Chapter V. The Damsel of Lionsmouth #2
“Up on the walls, the damsel raised a beautiful longsword, its blade etched with a pattern like fire.
As she twisted the haft, I heard the snakk of metal springs, of iron on tinder, and as if by magik, her blade burst into flames.
With the cry For León! the damsel leapt from the walls, wading among the Dead now, hewing and hacking with her burning blade, roaring with hatred as the coldbloods fell around her.
Her archers lifted their bows, each slamming a long, thin box into the haft before letting fly with another volley.
The air was filled with more burning arrows, hissing as they came, shuffshuffshuff!
Coldbloods fell like wheat before the scythe, most too rotted to make a sound as they burned.
“And then it was done. The ground littered with smoldering corpses, the black smokestink of burning flesh not enough to fully drown my raging thirst. I ached with it, sore tempted to lick the gore from my lips, my silvered hands, the dark steel of Ash’s blade.
Instead I staggered to the pit, Baptiste beside me, bloody warhammer in hand.
“‘Lachie?’
“‘Sweet f-fuckin’ Redeemer,’ came the groan.
“Looking down, I saw him in the pit’s belly, sagging and drenched with blood.
Three wretched were in pieces about him, but Lachie was impaled through belly and shoulder by those sharpened stakes, and his poor brave sosya Victory was dead; pierced through chest and throat by those same cruel lances, and bled out into the mud.
“Lachie gasped as he dragged the broken stake from his belly, fangs drenched red.
“‘Need a hand?’ I asked.
“‘P-prefer a stomach,’ he moaned, pressing one bloody palm to the gaping wound and fumbling for his pipe. ‘Mebbe give me a m-minute, aye?’
“‘Reload,’ came a soft command.
“I heard the clunk of crossbows, Baptiste nudging my arm.
“‘Gabe…’
“Glancing up, I found that company of archers on the broken walls now staring down their burning sights at me.
They were twenty strong, scarred and battle-hard, and each wore a circle of ash scribed upon their brow.
Looking closer, I realized their crossbows were mechwork—marvels of steel and cog that allowed them to fire a dozen shots from spring-loaded quivers with a single pull, set alight as they sailed through those burning sights.
Their eyes were cold, faces grim, none so much as the damsel who led them, standing before those walls with burning sword in hand.
I saw her blade was mechwork too, some cache of lamp oil in the haft, I suspected, lit by flint and spark—ingenious surely, but nowhere near magikal.
The oil was running dry now, flames sputtering.
But fire still burned in her eye as she spoke.
“‘State your name and business.’
“I stared back, Ashdrinker dripping in my hand, still humming that silver aria in my mind. ‘Well that’s hardly the thanks I was expecting, madame.’
“‘Thanks? ’ she spat, glancing at the carnage about us. ‘You near ruined our whole snare, you bloody fool. And got your fool friend slain in the process.’
“‘He’s not dead. Though his pride is surely bleeding.’
“‘K-kidneys too,’ came a low groan from the hole.
“‘We come in peace, madame,’ Baptiste called. ‘Seeking to aid you in what looked a fight for your life. Surely that warrants kinder greeting than this?’
“The woman’s gaze narrowed, hard as black pearl.
She was Nordish born, pale of skin and sharp of jaw, a few years older than me.
Black hair was cut in a long fringe over the leather patch across her eye.
Despite the burn scar down her cheek, some might have called her beautiful, but there was a coldness to her, cruel as winter dawn.
The longblade in her hand was well used, and pinned on the leather doublet above her heart, I saw a sigil of gleaming gold: a sword wreathed in flame.
I noted her men wore it too—not wrought of precious metal, but carved of wood or bone.
I’d seen the same in San Michon, inked silver into the skins of men I’d named brothers and friends.
“The sigil of my namesake.
“Gabriel, Angel of Fire.
“‘You trespass in the realm of my noble lord,’ she declared.
‘And Almighty God knows I have fought the Dead long enough to ken their foul magiks when I see them. Your strength is unholy. Your friend should be a corpse. You are thralls at best, servants of the fallen at worst. State your name and business, or die where you stand.’
“‘You would die before the order left your lips, petite chasseuse.’
“The bowmen turned at that voice, hissing surprise as they looked to the figure behind them. Aaron crouched atop the broken guardtower like a bird of prey, greatcoat billowing in the wind, his awful greatsword poised in one pale hand.
“‘Bonsoir, madame,’ he smiled. ‘Messieurs.’
“‘Coldblood! ’ one of the archers roared.
“‘Bring it down!’ the woman cried.
“‘No, HOLD!’ I roared.
“Crossbows sang and quarrels flew, shuffshuffshuff!, trailing bright tongues of flame. But Aaron was already moving, cleaving the air with his blade. Epitaph’s shockwave split the arrows asunder, flaming kindling falling like rain as he struck the ground, leaping again, the dark strength of his blood sending him sailing back into the air.
A glint of golden hair and flashing steel and midnight silk, he alighted atop the broken wall, turning on the bowmen.
And with that smile still curling his lips, he gave a courtly bow to their leader.
“‘Those bows are impressive beasts indeed,’ Aaron told her. ‘But you’ll need to shoot sharper if you wish to slay this beast, little huntress.’
“‘Reload! ’ she roared.
“‘Stay your hands, damn you, we come in peace!’ I bellowed.
“‘Peace?’ the woman spat. ‘This leech among you? Servants of the dark as I s—’
“‘We serve no bastard coldblood!’ I roared, holding the sevenstar on my palm aloft.
‘We are come from Maergenn, where two Princes of Forever and the Priori Dyvok lay slain by our hands! This is Baptiste Sa-Ismael, once capitaine of Aveléne and smith of the Silver Order!’ I glanced to the big man behind me, who nodded gravely.
‘Aaron de Coste, once Lord of Aveléne and sworn silversaint, slain by the Untamed but not conquered!’ As Aaron smiled at the dark-haired woman, I heard a groan, and gestured to the bloodied figure now dragging himself from the pit.
‘Frère Lachlan à Craeg, loyal brother of San Michon, by whose deed and word was dread Tolyev himself slain at Crimson Glade!’
“Lachie spat blood, raised one shaking hand to show the sevenstar aglow upon his palm. The archers looked on us amazed now, a whisper rippling among them like a spell.
“‘Silversaints…’
“‘And as for my name, madame? I have been known by many—’”
“Oh dear.”
Gabriel looked up, found Jean-Francois watching him from the armchair opposite. Thunder rolled across distant mountains as the vampire arched one brow.
The silversaint scowled. “Oh dear what?”
“You’re about to start listing all of your accolades again.
Slayer of Whatshisface. Victor of the SuchandSuch.
Hung Like a Rogue Wildebeest. Bangs Like a Privy Door in the Wind.
” The historian flipped through the remainder of the tome in his lap, sighing.
“It’s all very impressive, Gabriel, but if you’re going to do it every time you meet someone new in this history, we shall need a bigger book to record it in. ”
“… Rogue wildebeest?”
“Well, I’m assuming…”
“I’ve told you before, coldblood. When someone insists on measuring manhoods—”
“And yours is the biggest, whip it out and be done, I know, I know. Not to criticize, but you spend a great deal of time talking about penises, Gabriel.”
“You started it, you cockeyed little—”
“See what I mean?”
The silversaint glowered, reaching for his wine.
But as he met Jean-Francois’s eyes, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The smile became a grin, and as Jean-Francois chuckled, a bubble of laughter burst on Gabriel’s lips.
The Marquis joined in, the pair now caught up in the laughter’s spell; tension between jailed and jailor melting like snow in the summer breeze.
Leaning back in his chair, pawing away bloody tears, the vampire sighed.
“I have said it before and I shall say it again.” Jean-Francois shook his head. “You are beautiful, mon ami.”
Gabriel’s own smile faded from his lips, and he drowned the last of it with a swift gulp of wine. “I fear our damsel found me less impressive.”
“Indeed?”
The silversaint nodded, refilling his goblet. “And for all your complaints about me marinating in my own accolades, she cut me off before I’d a chance to speak a one.
“‘And as for my name, madame? I have been known by many—’
“‘Save your breath,’ she growled, raising her hand.
“I frowned, studying her closer now the thrill of battle had died. That dark hair. Darker eye. Something in the line of her jaw, the shape of her nose …
“‘You are that blackguard who wore my lord’s name like a cheap cloak,’ she hissed. ‘Dragging it and our city besides into the mire of your disgrace. Sinner. Failure. Oathbreaker. Your name is Gabriel de León, monsieur. Be sure that it precedes you.’”
“Oh, I like her,” Jean-Francois said.
“Fuck off, vampire.”
The historian chuckled, turning a page as the silversaint continued.
“Aaron and I exchanged a glance as the woman spat rebuke. Lachlan stepped into the uncomfortable silence, pawing blood from his belly. ‘Yer from León, m’lady? We seek the City of Lions, on a matter most dire.’
“‘León’s sons and daughters all,’ she replied, chin held high. ‘Loyal servants of Gerrard, Defender of the Faith, and thirteenth Baron of the House León.’
“‘Oh, most impressive,’ Aaron murmured, studying his fingernails.
“‘Be silent, leech. Afore I burn out your godless tongue.’
“‘Ye have us at disadvantage, m’lady,’ Lachie said. ‘Ye know our names, but—’
“‘She’s famille, Lachie,’ I said. ‘Through and through. ’