Chapter XIV. This Whole World a Grave
XIV
THIS WHOLE WORLD A GRAVE
“THE DAWN WAS ours.
“Onslaught was aflame, spine cracking as she slipped below the waves. Hellspawn’s guns were silent, and Shadowchild drifted listless in the fog, her decks thick with corpses.
Dior stood in the midst of it all, eyes wide, spattered red.
But aside from a few pockets of men still fighting belowdecks, the battle was done.
“‘Victory!’ Capitaine á Connell called, raising a red blade. ‘For the Graaaaiiil! ’
“The cry was taken up, men roaring, embracing, calling Dior’s name.
But beaten and bruised though she was, the Grail wasted no time on celebrations, staggering down to the blood-slicked decks and laying red hands upon her wounded men.
The sight of her healing the dying set our heart singing, and I knew this here would be our greatest strength in nights ahead.
Truth is, the tally of men killed in battle is small, seigneur.
Most do their dying afterward—blood loss and sepsis claiming more lives than deathblows.
But while a handful of Unbound had been outright slain in our clash, any wounded yet breathing could now be saved by Dior’s sacred blood.
“Maryn made the sign of the wheel, whispering, ‘Thanks be unto thee, O Lord.’
“‘Help! ’
“The cry was faint, near swallowed by the crashing waves.
“‘Hellllp! ’
“Elaina was standing with her paws on the railing, the hound barking at the sea. Reyne ran aft, us beside her, peering out to the waves. Distant, we saw two figures in our wake—a pretty monsieur with sodden, ink-black locks, a flame-haired woman in his arms.
“‘Phoebe…’ the Princess hissed, tearing off her chain shirt.
“We dove soundlessly, Reyne and us, striking the water as one. Together we swam, out through the chop and snarl, toward the waving houndboy. Joaquin must have leapt over the side as Phoebe went overboard—the only one in the melee with presence of mind enough to mark her fall, and strong enough to keep her afloat in her breastplate. But M. Marenn’s strength was flagging now, the fleshwitch a deadweight in his arms, blood drooling from the awful wound in her eye and skull.
“We reached the lad first, lifting Phoebe above the waterline, Reyne arriving soon after. As three, dragging our fourth, we swam back to Dawnseeker, Unbound gathering at the gunwales as Capitaine á Connell threw us a line and Elaina ran in panicked circles. We took hold, dragged up from the waves, supporting Phoebe’s weight with Joaquin’s aid.
Grunting, we hauled ourselves over the rail, the bloodied duskdancer sprawled on the deck beside us.
Dior knelt at Phoebe’s side, red hand raised and ready.
But the headshot had been lead, not silver, and the fleshwitch’s wounds were already healing.
“Though if she’d been allowed to simply sink …
“‘Well done, Joaquin,’ Reyne gasped, dragging a brine-soaked braid from her face.
“The lad only nodded, too exhausted for words, managing a weary smile as folk thumped his back and Elaina slobbered all over his face. Phoebe coughed red, rolling onto her belly, blood drooling from her ruptured eye as she groaned.
“‘F-fer a lily-white N-N-Nordish cunt…’
“The houndboy grinned, patted Phoebe on her shoulders. Though near hidden beneath her sopping curls, the fleshwitch’s animal gaze drifted to me.
“‘My thanks, maebh’lair,’ she growled.
“‘You are welcome, fleshwitch.’
“Sighing relief, Dior rose on shaking legs, looking at the blood-washed deck around her. Our maiden battle had been glorious, and our victory not too costly. But all knew our war had barely begun.
“‘She knew you.’
“It was Reyne who spoke, peering into the churning waves.
“‘That Voss who escaped into the water. She knew who you were.’
“Dior nodded, eyes to the east now. ‘Her name is Roisin. Roisin the Red. She was one of Danton’s hounds. Gabe, Celene, and I fought her on the Mère last year.’
“‘She fled when the Beast of Vellene was slain,’ we said, joining the Grail at the gunwale. ‘We supposed Fabién would have slain her for her failure.’
“‘Nay.’
“All eyes turned toward Maryn as she spoke, no few shivering at the sight. A child, porcelain skin and pretty dress, soaked through with the blood of her uncounted victims.
“‘Liar. Apostate. Black-hearted servant of the Pit. All these, Fabién Voss surely be. But highblooded Ironhearts be not so many he would cast them away in a fit of pique. If there be any currency ’pon this earth that bloody tyrant weighs dear, it be family.’
“‘And she’s on her way to tell him,’ Dior whispered. ‘That I’m here.’
“‘He may already know,’ we replied. ‘Fabién can ride the minds of his servants if he has a will to. Who can say if he wasn’t watching us this morn?’
“Maryn nodded, eyes hard and cold. ‘We should sail with all speed for Augustin.’
“Capitaine á Connell glanced to the heavens then, roiling dark and grim.
“‘There’s a storm coming.’
“But Mother Maryn only smiled.
“‘We are the storm.’
“The order was given, hasty repairs conducted, the Seeker shredded bone-deep by the Voss guns.
Limping across the churning waves, we sliced eastward, ever eastward.
The mists thinned before us, daysdeath sun creeping higher, and through the veil ahead, after months at sea, we finally, blessedly spied our destination.
“Reyne took Dior’s hand, whispering in the grey.
“‘Elidaen…’
“The fabled homeland of the Augustin dynasty. After so long spent questing for it, it was a grim place to arrive at in truth; whitecaps gnawing dark cliffs, shale shores still crusted with grey frost. Summer yet lingered, brief autumn not even upon us, but it seemed Elidaen’s snows were somehow not full melted, and the gale off that coast was a beast, all icy claws and frozen teeth.
But a cheer went up across Seeker’s decks nevertheless, our drumbeat doubling pace, oars slicing the water like knives.
“‘What’s that?’ Dior asked.
“Excitement faded as the Grail’s question was repeated among the men. We saw lights in the mists ahead; a pair of flickering, umber glows, so deep they were almost red.
“‘Lighthouses?’ Joaquin offered.
“‘No, M. Marenn.’ I shook our head. ‘No lighthouses.’
“Dior stopped her pacing, turned toward us. ‘Celene?’
“‘The Vise. It burns.’
“My words carried in the still, and no cheer could be heard thereafter. Through the mists ahead they rose; the grim silhouettes of clifftop chateaux, guarding the north and south banks of the River Béni, linked by a natural span of stone. This was the fabled Vise of Philippe; the coastal fortresses Elidaen’s seventeenth Emperor had constructed to protect his capital’s southern flank.
But as the Seeker cut through spray and chop, the scent of death rose above the reek of sulfur snows and brine, and all saw the once-towering ramparts of the Vise were toppled, stones blacked by a few still-burning fires, those mighty fortresses reduced to naught but gutted shells.
“‘Sweet Mothermoons,’ Phoebe breathed. ‘Look at that…’
“Grim murmurs rippled over the decks, the Unbound glancing to each other with fearful eyes. As we rowed toward the Béni’s mouth we saw shapes rising from the waters like the hands of drowned mariners.
Masts, we realized. Masts by the dozen; the wreckage of great ships, smashed and scattered across the bottom of the bay, shredded sails draped like shrouds across the corpses littering their decks.
Upon the canvas we saw the unicorn and five crossed swords of House Augustin, and the grim white ravens of Blood Voss.
“‘What the hell happened here?’ Joaquin whispered.
“‘The Sapphire Host.’ Capitaine á Connell made the sign of the wheel. ‘Emperor Alexandre’s fleet. The grandest navy this world has ever known. It’s gone.’
“‘Voss paid a heavy price for it,’ Reyne murmured, nodding to the raven sails.
“‘I wager he judges it fair,’ the capitaine said, glancing to the smashed forts above.
“‘And the capital?’ Joaquin asked.
“á Connell only shook his head then, as clueless as the next man.
“All looked to Dior, standing grim and pale upon the aftcastle.
Her eyes were fixed on the shoreline, the Seeker slicing ever closer to the mouth of the Béni.
None knew what we would find waiting for us up that river now.
A city under siege? A capital in ruins? A Forever King already seated on the Fivefold Throne?
“We followed her eyeline, and among the shattered timbers and mangled corpses, we saw a pale shape, wading through the brine. A boy, I realized. Not a day older than twelve, he was. Sopping sailor’s garb hung on his body—knee-length britches and a neckerchief of Elidaeni yellow.
He was bloated from his time in the water, moving through the shallows with the stumbling gait of the too-long dead.
We watched him sink to his knees, latching hold of another dead sailor and digging his teeth into waterlogged flesh.
But as we sailed past, that deadboy lifted his mouth from his feast, rancid blood drooling from needle fangs, staring at Dior.
“He raised one hand, as if reaching for the Grail. Dior lifted her wounded hand in kind. That hand that had healed the sick. Saved the dying. The Red Hand of God.
“And there in that chill and bloody dawn, the deadboy screamed.
“God Almighty, it was an awful sound. Earsplitting. Heartbreaking. Its chill washing Dawnseeker’s decks and soaking every soul through.
It was as if this boy somehow knew—in the rot-riddled, waterlogged part of his brain that knew anything at all—that despite all the hurts she had healed, all the lives she had saved, she could not save him.
“Not a day older than twelve, he was.
“Dior clenched her jaw then. Balling wounded fingers into a fist.
“‘Sail on, Capitaine.’