Chapter XI. Hurt Feelings #2
Jean-Francois saw a hint of bloody tears, pawed away swift on tattooed knuckles.
“And where were you in all this, Mlle Castia?”
“On the rooftops,” she replied. “Cutting down archers and riflemen.
It was bloody work, but the Voss thralls had not been armed to fight the Dead.
Yet the fires were spreading now, fed by storm winds, black clouds aglow with the light of burning warehouses.
As Gabriel and his men retreated toward the crumbling battlements on the riverbank, I fled across the rooftops, burning embers falling amid whirling snows.
“The voices in me had quieted since Maryn’s death, but I could still sense their fear; a chorus of dreadful whispers adding to my own.
I could see how hopeless Gabriel’s position was.
The Black Crow was carving his way toward my brother’s back, the Iron Maiden cutting into those ramparts, laughing as the snows ran red.
Men were pounding on the C?ur gates, begging to be let in as their fellows were slaughtered.
But the defenders dared not risk their city by opening the way, preferring to leave the soldiers outside to die.
“Dior and Gabriel must surely follow.
“As the Dead flooded toward my friends, ma famille, I set eyes upon the C?ur gates. The towers about it. But do not forget; I had other eyes in that storm, Historian. Tiny eyes of red that had long roamed the windswept dark in search of the Forever King.
“And at last, they had found him.
“My mote was near frozen, battling those terrible gales.
But looking through tiny red eyes, I saw it now, beyond the walls; a tent on a bluff west of Rive Nord.
It was surrounded by wretched and miserable thrallswords, shivering in the squalls.
But within, I saw flickering light. And toward that tent my mote sped, while Augustin burned around me.
“Beneath the flap I finally crawled, lest those within sense me. The tent was palatial in size, coal-fired braziers staving off the chill outside, but doing little to banish it within. I felt it grip my tiny body, near finishing the job the storm had begun.
“A chill that froze not only flesh, but soul.
“At the head of a long table he sat, clad in white brocade and wreathed in the echoes of uncounted murders. Maker of our maker. First of the Five. Brother of God’s own son and architect not only of the death of empire, but the death of days.
“The Forever King sat with alabaster hands on the oaken table, black eyes upturned. He was surrounded by some dozen highbloods of his brood, clad as courtiers in silks and velvet. Among them was one of your ilk, Marquis—a shapely blond femme sipping a goblet of blood and clutching a terrified little hound to her breast.”
“Nicolette,” Jean-Francois mused. “Never one to get her hands dirty, is she?”
“At Voss’s right sat a vampire of terrible beauty.
Marble flesh, and crimson claws. The lace of her gown was near translucent, leaving little to imagination’s realm.
Chocolat curls cascaded over a stole of grey fox fur and the bare shoulders beneath.
We knew this was Morgane, Fifth Prince of Forever, murderess of countless thousands.
Across from her sat my brother’s brothers—Aaron de Coste, clad in silent fear and a greatcoat of midnight blue, and his beloved Baptiste, shivering in that terrible cold.
We realized he was the only living man in that tent.
And sat upon Morgane’s lap, sketching on sheafs of parchment with charcoal sticks, sat a porcelain angel.
“I could see my brother in her face. In her eyes.
“My niece.
“‘Patience…’
“Her name spilled from my lips, and I opened our true eyes once more.
Back on the rooftops of Rive Nord I was, looking across the rising flames and churning smoke toward Lastbridge.
I could yet see the terrible danger Dior and Gabriel were in.
And though we now knew where Fabién waited, more pressing was the battle here and now.
“And calling to my brother, I burst apart at my seams.”
“I heard Celene shout,” the silversaint said.
“But not what she’d said. We’d backed up to the riverbank walls, Phoebe and the Unbound and I fighting beneath the gateway arch where the Dead’s numbers would weigh less.
Cannons barked, stone splintered, death cries ringing in the air.
The bridge behind us was packed with men now, wretched pouring up over the railings from the ice fifty feet below.
Though the soldiers pounded upon the portcullis and roared for aid, the C?ur gates were still sealed—there was no way the defenders were going to open those doors and risk the Dead getting inside.
“We’d nowhere left to run.
“The strength of the Moonsthrone had turned me into a foe few could match, but one of those few had found me now. Ettiene was stalking toward me, smashing wretched aside in his haste to reach my throat. I’d almost bested him when last we fought, and the Black Crow was keen to even the scales.
The memory of him standing in the dark outside my home as his father came knocking burned bright in my mind.
But brighter still burned the fear of him getting his claws on the girl I’d vowed to defend with my life.
“‘Get back, Dior!’
“‘No, just let me—’
“‘No heroics! No bullshit, get the fuck behind me!’
“I pushed, shoving her back with Joaquin. She grabbed my wrist, eyes on mine, screaming above the slaughtersong, ‘Will you calm your bloody tits, de León?’
“Grabbing hold of Valor, Dior closed her fingers and drew her hand up the blade, slicing her flesh to the bone and drenching the silversteel in her blood.
“‘Now kill that fucking whoreson!’
“Phoebe grinned, set to dive into battle beside me. But from the shattering ramparts above, a shadow plummeted earthward beside the Crow, splintering the flagstones as she landed. Dark plate, death’s-head, weapon gleaming bloody in her hands.
With a twist, she parted the haft, sliding her longblade from her scythe’s heart.
“‘We meet again, child.’
“Kestrel leveled her scythe at Dior and smiled.
“‘There be no dusk to save thee now.’
“‘Oh shit…’ Dior whispered.
“The two Princes advanced, the Unbound raising their blades, but with a curse, I tore off my bandolier and wheellock pistols, shoved them at Joaquin.
“‘Protect Dior, boy. Promise me.’
“‘I swear it, Chevalier.’
“I nodded and pushed him away, shouting to his fellows.
“‘All of you, back to the gates! Protect the Grail! This is no battle for mortal men!’
“Ettiene laughed then, fangs glinting in his blood-soaked beard.
“‘Thou art a man also, de León. As mortal as the rest of them.’
“Eyes on his, I kissed the silver ring my mama had given me so many years ago.
“‘I’m no man, bastard. I’m a lion.’
“I met Ettiene’s charge, slipping aside his strike and hewing at his spine.
Valor was anointed with the same blood setting fire to those foulbloods behind me, and one strike to the Crow’s flesh could end him.
Problem being, that flesh was clad in metal, and testing silversteel against fieldplate would probably just leave me with a bent sword.
The only part of Ettiene exposed was his head. So, headshots it was.
“Phoebe darted toward Kestrel, black talons agleam. Those claws could rend steel, and Voss flesh too—God knows I’d scars enough to bear witness.
But though I’d been schooled in keeping the Dead out of my head by the ’saints of San Michon, whatever edge Phoebe had in speed was countered by the fact Kestrel could read her mind. ”
The silversaint cracked his knuckles, shaking his head.
“Like I said, we were fucked. But when the fall is all that’s left, the fall is all that matters.
And so, as Dior pushed through the soldiers toward the city gates, we fought.
Burning and bloodied bodies collapsing about us, thunder rolling and cannons barking and men screaming, Ettiene and I clashed as if alone, ancien power pitted against the brawn and speed of the paleblood born.
He turned aside the best of my blows with his maul, simply bore the worst on his armor, grinning behind that bloody beard.
“‘Know no shame, de León. All men must die.’
“Phoebe cried out as Kestrel’s blade connected, slicing deep through her thigh.
“‘Thou art the candleflame, and we the storm.’
“I cursed, slipping on bloody stone, that maul missing my chin by a hair’s breadth.
“‘Thou art the lamb, and we the wolves.’
“Steel sang, thunder pounded, life and death dancing to the drum.
“‘Thou art a blinking. And we forever.’
“Dior was at the gates now, pounding with her fist, roaring to the battlements above, ‘Damn you, let us in! ’ Ettiene’s maul cut a black ribbon through the snow as it skimmed past my skull.
Phoebe and the Maiden traded blows, blood drawn on both sides to the tempo of the storm above.
But though numbers were yet against us, in the remainder that makes a difference in battle, there still lies luck.
And that night, luck had a name. A handsome face.
A steady hand and a good eye and the pistols I’d just given him.
“Joaquin Marenn had come a long way since his days in Aveléne. But back in those days, he’d learned to shoot; hunting small game out in the snows with his hounds.
And at Dior’s side, looking across the bloody bridge to where the Maiden and Phoebe brawled, Joaquin Marenn drew one of those pistols and took aim.
“I was still fighting Ettiene, barely aware of Phoebe and Kestrel. I could hear the song of talon and scythe, the grunts of pain as more and more of Phoebe was sliced away. But in locking her mind into Phoebe’s, Kestrel wasn’t aware of the minds around her.