Godblind. Anna Stephens
my name is Captain Crys Tailorson, late of the North Rank. I don’t know you yet, but I’ll come and speak to each of you during this shift. Any questions or concerns, please do speak up and I’ll see what can be done.’ He faced Wheeler again and saluted.
‘You have command, Captain,’ Wheeler said.
Crys nodded. ‘Lieutenant Weaverson, fastest route to the palace,’ he said.
They set out, his Hundred marching behind him, and Crys felt himself fall into the same rhythm, the movements as automatic as breathing. Weaverson took them on a circuitous route, and Crys had his earlier suspicion confirmed: the roads deliberately curved away from the gates in each circle to confuse and confound an enemy. Made it a bastard to do your shopping, but if this place was ever attacked, it’d be a blessing and no mistake.
‘So, Lieutenant, what should I know about my Hundred?’
‘Good men all, sir,’ Weaverson said, as Crys had expected. Never mind, he’d find out soon enough. ‘Can I ask a question, sir?’ Crys nodded. ‘Is it true about the Dead Legion and the Mireces, that they’ve allied to invade? You coming from the North, I thought you’d know the truth of it.’
‘I know nothing of it, by which you can assume it’s horseshit, Lieutenant. My ear is always pressed most firmly to the ground, and I haven’t heard it. The Dead have their own honour, their own code and their own gods. A version of our gods, really, when you get down to it. They’re a small cult within Listre and even if they did join forces with the Raiders, there aren’t enough of them to make much of a difference. So no, I wouldn’t expect there to be verified news of an alliance.’
‘So there isn’t a Mireces invasion coming? Puck has a brother in the West, and he said they’re restless up there, causing all sorts of mischief.’
‘Causing mischief and invading a country are two fairly different things, Lieutenant,’ Crys said, and took the sting from his words with a grin and a slap on the boy’s back. ‘Soldiers talk. Gods, we gossip worse than women at the loom or men in their cups. But I might be wrong, so we should probably guard those princes really well, don’t you think? In case the Mireces have made it into the palace? I want you using every ounce of your guarding muscles, all right? Let no inch of the blank stone wall opposite your face go unstudied during the endless, cold hours ahead. Concentrate really hard on the important stuff, like standing up straight and not farting when someone rich walks past.’
There were chuckles from the first couple of ranks behind him and a sheepish smile from Weaverson. ‘It’s an important job, lads,’ he called, raising his voice, ‘even if it isn’t a complicated one. So if you cock it up, I’ll know you’re a complete imbecile and will treat you accordingly. This is my first shift as your captain. Don’t make me look bad and I won’t have to make you search for something I think I might have lost at the bottom of a deep and pungent cesspit.’ More laughter, and Crys knew they were relaxing into his command, deciding he was all right, not a high-born, bought-his-commission, weak-chinned moron.
Crys took a deep breath of cold night air, sucking it in through his nose and exhaling through a broad grin. Greatest city, tallest walls, miles from a border that might get feisty at any moment. Even better, there was money in his purse and men under his command. Truly was it said that life could be worse than being a captain in His Majesty’s Palace Rank.
Eleventh moon, year 994 since the Exile of the Red Gods
Sky Path, Gilgoras Mountains
She’d thought the storm a blessing when it rushed in, covering her tracks and blowing her scent downhill. She’d stumbled through the night, expecting every moment to be caught, for the Mireces’ dogs to fasten their teeth in her and drag her into the snow. She’d made it on to the Sky Path and to the source of the Gil River before she’d heard the first howls on the wind. She’d made it so much further than she’d expected, a night and a morning and an afternoon.
Now, though, with the sky darkening to dusk again and her skin as blue as her gown where it wasn’t rusty with dried blood, facing an angry mountain cat, Rillirin changed her mind. There were no more blessings left, not for the likes of her.
‘I don’t want your goat,’ she hissed and the cat’s yowl went up an octave. She edged back the way she’d come, back in the direction of her pursuers, wondering which way to die would be least painful. Probably the cat. But the cat’s ears were better than hers and they pricked up, the rumble of threat dying in its throat. It’d heard those hunting her despite the howl of the wind. They were closer than she’d thought, then. She cursed and looked behind, catching flickers of torchlight further up the mountain, the faintest tang of smoke. Liris’s blood was a beacon calling to the dogs, and she hadn’t had the foresight to wash it off. Now it was too late.
Stay ahead of them, get down into the foothills, find someone who’ll help. She shifted back towards the cat and its ears flattened, then pricked again. Face it, no one’s going to help a woman dressed in blue and covered in blood. You’re dead whoever finds you first. Rillirin swallowed tears and shoved her hair back out of her eyes. Then fuck you all, she thought, I’ll save myself. Somehow.
Gripping the remains of the goat, the cat bounded lightly down the sheer rock face on to a ledge Rillirin hadn’t noticed and vanished, its pelt as patchy white as its surroundings. Follow it or follow the path? Could the dogs handle the cat’s path? Could she?
A faint howl on the wind made up her mind for her and she edged on to the steep rock, her boots scrabbling for purchase, the wind tearing at the remains of her skirt and throwing her off balance. She skidded, fell hard on her right hip and was sliding down the rock before she’d had a chance to suck in breath to scream.
She hit the cat’s ledge, winded, and sailed on past, faster, stone burning the backs of her legs and arse until there was no more mountain and then she did scream, falling through space for long, endless seconds, eyes screwed shut, arms flailing uselessly through the air.
She hit water so cold it felt like knives stabbing into her. She’d thought herself cold before, but this was cold that burnt. Everything constricted and she hit the bottom. Fighting her way back up against the drag of her skirts, her head broke the surface and she warbled in a breath, lungs burning as well as her skin. She opened her eyes in time to see the rock the current slammed her into, crumpling her body and forcing her head back beneath the icy surface. She rebounded and the current swept her on, every breath a choking effort against the cold and the insidious lethargy creeping through her limbs.
She could hear the echo of men and dogs lost somewhere behind her, far above the river. If she survived the cold, survived the weight of her skirts dragging her down, survived the rocks, rapids and falls, she’d gladly pray daily for the rest of her life to any god who’d have her.
The river’s voice changed, deeper and angrier, a full-throated roar. The cold, the pain: none of it mattered. There was a waterfall ahead, and Rillirin wasn’t sure she’d survive this fall. She started to paddle, then to thrash, her limbs heavy and dull. The current picked up, swirling her with playful malevolence into the centre of the river, and then again, endlessly, she fell.
Rillirin must’ve gone another half-mile after the waterfall before the water slowed and she managed to haul herself on to the bank. She’d seen enough slaves die of cold in Eagle Height and so she stripped off her gown. She wrung out the worst of the water and then used the rough material to scrub hard at her skin, stimulating blood flow. At least I don’t smell of blood any more. A giggle escaped through chattering teeth.
She staggered forward, fell to her hands and knees and stared blearily at the ground. Pine needles. She crawled forwards into the shadow of trees, a copse so small as to not be worth the name. The wind still howled through the trunks and gouged her skin but the softness under her knees brought tears to her eyes. She squirmed behind a trunk