Chapter IV. Road of Graves
IV
ROAD OF GRAVES
“I am with child.
“My hands tremble as I write these words. I can scarce read them for my tears. I have never been so afraid and I dare not tell a soul, but if I do not speak, I know I shall go mad.
“I did not think we could make a life, Wulfric being what he is. When my moonstime did not come I prayed Mothermaid I might be wrong, but still I sought a wisewoman in the Night Market. Aunt to the blacksmith’s boy, Castia.
She pricked my fingers twice for the moons, opened a whitegull and augured in the entrails.
And then she placed her hand upon my belly and spoke with nothing short of terror in her voice.
“‘You must be rid of it.’
“But I cannot commit such a sin. God would never forgive me. Wulfric loves me true, he will know what to do. He will stand by us, his love, his child. I know it in my heart.
“My God, what will Father say?
“I’D STARED AT those words for hours the night before, and on the road the day after, they’d not leave me.
Though I still felt Mama’s presence as I slowly deciphered her blood-soaked journal, I felt a growing sorrow also.
I knew how her story ended, after all. The mud of Lorson. A blacksmith’s hovel. A lioness caged.
“God, what she’d given for me …
“We’d been rolling onward, eastward, into the rising winds another week.
Though we knew not what we’d find there, we knew our destination now—San Maximille, the Shield of Augustin—and to that grim fortress, we’d set our tread.
The men’s mood was still buoyed by the presence of the charming Beaufort boys and Frère Tolman, though admittedly spirits weren’t as high as once they’d been.
We’d lost several of our number to wretched attacks the last few nights, and none were permitted to wander alone anymore. ”
The historian pursed his lips. “Wretched attacks.”
“So our scouts said.”
“And what do you say?”
The silversaint took a long gulp of his wine, leaned back in his armchair.
“I’ll say I knew San Maximille would be a brutal nut to crack.
The chateau was built to guard the capital’s northern approaches, and her defenses were no jest. We’d no idea of Voss’s numbers after his retreat or defeat or whatever the hell happened at Augustin.
But Lachie and I had spoken long on our journey eastward, and his studies of the castles of Elidaen in the Great Library of San Michon had started to birth a sort of plan.
“Presuming we got to fight at San Maximille at all, that is.
“Our pace was good, but winter was coming. If Voss intended to assault Augustin again come the freeze, we’d have to roll hard to reach him before he marched out again, or risk facing him in the field without knowing his strength.
And as we approached the Vipère River, we realized our pace could get much slower. ”
Jean-Francois arched one brow, clearly unamused. “More tree-chopping? More bridge-building? Perhaps you could give me a thrilling account of how many potatoes you had for breakfast each day, or how—”
“No potatoes. Just mushrooms. And we’d no need to build a bridge over the Vipère.” Gabriel sighed. “That was the fucking problem, coldblood. There was one already there.”
“But … surely the Emperor’s troops would have demolished them as they retreated to slow the Forever King’s advance?”
“They did. But Voss rebuilt them.”
Gabriel breathed deep, dragging a hand back through his hair.
“Understand. The Dyvok destroyed Ossway in their haste to seize it. Tolyev had foresight enough to build the slaughterfarms at Triúrbaile, but the Blackheart just butchered anyone he conquered. For all his strength, Nikita wasn’t half the tactician Fabién was.
Ancien Voss are nigh invulnerable. And with that imperviousness comes implacability.
Patience. The Ironhearts rushed nothing.
Fabién had been waging his war seventeen years by then, creeping ever eastward; not a fire incinerating all it touched, but a poison, soaking all the lands about him through with his stain.
“Carlos and Valentino were Blood Chastain, and they kept a pair of peregrines as familiars—two winged beauties named Evangeline and Eirene. From the skies, those falcons saw far, reporting back to their masters every hour on the hour. We knew the recently rebuilt Vipère bridge wasn’t heavily guarded; a cadre of veteran thralls, well armed and fed on Voss blood, but no match for half a dozen ’saints.
We tidied them up with barely more than a scratch, Ashdrinker reciting dirty limericks and a recipe for spiced potatoloaf in my head the whole battle.
But as we were cleaning their blood off our blades, Evangeline circled down from dark skies, alighting on Carlos’s arm.
“‘She’s troubled,’ he said. ‘Such as I’ve rare seen.’
“‘’ Bout what?’ Lachlan asked, rinsing his boots.
“The brother Beaufort spoke to the bird, petting her crown as she trilled reply. I saw his face run bloodless, a frown darken his brow.
“‘Brother?’ Valentino asked.
“‘She speaks of a multitude. Many upon many, south of here.’
“‘Wretched?’
“‘Foulbloods, oui. Highbloods too. But more and most, people.’
“Lachie blinked at that. ‘Thralls?’
“The falcon trilled again, and Carlos swallowed.
“‘Food.’
“‘Meat train.’ All eyes turned to me as I struck my flintbox, red smoke on my lips. ‘Voss needs to feed his legion in San Maximille, and he doesn’t have the folk of Augustin to sate them like he planned. He’s tapping the barrels in other cities he’s conquered.
’ I looked to Valentino. ‘San Yves. Truepont. Isabeau.’
“‘Almighty God,’ Valentino murmured, signing the wheel.
“‘The Forever King has turned north Elidaen into his own personal slaughterfarm.’
“Spurring our horses, we rode across the Vipère bridge; five ’saints abreast and Aaron ever on the edge of our light.
Storm winds clawed barren plains, the shadow of the Bouclier Mountains rising across the broken, southern foothills.
Winter’s coming chill was in the air as we thundered across heath and sod, not a word spoke between us.
Carlos and his falcon led us to higher ground, sweeping abreast of a deep valley and along a rugged crest. And looking down through a deadwood riddled with fungal snarls, my belly sank, my heart with it, the horror laid out before me familiar, but no less obscene. ”
The Last Silversaint paused, leaning forward with elbows to knees.
“There’s a coldness to your kind I’ve never truly understood, Historian.
Part of me comprehends it on some base level, I s’pose.
You murder someone every night to stay alive for a hundred years …
I understand you might begin seeing them less and less as people and more and more as food.
And I know we mortals are the same. When I was a boy, I spared little thought for the chickens that filled our supper pot.
I’ve looked into the eyes of rabbits caught in my snares, seen how desperately they fight for just one more breath.
I know what it is to take an animal’s life to eat.
And I know that’s how you see us in the end. ”
Gabriel lifted his eyes, meeting the vampire’s.
“But of all the animals beneath God’s heaven, only humans weep. Pray. Plead. Only humans can look you in the eyes and beg ‘Nono, don’t take my child, take me.’ ‘Nono, I have so much to live for.’ ‘No, please. Just … please.’ And still … look at this place…”
Grey eyes drifted to the window, the world on its knees beyond.
“You’ve slaughtered us, Jean-Francois.”
“The wolf frets not for the ills of the worm.”
Gabriel met the vampire’s eyes as he recited the creed of his line.
“Do you believe that? Is that what you think of me? A worm not worth fretting on?”
“It matters not what I think, Gabriel. Only what my Empress desires. But in one matter, you are incorrect, mon ami. The Dead also weep.”
Jean-Francois smoothed down his cravat, sighing.
“And if it brings any comfort, I think I shall weep for you.”
Their gazes locked; storm grey and dark chocolat. The silence stretched between them, blood-red, pin-bright, finally snapping as the silversaint took up his goblet again.
“The meat train was below us. Wending along the valley floor.
It stretched for miles; I mean thousands of people, vampire.
Rag-clad and miserable. Stumbling and starved.
They were guarded by hundreds of thralls in Voss livery, and packs of wretched led by grim, pale figures.
The highbloods rode thralled horses, clad in dark steel and armed with the same, black cloaks whipping in that fell wind.
“Carlos shook his head as he looked down at the prisoners. ‘Why don’t they run?’
“Lighting my pipe, I shook my head. ‘How far you think they’d get?’
“‘Better to die on your feet a wolf’—the brother Beaufort struck his own pipe, inhaling the sacrament through sharpening teeth—‘than be led like lamb to slaughter.’
“‘No lambs are dying today.’ I breathed red smoke, weak as water, thin as lies, nothing close to what I needed. ‘Lachie, you, Carlos, and Tolman flank left. Aaron, me, and Valentino swing right. Cut through the mess and meet in the middle.’
“My old ’prentice looked to his fellows and nodded.
“‘For San Michon, brothers.’
“I drew Ashdrinker from her sheath, the song of starsteel ringing in the wind.
“F-f-for the living, Gabriel.
“I looked down at the silvered dame in my hand, lips curling despite it all.
“‘For the living.’
“And then we were off, a slow canter down the sod-clad slope, through the twisted woods.
Dusk was approaching, and I wanted this battle well done before night fell; our foes were strong enough without dark as their ally too.
Aaron was on my left, face grim, golden locks rippling behind him in the wind.
To my right rode Valentino, twin longblades of silversteel in his fists, skin carved with bright lines of burning silver.