Chapter XII. The Battle of Augustin #2
“Patience was drawing scenes from the battle, gleaned from the mind of the dark father at table’s head.
She sketched with preternatural swiftness, gut-churning accuracy—moments of heroism and carnage and all between.
She sat on Morgane’s lap, the Prince’s black eyes fixed upon Aaron, silence ringing like funeral bells.
“Until Gabriel slew Ettiene, that is.
“Fabién Voss had the seeming of marble come to life. Beautiful, surely. But cold. Hard. The Voss were not named for the steel of their skin but the iron of their hearts, and it would have been easy to believe their forebear as incapable of feeling as the stone he resembled. But when my brother graced the Black Crow’s throat with Dior’s blood, that facade cracked.
Just a sliver. A hair’s breadth. But beyond it, rippling across every mind in that tent, the thralls outside, the city beyond, we felt a rage incandescent.
“Morgane watched her father slowly rise, and though she uttered not a word, we knew they spoke without speaking. Patience lifted her eyes from her sketches.
“‘Papa Fabién? What’s wrong?’
“‘Thy brave and noble papa is … misbehaving, my dove.’
“‘Oh no. Are you … cross with him?’
“‘Terribly.’
“Voss glanced to Baptiste, the blackthumb’s face bloodless. Fear gripped us then—for what this monster might do to Gabriel’s friends or our niece in his desire for vengeance.
“‘I fear thou art all out of brothers, my sweet, my love, my angel dear.’
“Voss’s courtiers glanced to each other, fear in blood-rimmed eyes.
Aaron bristled, fists clenched, doomed from the outset yet still prepared to die defending his beau.
But Voss made no move toward punishment, kneeling instead at his young daughter’s side.
The girl looked truly upset at Ettiene’s fall, but he only smiled, cupping her cheek.
“‘We shall have to make ye some more, aye? ’
“Patience matched Fabién’s smile. ‘Oui.’
“The Forever King looked again to Baptiste. ‘Be this one worthy, think ye? ’
“Voss’s brood turned their gaze upon the blackthumb as one, hostility dripping in the very air. We saw Ambassador Nicolette tilt her head, confused at Voss’s words. But Patience regarded the blackthumb silently, pouting in thought.
“‘Oui,’ she finally nodded. ‘He has kindly eyes.’
“Baptiste frowned, exchanging a glance with his husband as Voss spoke on.
“‘Thy brave and noble papa? Wouldst thou spend forever with him? ’
“‘Oh, oui,’ Patience replied, eyes alight. ‘Please, please, Papa Fabién, make it so.’
“Voss kissed her brow, lips so cold they left a paler mark on her porcelain skin. Rising, he brushed his lapels, and with a meaningful glance at Morgane, turned to leave.
“‘Where are you going?’ Aaron asked softly.
“The court of Voss bristled to hear their king questioned by a mere whelp. Fabién paused, glancing to the lordling from the very edges of his eyes.
“‘Hear me, Aaron Dyvok. There be nothing Forever’s King will not do for family.’
“Voss swept out into the night, and at a glance from Morgane, several courtiers followed. In the silence of his wake, Patience returned to sketching, humming to herself. Baptiste took Aaron’s hand. But the Lord of Aveléne stared at the Prince of Forever.
“‘What does he mean?’
“‘He’s going to get the girl,’ Patience replied, not looking up. ‘The pretty—’
“‘Now, now, sister,’ Morgane scolded. ‘Remember what we told thee about secrets? ’
“The girl pouted, glancing to Baptiste. The blackthumb looked pale as death surrounded by those living corpses, sitting as close to his husband as could be without actually climbing into his lap. Patience leaned forward, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
“‘Don’t worry. Dying doesn’t hurt much.’”
Jean-Francois glanced up at that, a small frown on his brow.
“What did she mean? The child spoke as if Voss could turn Sa-Ismael intentionally. But the dark gift is capricious, given only by the hand of chance.”
“Patience, coldblood.”
The historian glanced at the silversaint, lips pressed thin.
“We’re almost there, now.”
“I turned my mind back to Rive C?ur,” Celene continued.
“Back to the hell I’d helped unleash. Its defenders were the imperium’s best, but the sudden opening of the gates had caught all off guard.
Guns still roared, soldiers fought with silvered steel and flame, and for a time, any corpse charging through the breach was brought low.
But their numbers felt endless, Marquis, and Prince Philippe had spent much of his strength in supporting Maarten’s doomed rally.
In truth, his troops were scrambling, the Dead breaking out of the gatehouse and into the streets beyond, yet more flooding up the walls and over the battlements.
The air was thick with the stink of blood and burning flesh.
Barking guns and rolling thunder. Shouted prayers and bubbling screams.
“Augustin’s citizens were gripped with panic, the streets flooded, folk tumbling into canals and crushed underfoot in the stampede.
Down thoroughfares and over bridges they fled, toward the only sanctuary that might hold now—holy ground.
Every chapel and church in Rive C?ur was packed with terrified citizens praying for salvation.
But more of course, and most, they flooded toward the holiest ground in the empire—across the canals of Place San Maximille toward the goldglass spires of Cathédrale de Lumière.
“We were badly wounded from our attack in the gatehouse—hands scorched black, body riven with silver, blood almost burned from our veins.
But still we ran, limping across the rooftops above those flooded streets, listening over the hymn of cannon and rifle, of steel and teeth, of butchers and butchered for some sign of—
“‘Get your hands off me, you fuck-eyed cackgobbler!’
“‘Dior…’
“She was in a little jeweler’s square off the main drag, flooded with men. Most were remnants of her Unbound, but no few soldiers of Maarten’s force had flocked to her banner. They watched now as she roared, chest-to-chest with young Joaquin Marenn.
“‘Get out of my fucking way, Joaquin!’
“‘I can’t do that, Dior.’
“‘I’m ordering you! Stand aside!’
“But the houndboy shook his head. ‘I gave my word to the Black Lion I’d protect—’
“‘Dickhead, Gabe is still out there! Phoebe too! We can’t just leave them, w—’
“‘Phoebe is slain.’
“Dior looked up, face gone bloodless. We stood on the eaves above, burned and bloodied. My heart twisted as I saw my words sink home. The tears welling in her eyes.
“‘Phoebe…’
“‘I am sorry, Dior. The Iron Maiden took her.’
“‘Oh, God,’ Dior moaned, sinking to her knees. ‘Oh, God, no…’
“‘We can spare no time for grief, mon amie.’ I looked about then, meeting the eyes of her loyal Unbound. ‘The Forever King himself takes the field! He comes for one reason and one alone: to seize Dior in his clutches! That cannot happen!’
“‘We stay here, we’ll be overrun,’ a Callum growled.
“‘You should take her, Mlle Castia,’ Joaquin told us. ‘Across the roofs to Cathédrale de Lumière. No vampire can enter holy ground. Not even Forever’s King.’
“‘I’m n-not leaving you.’
“Dior had risen back to her feet, jaw clenched. And though the ash on her cheeks was riven by tears, her voice was fierce and hard.
“‘I’m not leaving any of you.’
“‘Dior—’
“‘Don’t try, M. Marenn.’ She gazed to the men about her, hands in fists. ‘You’ve all walked with me through hell. We fight or fall as we have this whole way. Together.’
“Joaquin could only smile, shaking his head in wonder. The Unbound pressed hands to hearts, forefingers and thumbs outstretched. And Dior looked up to me.
“‘We need to pull back to the plaza. Lead us on, mon amie.’
“We nodded, tears in our eyes that, despite it all, she might still name us friend. And by her command, we ran, across snow-clad rooftops toward the city’s heart.
The roads were packed with soldiers and citizens, but with eyes above the crush, we found a backway not totally choked with people.
Over bridges, down doglegs and squeezeways we led her and her men, toward the city’s heart.
We heard explosions behind, the song of shattering stone and black ignis.
Bedlam was come to Augustin now, all form and reason lost, the heart of imperial power on earth bleeding its best into the snow.
“A tumble of foulbloods came over the roofs, down the alleys—as always, Dior’s blood seemed a lodestone to the Dead.
But between us and the Unbound, they were cut down; sleepless mothers and fathers and children, finally laid to rest. House to house we fought, Dior stopping to help any wounded she found.
But from the screams behind, the rising stink of blood and rot, we knew Philippe’s men were being overrun.
Kestrel still walked among the Dead. Forever’s King was on his way. We were running out of time.”
“We’d made the climb back up to Rive Nord,” Gabriel said.
“Pushing now on Lastbridge. I was still wounded, dragging down desperate lungfuls from Lachie’s pipe in the hopes of healing my worst hurts.
But my brother and cousin rose to the occasion.
Lachie led the charge across Lastbridge, aegis shining in the night, the sky lit by hundreds of burning shots from mechwork bows.
My old ’prentice claimed the heads of three Voss highbloods personally, and though pierced by steel and shot, he refused to fall.
Charlotte stood beside me, eye and sword both ablaze.
Caught between Philippe’s forces and ours, the legion was pressed, but we couldn’t cut our way into the city fast enough.
“Like the defenders within, we were running out of time.”
“In Voss’s tent,” Celene said, “the court had grown more talkative in the King’s absence, whispering now of the battle. In the midst of it all, Morgane sat with Patience on her lap, the princess still humming as she drew scenes of slaughter.
“‘I beg pardon, Majesty.’