damage you can, but be careful of Darsese. We need him alive.”
“We outnumber them,” said Aydor.
“But if we make it a test of strength we will lose. Drop your shields. Speed is your only friend.” Around me the clattering of dropped wood, the hiss of swords readying for action. “These men are fast and strong, and capable of taking a wound that would normally kill.” I draw my blades, spin the stabsword in my left hand. “Make every blow count.”
Pulse.
We met them on the cold floor, in the damp air, screaming out our fear and tension. They dropped their shields and I wondered why.
Pulse.
Arrows started to fly, peppering the two Landsmen nearest me. They staggered but did not fall.
Pulse.
All was chaos. The troops who had come with me streamed ahead, Aydor leading them in a screaming charge. I realised I was scared. I had fought one of these sorcerous men before and nearly been bested.
Pulse.
Giffett fell first. I saw her attack: her enemy swayed to the side, slashed back; she danced out of reach and then lunged. A perfect move, the blow hard enough to cut through the enamelling of his armour and gut him. A killing move, and one Giffett was used to seeing finish a fight.
Pulse.
But these warriors were not as other men. The wounded Landsman let out a roar and brought his sword round in an arc, half-decapitating Giffett with a single blow.
Pulse.
No time for fear.
Aydor had intercepted Danfoth: Aydor’s warhammer against Danfoth’s great sword. Our troops were holding their own, the archers hampering the Landsmen, though they shrugged the pain of the arrows off. Our swordsmen protected the archers. The sorcerous Landsmen themselves seemed slow, confused, and although they were capable of taking great amounts of damage they seemed broken somehow. Not like the man I had fought in the menageries.
Pulse.
The man who beat me.
No room for fear.
I realised he was not here. These men were big but, Danfoth aside, not as big. He must be with Fureth.
Pulse.
It was as if a weight was taken from me. I was freed.
I am the weapon.
Time to act.
Second iteration: the Quicksteps. Forward and into a run, legs pumping, stabswords rising and falling as my arms move. Giffett’s killer swinging toward me. An arrow takes him in the shoulder, twisting his body to the left and he becomes convenient steps. Twenty-third iteration: the Kissing Skip. Foot on his knee. My knee into his midriff, forcing the air from him, doubling him over. As his head comes round—Twenty-ninth iteration: Gwyfher’s Twist—arms round his neck, using my own momentum to turn me into the wheel spinning around the axle of his heavy, wrong, body. Arms locked so the stabswords bite into his neck as I turn. Release. Jumping away, leaving him standing but already dead. Windpipe cut, arteries and flesh cut, blood flowing down his armour.
Pulse.
I have the momentum now. Speed is my ally. I am running through the melee. Sword comes in from the left—the Shy Maid—step out the way, slash back, feel the blade bite into a leg.
Pulse.
Don’t stop.
Pulse.
Make space.
Pulse.
Blade from the right.
The Fool’s Tumble—under the blade and back to my feet. To my right one of the Landsmen raises his sword to finish a soldier on the floor. I jump a corpse—one of ours—land on the other side, turn my speed into a slide—legs bent to keep balance—and smash into the back of the Landsman, knocking him over the soldier. She is moments from dead, blood gouting from a chest wound. I land on the Landsman’s back. Stab, stab, stab, into the neck.
“Girton!”
Pulse.
Throw myself to the side as a heavy sword comes down, missing me and cutting into the man I was attacking, slicing through his armour and into his back. My attacker draws his blade: he does not seem to notice it is sheathed in one of his own. Behind him Aydor fights Danfoth, hammer and sword whirling. The Landsman attacking me has lost his helmet. His armour is ripped, enamel scales falling from the wire of his armour like water from a jug. His body is thick with scars, some old, some new but nearly all should have killed him. The area around his stomach is so thick with stitches it looks like a nest of millions of tiny black-legged creatures.
Pulse.
In an instant I come to a sudden understanding. This man should have died many times, and his attacks are far slower than any other I have faced because of it. They must pay in speed for the lengthening of their lives. The blade comes down and I roll. The sword hits the stone floor and shatters. The Landsman lifts it, looking at the shattered blade stupidly, and I spring to my feet. Place the Rose—blade into his neck, a vicious twist and I pull it out in a shower of blood.
That is not a wound he will recover from.
Pulse.
There is a space in the battle and I stand within it, wet hair sticking to my face, blood on my tongue. The archers have dropped their bows, taken up swords. Only three of our troops remain, apart from Aydor and me, and four of the Landsmen. Arketh is at the throne, struggling with one of the huge shields and using it protect Darsese from arrows that no longer fly. There was shouting before, screaming. I only notice the noise now it is gone. Now men and women fight in silence. Aydor and Danfoth trade blows, circling warily round one another.
Pulse.
To the left, Ysil Anith, one of the bowyers, dies. She has forgotten what I said and picked up a shield. The Landsman she faces thrusts his sword straight through the wood and into her. It is as if it happens in slow motion. As the blade cracks the shield, Gura Chennig, to my right, falls to a huge slash. As the blade shatters Ysil’s heart, Kert ap Fennig on my left dies, his face turning blue in the armlock of a huge Landsman.
Pulse.
And then there is only me and Aydor. And four of them.
Pulse.
Aydor glances away from Danfoth and the big Meredari takes advantage. His sword comes low, going for the weakest spot, the unprotected legs. Aydor, despite his bulk, makes a move that seems impossible and leaps over the sword, at the same time bringing his warhammer round in an arc that smashes into Danfoth’s midriff. It is a killing blow: crushing armour, smashing bones and sending the Meredari warrior skidding back over the floor to land, still, in front of Darsese’s throne.
Pulse.
Danfoth is dead. If we win here he will stay that way.
“Come, Girton.” Aydor wipes sweat from his brow with one hand. Blood runs down his other arm to drip on to the floor as he walks toward the three remaining Landsmen. “Let us finish this. Rufra will be starting to wonder where we are.”
Pulse.
You would not know they had been fighting to look at the Landsmen. They do not walk like they are tired, or look like they have had their comrades killed and in turn killed others. They walk like sleepers, swords held loosely, faces hidden behind visors: only the blood that drips down their armour gives away they have fought recently; only the scars and scratches on the green paint.
Pulse.
“Ready, Aydor?”
“Aye.”
Pulse.
We charged.
There was no finesse, no cleverness. Aydor and I had fought together a long time; we knew each other’s strengths and each other’s weaknesses. He went towards the man who had strangled Kert ap Fennig to death. I went towards the two who had cut down Ysil Anith and Gura Chennig. I was quicker than Aydor, easier for me to fight and dodge two, and he needed room to wield his warhammer.
“Do you speak?” said Aydor to his man as he circled round him. “Danfoth spoke.” The Landsman did not reply. The two I faced spread apart, the better to come at me from either side. Aydor’s man went into a crouch, longsword pointing at Aydor’s midriff. Aydor shrugged, holding his warhammer at his side like it was a child’s toy. The Landsman edged in toward him. “He spoke too much, in truth.” The Landsman lunged. Aydor danced back.
Pulse.
An attack from my left, a swinging sword, and I go under it. At the same time the second Landsman brings his blade down and I realise, too late, I have miscalculated, been distracted. I twist. The second blade catches me a glancing blow to the thigh on the same side as my club foot, cutting through meat and sending me sprawling on to the cold stone floor. But the Landsman’s swung with such power he almost overbalances. An opening. Before I can take advantage of it the first Landsman is on me, sword lifted above his head ready to come down.
He staggers, as if his sword has doubled in weight. Takes a step back. Arketh’s face appears over his shoulder, clinging to his back. She rips off his helmet and her other hand claws at his blood-red eyes. The Landsman drops his sword, groping for her as I push myself up. The first Landsman comes back at me. Lances of pain from my leg shooting through me. Arketh screams as she mauls her man. Her shrieks fills the sepulchre, echoing round and up and off the stone, somehow sounding like they come from the malformed statue of Xus. A sword thrust at me. No time for fancy tricks, nothing dainty.
Pulse.
Survive.
I sway to the side. He reverses the thrust, swinging the heavy sword back into me. His strength is tremendous, almost knocking all the air out of me, but not managing to puncture my armour. I lock my arm around the blade, trapping it between my bicep and my body, feeling the hot bite of metal in my flesh as it cuts into the unprotected lower part of my arm. He tries to pull the blade loose but instead pulls me within his guard. With a shout I bring the stabsword held at my side up and round, the classic placing of the rose: through his lower jaw, through his gullet, into his brain. He judders as if fitting for half a second and falls.
Pulse.
All is quiet.
Pulse.
The rasp of my breath. The beat of my heart. The insistent drip of my blood on to the floor.
Pulse.
Whimpering. I look up. Breathing hard, wincing at the pain from cuts. Arketh stands away from the Landsman she attacked, watching with interest as he crawls away from her, bleeding hollows where his eyes should be. Aydor strides past her, the crumpled corpse of the man he faced behind him, and he raises his warhammer, finishing the Landsman with a blow to the head. Then he walks over to me and helps me up.
I watch curiously disinterested. It is almost like I am back at the bottom of the pool.
Pulse.
“We have won,” said Arketh. Aydor glanced at her.
“If you are a torturer,” he said, nothing but distaste in his voice, “then you should know how to keep a man alive. Bind Girton’s wounds or we will lose him.”
Pulse.
“It is not that bad,” I said, but I spoke through a haze, a gauze of fine air hanging in front of me. I less saw Aydor and Arketh as felt them as glows of life. Beyond them the glow of Darsese, huge and filthy, like meat left to hang too long.
“Arketh, help him.” Aydor’s bark, loud enough to be heard on a battlefield, and I felt myself tipped back. Arm lifted, a tightness. Leg lifted, a tightness.
“He has lost a lot of blood.”
Pulse.
“We need him walking,” said Aydor. “I am not leaving him here.”
“I can do that,” she said, “but he will pay for it later.” Her words stuttered, like I heard only the only the softest reflection of them. I felt the gentle brush of feathers against my skin and the numbing warmth of a black cape around me. I found myself speaking but my mouth did not move, the words were aimed inwards.
“Have I done what was needed?”
A soft hand on my forehead. My master’s voice.
“Our task is neverending.”
Voices becoming louder. The soft hand becomes a cold one. My skin is ice beneath hot sweat. My legs spasming and striking out; my arms do the same. Someone is holding my head to stop it cracking against the floor. Aydor is shouting.
Pulse.
“What have you done to him, woman?”
“Given him marisk seed, this is normal. Do not worry.”
“Marisk is poison!”
“Only in the hands of the unskilled.”
She is right. I say the words to Aydor, but he does not hear. He does not hear because my mouth does not move. My body is thrashing and I watch it happen, hovering above myself.
Pulse.
I am back in the pool.
Pulse.
Back in the current.
Pulse.
The drain sucking at me, but this time it is not water that drags me down. It is the filthy red presence of Darsese that tries to trap me. The hunger I felt, it was not the land beneath the castle. It is him, he is a savage and ceaseless hunger for life. An open screaming mouth offering nothing but oblivion, no path to Xus’s dark palace, not even the half-life of a shatterspirit tied to the land. Just to be food for a hunger that will never cease.
Pulse.
I am not strong enough to fight.
Pulse.
He draws me.
Pulse.
Aydor is screaming.
Pulse.
“You have killed him!”
Pulse.
Arketh is screaming back.
Pulse.
“This should not be happening!”
Pulse.
I am screaming.
Pulse.
Darsese draws me in, the way a coiled lizard draws its prey. I am hypnotised with terror. I cannot look away from the wound of his mind. As surely as the pool would have drowned me so Darsese will consume me. There is no Tinia Speaks-Not here to sacrifice herself for me. There is no one.
Pulse.
My body fits.
Pulse
Aydor readies his weapon to kill the torturer Arketh.
Pulse.
Rufra’s plans unravel.
I travel.
I float.
I want to tell Aydor it is too late for me. My time is gone. I want to apologise but I do not know why. The maw of Darsese. Grinding. Grinding.
Pulse.
I will never see Aydor in Xus’s dark palace.
Pulse.
I will never avenge Feorwic.
Pulse.
Darsese will undo all I am.
Pulse.
Aydor draws back his warhammer, ready to strike Arketh, she cowers before him.
P u l s e.
Aydor pauses, cocks his head.
P u l s e
“Do you hear it?” he says.
P u l s e
“Hear what?” she replies.
P u l s e
“Birds,” he says. “I hear Xus’s blackbirds.”
Silence.
A void springs into being, shutting Darsese behind it. A darkness dotted with too many stars to count. A reminder of my own insignificance, that I am one among so very many, but that nothingness is its own cold comfort. It is uncaring and it is the antithesis of Darsese’s hunger. It nulls it, stands between me and …
I
Hurt.
Pain!
Pain in my arms. Pain in my legs. My muscles ache like never before. I cough. I am filled with energy. I am almost crushed to death in Aydor’s sudden embrace.
“You live!”
“Just.”
“I thought she had killed you.”
“No, she had not,” I said. Energy flowed through me from the marisk seed. “But you may if you don’t let go.”
“Then let us save this high king,” said Aydor, “and hope he is worth it.” We turned toward the throne. Arketh had run ahead of us and was at Darsese’s side, holding up his head.
“Coil the Yellower’s poisonous piss,” said Aydor.
Because it had not been worth it. It had not been worth it at all. Because the woman Arketh held carefully in her arms was not High King Darsese.