Chapter 75 #3
Skinpainter moves with it. The ink clings loosely to their body now, crawling over their skin like a cat’s tongue, following their outstretched fingers and clenched fists.
Waiting to strike down any invaders stupid enough to get too close, but above all warding against the dead that hang in the air on the edges of breath, as they circle, waiting for an opening.
They don’t have to wait long. Crowkisser has made this a mountain full of openings, more wounds than they can ever hope to stem.
Skinpainter does what they can. Grasping wrists, shoulders, and familiar faces between their open palms and striking hard, purging the dead for the barest second before leaving them hanging in red mists of rage, ink slapping down onto the bone before infection can take hold.
A few are saved this way. Safe until the next rip or tear, at least. Too often, Skinpainter is too late, finding the dead already burrowing in like maggots, lighting the fallen with rage, and filling their mouths with the voices of the Empire’s numberless dead.
Skinpainter curses. It breaks their heart, but they can’t stop.
To fight here is to bail amid the sea. They have to move onwards.
The only way to stay sane is to abstract it all.
To fall back into the weave of battle, where enemies move like tears along a seam and loved ones are bright knots in the wider pattern.
High above them, they catch a distant flare that can only be Lightmender, and their stomach twists in recognition.
And behind it all, Skinpainter feels a weight on the fabric, tugging at the threads, at the edges of their mind – Shroudweaver.
They need to find him, he needs to fix his fucking mess, and bring his daughter to heel.
Or Skinpainter will. And none of that will solve the problem growing all around them.
The dead are loose, and soon, the Emperor.
Their old enemy riding the currents of death, stringing together his consciousness, pearl by shattered pearl, from among his former subjects.
There might just be time to stop him. For that, Skinpainter needs Shroudweaver.
And somehow, they need to reach the Emperor’s prison; the black rock, and the lake miles below.
The dead race ahead of them, fast as breath.
They feel the Emperor’s call too. Skinpainter follows, swirling in the eddies of battle.
There’s no point in engaging the chaos that wracks the mountain, where there are only their friends to fight now, this far down.
Pockets of uninfected soldiers are pressed back into archways, against tables and walls, battling tooth and nail against the dead riding their injured friends, switching sides at the barest cut.
Skinpainter keeps their head low, lets the pattern pull them deeper.
The only way to salvage this is to get to the Emperor, and somehow bind him again.
There’s no time to take stock, to gather anything more than an impression of broken chairs and upturned tables, hints of desperate, failed stands.
All of it is just strands in the weave, the whole pattern is so much bigger.
This battle just one more in an endless succession.
How many loved ones have they lost now? How much time have they spent shaping the larger tapestries, snipping small bright threads with a weary sigh?
Skinpainter presses their lips together and rolls their hood tighter across their skull.
A whisper of frustration scratches at their spine. This time needs to be different.
Their scalp itches, their short coarse hair prickling with sweat. Close now, they can taste Shroudweaver in the air, breathing in that gunpowder stink that only a southern corpse caller could have.
He’s closer than they’d thought possible. Just around the corner, and about to die.
Skinpainter sees red threads flicker in the darkness, and sprints for them, heart surging.
They are not alone.
Blades spring from the shadows. They see a broken thing that was once a stall-keeper, his hands ragged from a thousand small cuts, his face still studded with the smashed bottle that killed him.
Shroudweaver has him sighted too. Moving his feet incrementally, he lifts his hands a fraction and red thread licks the poor man’s brow, which blossoms with gold fire.
The weaver catches his falling body in tight-strung hands and opens his mouth for a benediction, a few words of Aestering grace.
As those half-remembered words fill the air, Skinpainter feels the pattern in their mind blossom with danger and lights their old muscles with fire.
From the shadows ahead of them, quiet as a cat, comes one of Crowkisser’s long grey men.
He’s spattered and weary, one cheek torn with a boathook scar that catches wetly in the light.
But he’s light on his feet and so fast. A damn sight faster than Skinpainter’s tired bones, his toes used to climbing rigging and undeterred by mountain rock.
A slim, flat blade twirls between his fingers as he dives for the weaver.
Skinpainter’s not going to be fast enough.
They scream a desperate warning and fling a hand forwards.
Startled, Shroudweaver turns, his face alert, neck exposed. The long man’s blade falls.
Skinpainter winces, arcs their fingers out, and lets the ink leave their skin.
Strands of black punch through the air and into the long man’s eye.
The scream that leaves him is a stretched, thin thing.
He drops his blade and falls to the floor, fingers scrabbling against the stone.
As he squirms, Skinpainter draws level with Shroudweaver, panic draining from them like water as they feel the pattern knit again.
‘You OK?’ they ask, although they already know the answer.
Shroudweaver nods. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s barely a start,’ Skinpainter replies. ‘I …’
Their words fade beneath a second scream from the long man.
It’s become something animal now, terrified and wordless.
The grey-cloaked man spasms onto his back, his fingers tearing at his face until they find purchase around his eye socket and start to dig.
Skinpainter catches their wrist. A spark of irritation flashes across their face as they brush their lips against the man’s twitching ear. ‘Ride it out.’
The long man’s eyes roll like a frightened horse. Their voice is a guttural whisper. ‘I can see.’
Skinpainter winces, anger fading to guilt, ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
The man’s fingers tighten on his wrist. ‘Help me.’ A pathetic sound, thin, writhing with madness. Skinpainter holds him for a second. How many like him in the mountain? How many murderers following the crow-witch? They smile, bloodlessly. ‘Very well.’
In one fluid motion, they swing a boot with finality against his skull, before turning back to Shroudweaver’s widened eyes. ‘I’ll deal with him later. For now, we have to find Kinghammer. Ice. The rest.’
There is steel in their voice. ‘We have to fix this, Shroud. We have to bind him. Whatever it takes.’
Shroudweaver readjusts his wrappings. ‘I know, but first we find Ship. She has to be safe.’
Skinpainter holds his arm for a moment, a flood of bitter responses coursing across the back of their teeth. Eventually, they nod curtly. ‘Of course. Of course.’
Shroudweaver smiles. ‘I know where she is. Follow me.’
Skinpainter falls into an easy lope at his side.
Runs a finger underneath their robes to the torn remnants of the gift.
Pulls them back sticky and wet. Running out of time.
They nudge Shroudweaver. ‘It always seems to end this way, doesn’t it?
Chasing after the people we love. Trying to keep them safe. ’
‘It always ends with your damn mountain,’ Shroudweaver grins into the brief silence. ‘It’ll be worth it though.’
Skinpainter’s heart sinks as they recognise the path Shroudweaver’s feet are following, down to the sleeping chambers and the children. ‘Ship’s down here?’ they ask.
Shroudweaver nods as they round a corner and the noise of battle wells to meet them. ‘I could feel her soul anywhere.’
Skinpainter shakes their head slowly. ‘Sure. Me, I just look for trouble, and there she is. Figures.’
As if they’ve conjured her from the shadows, Skinpainter finally sees Shipwright ahead of them, amid a tight knot of familiar faces. Steelfinder, Roofkeeper, Quickfish. Nigh, damnably small. Their heart lurches.
Between them and her, a mass of the bleeding and broken dead, their voices edged as jackals.
For a second, resignation clamps around their heart, but then they shake their head. This time needs to be different. As they roll up their sleeves, they stretch an arm to Shroudweaver. ‘Take my hand. We need to colour the weave.’
Shroudweaver’s brows rise. ‘Really?’
Skinpainter smiles. ‘Trust me. They’re not taking our people.’
Shroudweaver’s silver-dancing fingers lace into theirs and as his power threads their bones, Skinpainter feels the pattern extend, multiply, move beyond worlds.
Geometries laid bare behind the skin. They reach out to the weaver’s shimmering strands, and feel a jolt of sorcery in their gut.
It lifts them into the air, sends tattoos spiralling from their hands to strike into the reeling dead.
The power tears loose a surge of emotion they’ve not felt in years.
As Skinpainter’s feet leave the ground, their heart cries out in terror, joy and hope.
Then hand in hand with Shroudweaver, they begin to paint.