Chapter XVI. Duskfall
XVI
DUSKFALL
“‘FUCK,’ DIOR WHISPERED.
“‘Fuck,’ Phoebe hissed.
“‘Fuuuuck,’ we sighed.
“The vampire stared across the battleground, smile spreading across her lips like a slick of poison, wheeling her stallion about to face us. Dior’s company was already beset on all sides, but the attentions of this monster had brought the Grail herself to a standstill.
Dior clutched her dagger, her bold Ossian Princess beside her, bloody silversteel in the Princess á Maergenn’s hands.
We heard the fear in Reyne’s voice as she whispered.
“‘Who in God’s name is that?’
“‘The Iron M-Maiden.’
“The boy soldier Dior had saved was speaking, crook-eyes on the vampires.
“‘Kestrel Voss,’ he continued, signing the wheel. ‘Daughter of the F-Forever King and commander of his legions. T-ten thousand men have died on ’er blade.’
“Reyne clenched her jaw, silversteel raised. ‘Fortunate we’re not men.’
“‘’Ware!’ Phoebe cried, looking about. ‘’ Ware ye, now! Shields up! Be ready!’
“Fire was streaming overhead—burning blasts flung from the gatekeep. The air rang with silvershot, dying screams, the crash of the Dead against ancient walls. The Voss had no siege weapons, and we saw the wretched were simply throwing themselves en masse at the gatehouse, a tide of rotten flesh clawing up the stonework with the unholy strength of the Dead. And though Augustin’s soldiers fought bravely, desperate to defend their last road out of the city, we knew they’d soon be overrun.
If they blew the bridge before we crossed, we’d be trapped here.
Little chance of retreat, and none of surrender.
“‘Dior Lachance! ’
“The cry rang over Place San Antoine, and though the battle at the gates raged on, the wretched pressing us fell eerily still. Kestrel Voss stared across the square at our little column, black braids framing a face of alabaster, daubed in blood like Death’s own.
She was beautiful, terrible, iron and marble.
Rumor had it Kestrel was the last daughter of the Tordu—a barbarous folk from the Elidaeni Mountains who drank from the skulls of their neighbors, and threw their children into pits to fight for the right to adulthood with knives of bone.
She was ancien, puissant, a creature older than any in this city.
But as she blinked, again we saw those bloody eyes painted upon her own.
“‘My dread and noble father bids thee greetings joyous, child! And unto thee, I give thanks heartfelt! Brothers and sisters three hath I lost aready in my King’s quest to own thee. A trio of Princes—Danton, Alba, sweet Aléne—all slain for the wanting of thee. I feared my cup should runneth dry of siblings afore ever I laid mine eyes ’pon thee.
How gen’rous, that at the last, thou hast journeyed here to kneel at my feet. ’
“That scythe spun in the Iron Maiden’s hand, leveled at Dior.
“‘Lay thy blade ’pon this bloodied earth, child, and bend thy knee afore me. In kind, I shall spare thy cohort righteous slaughter for the murder of my kinsmen, and spirit thee hence to my father’s side. A black crown shall he place ’pon thy brow, Dior.’
“That cold smile deepened further, chill hung thick in the air.
“‘The Forever King himself shall bow to thee.’
“‘Nae fear, Flower,’ Phoebe hissed. ‘We stand with ye until the end.’
“‘O sightless kit,’ the Maiden replied. ‘O ruin’d dahtr of weald and wild, know ye not, what now ye behold? ’
“Kestrel took in the carnage with a sweep of her hand.
“‘This be the end.’
“Dior clenched her jaw, and looking that Prince of Forever in the eye, she spat upon the earth. ‘Dead tongues heeded are Dead tongues tasted.’
“The Maiden’s smile vanished, like hope upon the pyre.
“And raising her scythe, she saluted.
“‘So be it.’
“It began as a tremor, like an itch on the back of the eyes. A voice on the very edge of hearing. But it grew, hissing to whispering to murmuring, and with those murmurs came a chill, trickling outward through the veins until it was all you could feel. We saw it striking the younger among Dior’s company first, but it spread as flame on tinder.
We’d felt the same once before—that terrible red day we fought the Terrors at Dún Maergenn.
And in the wake of those dreadful whispers came an awful rush of fear.
“‘She’s in my head!’ someone cried.
“Another man yelled, ‘Get out, get OUT, DEVIL!’, fists to his temples. A lad among the soldiers wailed and sank to his knees, followed by dozens more. Kestrel was in their minds—in ours too—her powers amplified among that web of Ironhearts. And in our skulls echoed that dread maiden’s voice, speaking in dulcet tones of secrets kept and sins hidden and failures unreckoned with, the dreadful summation of all our mortal fears.
“All thou hast given, she told me. All thou hast sacrificed. All the blood spilled and lies woven and lives stolen. In the end, it shall never be enough, Celene Castia.
“She shook her head, black eyes boring into my soul.
“Ye shall never be enough.”
There on the shores of a black river, deep in the bowels of Sul Adair, the Last Liathe heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the very soles of her boots.
“And then the Voss charged,” she declared.
“Of all her cohort, only Dior was unaffected by the Iron Maiden’s power.
Yet, though many of the civilians and soldiers she’d rescued broke at the sight of those charging Ironhearts, her Unbound held firm.
They were not unafeared, to be certain—many was the man who blanched at the sight of that oncoming doom.
But by some spell of the Grail’s holy blood, as those vampires rushed headlong across the square, steeds frothing and hooves thundering and blades gleaming, Dior’s soldiers stood their ground. ”
Celene shook her head.
“For all the good it did them.
“That ocean of wretched would have been battle enough, but a cavalry charge from highblooded Ironhearts was a peril none were prepared for. A few Unbound had spears, set swiftly against those oncoming steeds. But with the wretched crashing all around them, it was hard to hold any kind of formation, and heedless of her own Dead troops, Kestrel and her horsemen simply plowed through the foulbloods and into Dior’s line, shattering it like glass.
Men screamed and bones splintered, armor was rent to ruin, mail ringlets and blood glittering like diamonds and rubies as they spun through the snow-struck air.
“We were not without answer. Though the fleshwitch Dúnnsair was not counted among my dearest friends, she was not without skill in battle. Dusk was near now, the beast within the ’dancer never closer to her surface, and among those vampires, the fleshwitch flew.
Though an Ironheart’s flesh will turn ordinary steel, the talons of a duskdancer are as much a bane to our kind as fire and silver.
And I tell you, that day in Augustin, Phoebe á Dúnnsair was murder incarnate.
Eyes of golden fire and talons of razored bone.
“We charged also, flinging ourselves onto a dark knight’s steed and bringing him down into the snow.
We could hear Kestrel’s awful scythe, reaping Dior’s men like wheat, but we were in no position to stop her.
Our foe was a powerhouse, steeled by the weight of centuries.
Our bloodblade shattered upon his skin, but not before we took his swordhand at the wrist, shearing through plate and bone.
He tore our scarf away, a great gauntleted fist closing around our face.
But our hands found his throat then, voices within us singing their fury and fear, and unleashing the arte within us, we set the blood boiling in his veins.
“The battle raged around us, men screaming, foulbloods falling, Dior roaring for us to fight on. But there in the red slush, we grappled with that monster alone. His hand crushed our face, our eye popping from its socket. But his veins were afire now, blackened blood boiling into his throat. I know my brother claims we all beg at the end, Marquis. Terrified of hell awaiting. Yet as Mahné finally laid claim my enemy, the Ironheart’s final act upon this earth was not to plead for mercy nor blub for forgiveness, but to spit his last few drops of blood into my face before his body burst into dust.
“We rose amid that slaughter, no joy in our victory. Phoebe had done grim murder upon another highblood, her face and talons greyed with ash. But the price she’d paid was steep, bloody gouges across her body, innards spilling through her fingers as she collided with the third horseman—a pale princeling with long red hair and a cruel scar across his cheeks.
Kestrel and her last highblooded comrade had cleaved through the Unbound like razors, and the ground was littered with the dead and dying.
Sherrods and Derricks and Callums—Dior knew them all by name.
And we could see her anguish as they fell about her, swarmed by foulbloods or simply swept aside by that fearsome scythe.
“Ever since that day in the Hall of Plenty, as Maryn told her she’d save this forsaken world, Dior’s belief in herself had been unwavering.
But truth was, the Holy Grail of San Michon was a guttersnipe from Lashaame who’d never truly seen the horrors of war.
Certainly not close enough to feel the blood.
Smell the stink. Hear the screams. And looking about her now, Dior realized the impossible.
“She was losing.
“She roared, bloody dagger in hand as more of her men tumbled about her.
But much as she cut, deep as she bled, she could only heal the wounded, not resurrect the dead.
Phoebe roared warning, but the Iron Maiden was death made flesh, her scythe splitting mail and cleaving bone and parting souls from broken mortal shells.
And soon, only two stood between the Grail and that Prince of Forever.
“A Princess of two thrones, Low and High.
“And me.”
The Last Liathe drew a deep breath, brushing a dark lock from her lips.