Chapter XV. Bleed for Me #2
“The houndboy nodded, wading out toward Callum. With no backward glance, we dashed across the shattered piers and into a tangle of narrow streets. We could hear Dior’s voice faintly above a choir of steel and screams, our boots slipping in new-fallen snow and sticky red sludge.
Blood washed the cobbles beneath our feet, the alleys and thoroughfares we ran through choked with corpses.
I was off-balance, uncertain, plunged into a battle already halfway fought; no true understanding of its shape.
I knew only that the Grail was in the thick of it, and so, into that thick we plunged.
“Those next hours were chaos, Historian. I do not truly have words to encompass all I saw and did. When we’d fought the battle of Dún Maergenn, all had been carnage and savage, deafening motion, but the battlelines at least had been clear—our troops crashing inward against the defending Dyvok, the Voss legions crashing against us from behind.
But that red afternoon in Rive Nord, there were no lines at all.
“The streets were twisted, the tenements tall; all the better to prevent an invading force from keeping its bearings. And only a block from the river’s edge, every one of those streets was simply flooded—brave men in the golden tabards of Alexandre III, cityfolk fleeing for their lives, and a horde of wretched such as we had never seen.
“Their number seemed impossible. An endless rotten river, crashing through the alleys, tumbling and scrabbling and flinging themselves across the rooftops.
No order, no rhyme, no reason to it at all there seemed at first. No neat rows of men and orderly sallies into the fray.
Just masses of bodies, smashing and crashing and flailing against each other, claws tearing and fangs piercing and fires blazing, snatches of scripture rising above the screams and flashes of silver light piercing the gloom. And blood, Marquis.
“God in heaven, so much blood.
“We flung ourselves up to the rooftops, among the tumbling Dead, the stench of rot and gore and smoke so thick we could have clawed the air and seen our fingernails turn black. Fighting our way uphill, we battled as much against the defenders as attackers—Alexandre’s men had no idea I was a friend, after all.
Our body was pierced by shots of burning silver, our hair set ablaze by flaming crossbow bolts.
Smoke burned our eyes and sparks scorched our skin, our bloody blade carving through acres and acres of Dead meat.
“The wretched we slew were of every shape and size; young and old, men and women and children, some so rotten they could barely walk, others fresh enough to be near highblooded. We had never dreamed of a battle so vast, so terrifying. We’d witnessed the aftermath of the Blackheart’s attack on Dún Maergenn; those ancient walls smashed to rubble by the Dyvok’s unholy might.
But the strength of the Voss lay in the iron of their skin, and the steel of their minds.
And the deeper we carved our way into that abattoir, that butchery, that ceaseless, ravenous maw of war, the more afraid I became. ”
The Last Liathe fell silent, black eyes on dark waters. As was often the case, Jean-Francois had found himself caught up in the battle, quill flowing swift as Celene spoke. But quiet rang out now, punctured only by the river’s rush, and he glanced up, brow arched.
“Of what were you afraid, Mlle Castia?”
Still Celene was mute. Her legs were crossed beneath her upon the oily stone, elbows on her knees, fingers steepled at her lips.
She seemed a statue then—some monstrous masterpiece of alabaster and ink, and though she was silent, Jean-Francois wondered if she was speaking to the ones inside her head.
“Mlle Cast—”
“My grandfather was a genius. It pains me to say it. But Fabién Voss may have been the most innovative military mind this world has known. In nights before the death of days, to give birth to a wretched was a source of shame in kith society. And more, danger. We dwelled in secret, after all. And siring a malformed idiot incapable of understanding anything but hunger could only invite peril to one’s door.
Wretched were simply killed when they rose.
An inconvenience, an embarrassment, an unfortunate but inevitable side effect of the vampiric condition.
“But when their numbers swelled after the daystar failed, it was Fabién who first saw their utility. And it was Fabién who ever used them to greatest effect. Foulbloods are idiot creatures, you see. They go where the food is, they cower before kith older and stronger, but most lack the intellect to understand complex commands. Even after my grandfather’s successes in Nordlund, bloodlords of the other lines still used them as simple shock troops.
Fodder for the cannon, and grist for the mill.
But through their gifts, the Voss can speak directly to a wretched’s mind, Historian.
Not only can they issue orders even the most decayed foulblood can comprehend, they can do so telepathically over the battlefield.
And carving our way uphill through that chaos, we began to realize it was not chaos at all, but a dreadful, screaming, bloody ballet, directed by hidden and all-seeing hands.
“There were highbloods among the wretched horde. Pale figures with eyes of steel and skins of iron. They did not fight unless pressed, preferring to let the foulbloods do their killing. But they were ever present among the wretched mobs; sending them forward and drawing them back, feinting and flanking, baiting and butchering, driven by an intellect no single kith could muster. Looking at the picture entire from above, we saw the wretched were moving like the great flocks of swallows I’d seen as a little girl; wheeling and rolling and slicing through the skies above our village.
And we realized each highblood was a single strand in a vast web, a single stitch in a great telepathic tapestry, a single string in a grand and awful orchestra that was playing a requiem for the world.
“And I knew the conductor writing the tune.
“‘Hold! Hold here!’
“The familiar voice rose above the bedlam ahead, setting our heart singing.
“‘HOLD THE LINE, brOTHERS!’
“Leaping across the rooftops, we cut through a gaggle of foulbloods. And dashing across the snow-clad tiles, we looked down to the blood-washed cobbles below.
“A little square; the meeting of four twisted city roads, each blockaded with hasty timbers or wearied men. Their bloody tabards were chalked with the Grail’s sigil, or the unicorn and swords of Emperor Alexandre.
Abandoned tenements loomed high all about them, a stone fountain that might once have been Angel Sanael stood at the square’s heart, now smashed to pieces.
And next to that broken angel, flanked by the fleshwitch Dúnnsair and her pretty Princess Reyne, we saw …
“‘Dior! ’
“The Grail was knelt beside a fallen soldier in the Emperor’s golden livery. In one hand, she held a bloody dagger, and her other was pressed to his savaged throat. But as we called, she looked up, blue eyes shining in a mask of blood and ash.
“‘Celene!’
“‘What are you doing?’
“‘Oh, quick round of ale and whores before mass, what’s it fucking look like?’
“‘I mean why are you pressing forward? You’re surrounded on all si—’
“‘We have to reach the bridge! The garrison has orders to blow it if it looks to be overrun! If that span falls, we’ve no way into Rive C?ur!’
“‘Blow it…’
“We looked over the high rooftops, through the smoke and snow and into battle’s thick.
The Emperor’s troops were fighting bravely, the light of burning wheels held aloft by battlepriests cutting through the gloom, flame and silver slicing through the Dead tide.
But still, they were being pressed back uphill, relentless, toward the great stone gatekeep guarding entry to that last bridge.
From our vantage, we could see men at work behind those gates now; thick cables of hempknot snaking down the supports.
Strapped beneath the arches, we saw barrels, bound with yet more hempknot.
And at last, the understanding of what had smashed Augustin’s other bridges to pieces washed over us like cold water.
“Not the fists of God, but …
“‘Black ignis,’ we whispered.
“We saw the wisdom of it. The dreadful dilemma too. If the defenders of Augustin destroyed the last bridge into the city before the Endless Legion breached those gates, they could cut off the Forever King’s only way into Rive C?ur.
But they would also be cutting off the last way out of the city, and any chance of their own escape …
“‘They’ve been fighting three days to hold it!’ Dior cried. ‘If they’re forced to destroy it, Augustin will be completely cut off, we have to help them!’
“The soldier Dior had laid bloody hands upon rose from the snow, staring up at her in bewilderment. He was short and crook-eyed, barely more than a boy, his hauberk and sword still fresh from the forge. Looking closer, we saw dozens of new faces among her cohort; most were clad in bloody tabards of the Emperor’s gold, but there was no shortage of civilians either.
Dior had obviously been fighting her way through the bloody streets toward the last bridge—a blind, stumbling stab through the chaos before all hope was lost. But she’d still taken the time to rescue any innocent she could find along the way, dragging them back from death’s clutches with her own red hand.
“God, what a marvel she was …
“‘Where the bleeding fuck is Maryn?’ she roared. ‘We’re cunt-deep in wretched!’
“‘Joaquin found her! She is coming!’
“‘Well, we can’t wait! Dusk is closing in, and they’ll be twice as strong after nightfall! These streets are a fucking maze, we can’t see shit down here. Can you show us the way?’
“‘Always.’