Three separate reports of bands of Mireces, a few hundred strong each, had come in from three locations within a ten-mile radius of the South Rank’s headquarters. Whether or not they knew the survivors of the siege were there, they were doing what they could to prevent patrols or intel moving in and out of the forts.

A week of rest had turned into a month as the Rankers finally began to let go of the state of heightened awareness and battle-readiness that had characterised their time under siege and their flight across Rilpor. Exhaustion had bitten them all deep, and for days they moved around the forts like ghosts unless a sudden sound or sight triggered them into violent motion. Mace himself couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so much or his thoughts had been so hard to assemble. As though the siege had stolen his wits.

But now, finally, he felt close to his old self and determined to prove it to everyone by tagging along with Colonel Jarl’s Hundreds. The largest reported force was northeast between the forts and Rilporin, with others reported at north and northwest of their position – the three directions from which they were most likely to receive potential reinforcements or vital information. It didn’t feel like a coincidence that they’d be there and not elsewhere in the Western Plain.

Hallos had glowered from beneath eyebrows no less fearsome for being more grey than black these days, but Mace wasn’t letting the physician talk him out of another patrol and the chance at a scrap, even as he’d ordered the shattered remnants of the West and Palace Ranks to stand down. The fires that had led every one of them to perform extraordinary feats during Rilporin’s defence were still banked embers, and they needed time to coax the flames back into life.

Dalli had come too, which didn’t surprise him. She’d been spikier than usual since her fight with Rillirin and the girl’s removal to Fort Three, and as the days passed the outrage iced over and now they were little more than brittle strangers on the rare occasions they were in the same place together.

All of which Mace put out of his mind as they rode out of the gate in the midst of two hundred marching Rankers. ‘How are the supplies looking, Colonel?’ he asked as his skittish mount sidestepped into Dalli’s. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been on a horse. Somewhere back in the west, he supposed.

‘At the current rate of consumption, we’ll be on half-rations for all personnel in two moons, quarter-rations in four, and eating our horses and boot leather in six. If we go on to half-rations now—’

‘That won’t be necessary, Jarl, at least not yet. Once the civilians are gone, even with the provisions they’ll have to take with them, remaining numbers will be almost back to normal. We managed to buy up a decent amount of grain before the East Rank garrisons moved into the towns.’

‘I admit I’m hesitant about sending them so far through hostile territory though, Commander,’ Jarl said. ‘Even if the Mireces border is as empty as you believe, that’s a two-week march for Rankers, so easily three for civilians with old folks and little ones.’

‘You’re not the only one, but there simply isn’t anywhere else for them to go. If we could broker a deal with Krike to house refugees, that would be ideal, but you say we can’t.’

‘Sorry, Commander, if it was possible we’d all be suggesting it. I’ve served here for six years now and we’ve never known the Krikites to change their minds about international relations. They said no – they mean no.’

‘So, we’re going to send them to learn to be Wolves instead,’ Dalli said with half a smile. ‘Or at least, they’re going to occupy our land. Our village in the foothills is small and won’t fit them all, but it’s empty and the only place without an enemy garrison. They’ll have to dig in and build – and try not to strip the land of resources while they’re there. Some of us would quite like to go home when this is all over.’

‘Even once we’ve cleared out these Raiders it’ll be a risk,’ Mace said heavily, ‘but there are forty-two pregnant women in the forts and almost six hundred children of varying ages, as well as the old and those who can’t move fast. We can’t feed them and we can’t protect them, not indefinitely.’ He gestured at the empty, innocent-seeming land rolling away ahead of them. ‘They’re going to come for us. Sooner or later, whether or not they ever learn exactly how many of us are here, the Mireces are going to come. They can’t let us live.’

It soured the mood somewhat, but it had to be said. They weren’t safe down here in the south. Mace’s presence and that of the refugees made no difference – Corvus couldn’t allow a rested, untested fighting force like the South Rank to live. If he was to have absolute power over Rilpor, they needed to be crushed.

‘Let’s not forget Colonel Edris, though. He and King Tresh and a Listran army could be just the distraction we need to get the civs safely away,’ he added in a belated attempt to restore their spirits.

‘He’ll certainly have some decisions to make about where to attack first,’ Jarl agreed, ‘and unarmed non-combatants will be the least of his worries.’

‘Precisely.’

Turned out Jarl was like a dog with a bone, though. ‘They’ll need scouts and guards, too, someone who knows the way, wagons full of provisions. The civilians, I mean – Tresh’ll have Edris and his own supplies, of course. Then there’s deciding who goes first and how many go at once. Your march here all together was a feat worthy of a song, Commander, but the chances of you managing it undetected a second time, if you even did the first …’ Jarl trailed off.

‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,’ Mace grunted. He’d already talked it to death with Hadir, but Jarl struck him as the thorough type. It was possible he’d see something they hadn’t.

‘The first decision is whether we send them in small or large groups, or even one huge one – just get them out and away all together. Multiple groups increases the risk of some being seen and attacked. One large one will be slow and chaotic, hard to control. Exactly how we do it is the focus of the first meeting when we get back, but if we don’t make it, Hadir’s tasked with ensuring all four thousand civilians, minus those who have joined the militia, get out and get on the road west. Whatever it takes.’

That soured the mood even further and they rode in silence for a while, stationed ten ranks back, allowing the forward scouts a clear view not obscured by horses’ arses.

There’ll be utter fucking chaos when they know we’re sending them away. They’ll think we can’t protect them, or that we’re getting rid of them to spare our own lives. All the panic and vicious ignorance from Rilporin will be repeated. And I don’t blame them at all. If I were one of them, I wouldn’t want to face open country again. Not ever.

He gave himself a little mental shake. One problem at a time, Mace. Clear the area around the forts so they can get out undetected, and then pray to the Dancer they make it all the way to safety.

Dalli had done the scouting when the campfires were spotted and Mace had nearly managed not to panic at the length of time she was gone. The sky was a riot of stars that did little to hide any of them, and still somehow she slid in close enough to count their weapons and piss in their stew without anyone noticing.

Mace and Jarl huddled around her so their voices wouldn’t carry on the breeze. ‘About three hundred, maybe more if we assume four to a fire and forty on watch,’ she breathed.

It was more men than Mace had, but fewer than he’d feared. ‘All right, we’ve got the night and the element of surprise, and they’ll have shit night vision from standing around the fires. Split up and approach from north, east and west. If they’re fleeing anywhere, I want it to be straight towards the forts so our close patrols can pick them off. Pass the word for quiet. I’ll draw their attention: try and get in amongst them before the alarm sounds so it looks like we’re everywhere.’

Jarl showed his teeth and Dalli’s face shifted into a feral mask. They faded into the night, Rankers following. Mace took a breath and felt the adrenaline mix with the fear, drew his sword and advanced, moving steadily so his gear made as little sound as possible. At his back crept sixty Rankers, silent, disciplined.

‘Who goes there?’ came a Mireces voice from out of the blinding light of a handheld torch, flames flickering on Mace’s plate and the chainmail of the men who followed.

‘For Rilpor!’ Mace roared and broke into a sprint. His men followed, screaming, the other two wings holding back in silence until all attention was firmly on Mace. They ploughed into the light and into the line of Mireces scrambling to their feet, fumbling for weapons and screaming questions and alarms and, soon enough, pain.

Mace ducked a hasty swing and carried on past, flicking his sword backwards into the Mireces’ exposed hamstring. He went down howling and Mace left him to be picked off by those following. A knot of Mireces charged him and he tightened the grip on his shield, took an axe blow high on its face and smashed the boss in his attacker’s chest, pushing him back a step, parried a sword with his own and insinuated his blade past the man’s guard and into the side of his neck, a raking slice that put him out of the fight and possibly out of life. Another sword battered into his pauldron and he grunted, stepped back and spun, lashing out with sword and shield, blocking low and cutting high, high, low and then thrusting.

Another axe blow on to his shield was almost enough to break his wrist and he bellowed, kicked the man wielding it in the knee and rammed him off his feet, bringing the shield rim down into his face and hearing the snap of bone and teeth. Screaming filled the night.

‘’Ware!’ shrieked a voice and he dived, rolling over his shield and into clear space, up between two Mireces just turning to face him, stabbed one and missed, the chainmail turning the point, flicked the blade down and opened the man’s thigh instead, kicking into the open wound; he took the blow from the second Raider on the edge of his shield, chips of wood spraying his face and the blade skittering off and squealing down his breastplate.

Spun side on and forced the man back with the shield, herding him until he tripped over a corpse, lashing out with a blow more a bludgeon and staving in helmet and skull. Sucking in lungfuls of air and letting all the rage of Rilporin surge up his throat and out of his mouth in a scream of pure violence, spinning to defend his back when his spine prickled warning, tucked in behind his shield so the attack was a glancing blow off the metal boss and his upward diagonal sweep made it below the chainmail and into groin and belly. Stink of entrails and the scream of a dead man, glimpse of Dalli darting like a fish from the darkness, spear red along a third of its length, twirling and ducking and dealing death.

Another presence behind him and he twisted again, sword already cutting, and Jarl threw up his shield to deflect it. ‘About a dozen slipped through south if you want them, Commander,’ he panted when he saw the need for more violence, for release, in Mace’s expression, indicating a score of soldiers arrayed behind him with torches and bloodstained faces, ready to run.

Mace took another deep lungful, adrenaline crystal-bright and singing in his veins. ‘Mop up here,’ he snarled, bloodlust thickening his voice. ‘I’ve got the runners.’

THE BLESSED ONE

Seventh moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus

Red Gods’ temple, temple district, First Circle, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

Lanta, Blessed One and Voice of the Gods, and High Priest Gull crouched in the dark of the temple.

They had the beginnings of a plan now, an outline that they were filling in through ritual, through communion and intuition and invention. The godblood Lanta had ingested and which even now stained her skin had lent her wisdom and understanding she’d never before experienced. She understood the gods; knew Them, in ways no other mortal could or ever had.

The secret lay in learning how the Fox God had entered the mortal man Crys Tailorson. If they could understand that, they’d know better how to bring back the Dark Lady.

Lanta had already offered her own flesh as host, but the connection had failed. They needed a focus, something for the Dark Lady to sense from wherever She was imprisoned, something big enough, bright enough, to draw Her back past the veil and into Gilgoras. And then into Her new body, mortal and divine mingling into a living goddess to tread the earth among Her children forever. Between them, the Blessed One and Gull were beginning to understand what that beacon might be.

Holy Gosfath. God of Blood and Lord of War.

The sheer audacity, the magnitude, of what they were attempting frightened her, but the alternative – a world without the Dark Lady, the endless agony of abandonment – terrified her far more. And Lanta did not deal in fear of this type.

If they could … anchor Gosfath here in the temple, when the time came for the ritual, the Dark Lady would find Her way to Him through the channel of Lanta’s soul and the souls of sacrifices, the promise and whisper of blood spilt in Her name, and from there they could direct Her into the Bloodchild – the holy vessel – and restore Her to life and the world. For that, they needed to be able to bring the god to them. They needed to offer Him something. Tempt Him.

Lanta took a deliberate breath of the rank air, the heat and smoke, tasting her fear and embracing it, and then she focused. The knife was sharp, but not so sharp she didn’t feel it slice into her arm; what would be the point in not feeling the pain?

‘I swear in Holy Gosfath’s name that I will not rest until I have brought the Dark Lady out of death and into Her glorious vengeance.’

She cut again.

‘I swear in the Dark Lady’s memory that I will fly past what remains of the veil and search the Waystations and the Afterworld itself to find Her.’

Another cut. The temple was thick with tension and the stink of old blood and new, sweat and death and fierce, brittle defiance.

‘I swear by my blood and my hope of meeting the gods in death that I will not cease until we have resurrected our Bloody Mother.’

She cut once more, the pain lancing through her and making her stronger, more determined. A blood oath, carved in flesh and bone and will, new scars on top of old: a promise to the gods, to the Dark Lady wherever She was; and a promise to Lanta herself.

This is faith. This is determination. This is how we win.

Lanta gave the blade to Gull and he touched its tip to his lips, licking her blood from the steel. And then he swore the same oath, one cut at a time, and the heat in the temple grew, the stinking slaughterhouse smell drifting from the altar and the godpool they’d blessed with the blood of sacrifice, its clotted surface so thick it echoed back their words and the harshness of their breathing.

Beneath Lanta’s hands a brass dish full of coals smoked and hissed as her blood dripped into it, filling her head with the path to the Waystation. Opposite her, Gull’s nostrils flared as he inhaled the fumes. Lanta’s fingers coiled through the smoke, sweat sheening her face.

‘Holy Gosfath, God of Blood, lend us your great strength in the quest to return your Holy Sister to you and to the world. Grant us the strength to do your will. God of Blood, we honour you.’ The glowing coals sizzled and burst into flame. Lanta smiled cautiously; He was listening.

‘Gosfath, God of Blood, separated from your loved and loving Sister, we beseech you to search beyond the veil for the Dark Lady, snatched from your loving arms and our yearning souls. We seek your mighty aid in helping us bring Her back from beyond death. Will you come to us?’

A breeze rippled through the dry heat of the room, tickling Lanta’s skin, lifting her hair, stealing fingers inside her gown, beneath her breasts and between her legs. It carried the whiff of corruption, the tang of sulphur.

‘He’s near,’ she whispered and Gull scuttled further forward, his face a skull ill lit by the glow from the brazier. The heat was so strong it took all her will to keep her palms close to the coals. She sucked in a breath of smoke, held it against the urge to cough, tears stinging her eyes, and exhaled.

‘Bring Him,’ Gull murmured.

Lanta strained, opening herself to Gosfath as she had for years to the Dark Lady. A tickle, a tentative poking, and then nothing. She strained harder, but He wouldn’t come. Gull had more experience with the god, but for this plan Gull would not suffice.

‘The God does not desire,’ she said.

‘The God always desires,’ Gull said. He put his hands on top of Lanta’s and, with one savage move, pressed them into the coals.

Red screaming agony coursed through her hands and up her arms and Lanta shrieked, fought to pull away. Gull held her tight and suddenly there He was, bright and dark and vast in her head.

Want. Need. Want.

Lanta felt herself pulled along the Path, flying from the temple into the presence of her dread lord, pain and terror mingling into the perfect alloy of devotion.

Heat pulsed around her, fingers of hot air stroking her now naked skin. Ahead, a shadow loomed among the stalactites of the Waystation, massive and misshapen. He was supposed to come to them, not her to Him. It wouldn’t work here. It had to be the temple. It had to be. Gosfath’s bellow brought her thoughts to a crashing halt and ignited her tongue.

‘As we call to the gods in times of pain and terror, so They take as Their due our blood and breath,’ she chanted. There was no time to worry about what had gone wrong; Lanta was in the presence of the Red Father. ‘As fear brings us to the gods’ presence, I welcome you. Fear is your call; devotion is our answer.’

Fear indeed, as the darkness parted to reveal Him sitting on a throne carved from the bones of a mountain. Or perhaps it was a mountain of bones. He rose, head bowed to avoid the cavern’s high vault, and stepped down, the black talons on one huge hand skirling across the wall, gouging lines, striking sparks, the noise an unholy screech that made Lanta’s eardrums flutter. She dropped to her knees and looked away as He shrank, a giant still but of a size she could comprehend now. Half her height again, three times her weight, muscles rippling like eels in oil.

‘Lord Gosfath, God of Blood, most mighty Lord of War and chaos, I am honoured by your presence, and honour you in turn with—’

‘Want,’ the God of Blood hissed, hauling her to her feet with one hand wrapped around her upper arm. ‘Want now.’

‘Your Sister wants you too, Father,’ Lanta gasped, raising her hands in a barrier as effective as a spider’s web. ‘The Dark Lady yearns for your arms around Her, Father, She yearns for you. We must find Her, bring Her back to you and this world, restore the balance—’

Gosfath leant close. ‘Alone,’ He grunted and flung her down. ‘Want.’

Lanta cried out as her head struck stone, again as Gosfath threw Himself on top of her, and then screamed as His talons and then His fat red cock dug their way inside her, screamed in an agony so close to ecstasy she understood they were the same. Screamed as the god honoured her.

Lanta woke with a wail of mingled pain and exaltation, her consciousness slamming back into her body where it lay in abandon on the temple floor, her head pillowed on Gull’s knees and her skirts cast up around her legs. She exhaled a long, drawn-out moan as her hurts made themselves known in a rush that rippled through her body from the back of her head to her ankles.

She gestured with scabbed fingers and carefully, so carefully, Gull undid her gown and peeled it down to her waist. Among the black god-stains and disappearing beneath her breast band, her skin was hatched with cuts, claw marks, bite marks, and at her core throbbed a deep ache that spiked into pain with every movement.

Lanta looked down at herself and a slow smile spread across her face at the ruin of her flesh. She placed one hand between her legs. ‘The god honoured me,’ she whispered. Tears started in her eyes.

‘Then we have taken the first step,’ Gull replied. ‘The next time, you must draw Him here rather than go to the Waystation. We must be able to bring Him through the veil if the Dark Lady is to return.’

Lanta forced herself to sit up, groaning against the flare deep within her pelvis. Next time? Even if she could go through this again, there was no saying that Holy Gosfath would come through the veil and into the temple. Not next time, maybe not ever. She breathed through the pain and pushed her doubts aside. It would work. He would understand and He would help them. He would be rewarded, first with Lanta to appease and comfort Him, and then by the restoration of His Sister-Lover.

It would work.

Gull scooted around to face her, put his hands on her shoulders, reverence lightening his features. ‘This is monumental, Blessed One,’ he said. ‘We have made great progress here today. No one has ever communed with the god so … thoroughly.’

‘Great progress, yes,’ she said, ‘but I will need time to heal before I call Him again. His desire and loneliness were so great, you can see what it has done to me.’

‘And yet time begins to run short. Perhaps some of the slave women could be trained to pleasure the Father until Mireces women arrive,’ Gull mused.

Lanta’s guts twisted, not in pain this time. ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘It must be me. Only me. I am the Blessed One and this is my task, my holy purpose. I will see it done. I will bring the Father to Rilporin, to this very temple. He will come and we will make Him a beacon to guide the Dark Lady home.’

I have known the love of the Father. May it sustain me until our Bloody Mother is brought back.

‘Come, let us get you to a warm bath and then the healer. You have done great work.’

‘It is only the beginning,’ Lanta stuttered as Gull helped her stand, the pain shortening her breath. ‘For the rest we need Rillirin and the bairn. We have to have her, Gull.’

‘I will speak to the king on your behalf, Blessed One,’ Gull soothed her. ‘I will inform him of our progress, of the urgency, the need, to find his sister. You should concentrate only on the god for now, on encouraging Him to leave the Afterworld and the Waystation and visit His worshippers here. Visit you.’

She paused, tightening her grip on her priest’s supporting arm and then hissing as the blisters on her palm ruptured. ‘He said He was alone, Gull,’ she whispered, and her tears this time were of sorrow. ‘It broke my heart.’

‘You will soothe him, Blessed One, and tend to His divine needs as often as you are able. We must explain all we are doing to return His Sister-Lover to Him. Once He understands, it may be that His demands are less … onerous.’

Lanta’s ice-blue eyes frosted over and she pushed away to stand unaided. ‘No task performed in service of the gods is ever onerous,’ she grated. Gull dipped his head in silent apology. ‘I will rest and sleep, take herbs for these wounds. Our great work begins now. All that has come before is as nothing.’

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