‘I was jerked to a sudden halt, pinioned on the steel, mouth open in agony. I heard Ashdrinker’s voice ringing in my head then, silver bright in the crushing black.
‘FIGHT!
‘I squinted in the dark, saw that the blade had created a webwork of cracks in the grey above. And I thought of Astrid. Of Patience. Furious and snarling, shredding my gloves and ripping my knuckles bloody as I smashed my fist upwards again, again, again.
‘I refuse to die here, I told myself.
‘I.
‘Thump.
‘Refuse.
‘Crunch.
‘To die here.
‘My fist broke through the cracks, stripped back to the bone, and I felt someone grab hold. Agony flared as the blade was dragged free of my gut. I tore at the frozen lid of my coffin, lungs burning as the pieces came apart, as dim light broke through, as at last, kicking and dragged from above, I pushed my head up into the blessed air.
‘“Gabriel!” Dior roared. “Hold onto me!”
‘I could do nothing but gag, stabbed and bleeding as the girl dug her fingers into my forearm and hauled me back. Dior was on her belly, Ashdrinker thrust into the ice like a piton, and finally she hauled me free, out of that frozen black and onto the blinding surface.
‘“Hold on!” Dior pleaded. “Hold on, Gabe!”
‘Clutching my split belly, I left a long trail of crimson on the grey as she dragged me towards the shoreline. And at last we came to rest, just a few feet from the frozen banks. I curled into a ball, holding my stomach, freezing cold, skull ringing, drooling blood.
‘“Can you hear me?” Dior squeezed my hand, her eyes wild. “Gabriel?”
‘“Fuck … m-my … f-f …”
‘I felt hands fumbling with my coat pockets, blinking up at the daysdeath light. I could taste my own blood, feel broken glass in my belly, heart thrashing on my ribs.
‘“Here. Here, breathe …”
‘She pressed my pipe to my lips and the taste of sanctus washed over me, sweet and merciful red. I coughed, blood spattering on the frost, taking the pipe from Dior’s shaking hand and inhaling another lungful. I felt that accursed strength, the agony in my belly fading, able to breathe easier. I pressed my hand to my sundered gut, blood dribbling through my fingertips.
‘“You …” I squinted at Dior, my teeth sticky. “Y-you …”
‘“It’s aright,” she said. “I got you, Gabe. You’re safe.”
‘“You … f-fucking … stabbed me.”
‘“Wait … you’re getting tetchy with me now?”
‘“Tetchy?” I coughed, spitting red. “You stabbed me!”
‘“It wasn’t my fault!”
‘“You stabbed me accidently?”
‘“No.” She scowled, shrugging. “It was Ashdrinker’s idea.”
‘I glowered at the blade, now thrust into the snow at the girl’s side. “Was it now …”
‘“I just grabbed her to break the ice,” Dior said. “But the current had you. We needed to hold you still so you could punch free. So, she told me to … you know …”
‘The girl made a circle of her left forefinger and thumb. Poked her right index finger through it repeatedly. The silvered dame on the sword’s hilt smiled at me as always.
‘“Bitch,” I hissed.
‘Dior gave a sympathetic wince. “Does it hurt?”
‘“You STABBED me!”
‘“Fucksakes, don’t be such a baby! There won’t even be a mark by the morrow. You know, most folk would spare a merci for the girl who just saved their lives, de León.”
‘The shock was fading now, the fear of almost drowning paling to a dull ebb. Surly prick that I was, I was still realizing this girl had indeed just saved my sorry arse, and the least I could do was refrain from acting a complete bell-end about it.
‘“Merci,” I scowled.
‘She pursed her lips, climbed to her feet and offered her hand. “Get up, old man.”
‘Dior hauled me upright as I gasped in agony. One hand to my bleeding gut, I blinked about in the dim light. “What happened to the wretched?”
‘The girl nodded to the shattered ice. “Went under. All three. Didn’t make a sound.” She shook her head, horrified. “But it was like they just … melted.”
‘“And what about—”
‘I heard heavy hooves, crunching in crisp snow. Dragging the hair from my eyes with a bloody hand, I saw Jezebel plodding up the frozen bank towards us, a little waterlogged, a little shaken, but apparently none the worse for wear.
‘“God’s truth,” I sighed. “You are the luckiest bitch I ever met.”
‘Dior met my eyes, the thought occurring to her just as it did to me.
‘“That’s it!” she cried.
‘“That’s it …” I nodded.
‘I limped to the mare’s side, scruffing her ear with one bloody hand as Dior threw her arms around her neck.
‘“Fortuna.”’
XI
NIGHT AND KNIVES
‘ONE DEGREE IS the difference between fluid and solid. The divergence between water and ice. But those who’ve grown up in the coldest places will know the shift that comes with wintersdeep, and the way we who live through it, shift with it. Dim days grow dimmer still, bleak nights bring bleaker thoughts. And as the landscape about you changes, so does the limit of your spirit. The dark weighs heavier when your cloak is soaked with melted snow. Laughter is best avoided when your beard is so caked with frost that it hurts to smile. Spring blooms, and autumn rusts. But winter?
‘Winter bites.
‘We’d entered the northern weald ten days past, and all was night and knives. Growths of maryswort lit the dark with ghostly blue luminance. Beggarbelly pustules and jagged runs of shadespine covered every surface. I was a knot of nerves, all of me on edge as I led Dior and Fortuna through the twisted wood.
‘The deeper we trekked, the harder this twist of fate struck me – that I of all people would end up guiding this girl to safety, and that the salvation of the empire had somehow fallen into my hands, so many years after that empire turned its back on me. I didn’t know the truth of Dior’s blood, how it might bring all this to an end. I knew only that I wanted to keep her safe. And so, I barely slept, sitting with Ashdrinker in hand at nights, keeping vigil over Dior as she dreamed. Every snapping twig quickened my pulse. Eyes flickered like candles in the gloom, winking out as I looked at them. Footprints would be etched in the snow around our fire when we rose in the morn – wolves, maybe, save the tracks had too many toes and smelled of rot and sulfur.
‘On the eleventh day, we found a clearing, an ancient tree in its heart. Its limbs were hung with sculptures made of twigs … and with dead bodies, some almost fresh. The other trees were bent towards it, branches pressed together like penitent hands, asphyxia growths hanging like curtains of hair about bowed heads. Voices pleaded at the edge of hearing. I swear that tree whispered to me as we passed. Saoirse had warned that the Blight in the north was far worse than the south. But in truth, she’d not told the half of it.