‘Oui,’ Gabriel scowled. ‘That prick of a bishop could have warned me at least. As I reached the riverbank, I saw only mooring stones and a few broken archways midstream. I’d come across no wretched on the road, so cutting off the crossings was obviously helping to keep the Dead out of the province. But the river was too fast and deep for Jez to cross.
‘And to top it all off, it started snowing.
‘I pulled my tricorn lower, gave Jez a mournful pat. “Sorry, girl. Should’ve warned you that the Almighty enjoys shitting in my brisket at every opportunity.”
‘The mare nickered in response.
‘There was no sign of Chloe and her band. I checked my map for the closest crossing and rode on, following a dirt track up into a deadwood hill as dark deepened. Picturing the holy sister’s face from the night before. Her whisper as she squeezed my hand.
‘It’s the Grail, Gabriel. I’m talking about the bloody Grail.
‘I’d been a prick to her, and I knew it. Justice’s death had been weighing heavy, and I’d been tired and drunk. But that wasn’t the whole truth of it. Truth was, the sight of my old friend had dredged up a flood of memories I’d thought long buried. And now the past was rising again, just like the Dead.
‘What the hell did Danton want that boy for?
‘The blackened sun had slunk below the horizon, and the snow was falling heavy as I rode into the long-dead woods. I managed to get my lantern lit, hung it from Jez’s saddle. But I knew we were one stumble away from a repeat of yesterday’s funeral.
‘“Might be time to call it a night, girl.”
‘A sound pierced the storm then. Blinking snow from my eyes, I tilted my head. A shot from a wheellock, I swore it. Another sound followed – a long note, high and muffled, the kind that had once borne me on silver wings into the jaws of hell. And I remembered Chloe in the pub last night. A rifle at her shoulder. And a silver-trimmed horn at her belt.
‘“Shit,” I hissed.
‘I slapped Jez’s rump, and we were charging up the jagged hillside. The dray wasn’t spry, but she had grit, galloping headlong into the dark. I heard the horn again, adrenaline souring my tongue, a rush of memories from nights in San Michon – the vow on my lips, my brothers around me, love my shield and faith my sword.
‘And in sight of God and his Seven Martyrs, I do here vow; Let the dark know my name and despair. So long as it burns, I am the flame. So long as it bleeds, I am the blade. So long as it sins, I am the saint.
‘And I am silver.
‘I heard a distant cry, saw the ruined watchtower rising before me. Dark shapes were moving towards it through the deadwood, lifeless eyes and sharp fangs. The horn blew again, a silver-sharp note rising above the thudding footfalls of the Dead. Because the Dead were here, and running quick – at least a dozen wretched drawn towards the figures I now saw through the falling snow.
‘I drew Ashdrinker in one hand, my other fist wrapped in Jez’s reins.
‘Where are w-we, Gabriel?
‘“We’re in shit, Ash,” I hissed.
‘Ohhh. Just another day, another d-day, then?
‘I could see Chloe standing at the base of the ruined tower, sword in hand, hacking at an oncoming wretched like a lumberjack at a tree. She fought with all hell’s fury, but she was a nun, after all, and that sword was far too big for her. The soothsinger stood beside her, stubble crusted with snow, a burning brand in one hand, a steel longblade in the other. Behind them, pressed against the tower’s broken walls, stood the boy Dior. He had a silvered dagger in his fist, an unlit cigarelle hanging from his lips, cold rage in his eyes.
‘“Get back, you unholy bastards!” the soothsinger yelled.
‘“Chloe!” I bellowed.
‘I’d no idea where the Ossian lass or her lioness were, nor the old priest. But these three were in the deepest kind of shite. The soothsinger was quick with that torch of his, catching a wretched across the skull and setting its head ablaze with a cry of triumph. Chloe lashed out with her longblade at anything that strayed too close, and the silversteel ripped through Dead flesh like rotten straw. But the wretched were too many.
‘Jez was brave or stupid, or just moving too fast to slow down. We ploughed into one wretched, knocked it flying. But as the other Dead turned on us and bared their rancid fangs, the mare lost her nerve, rearing up so hard she almost threw me.
‘Ashdrinker at least seemed to have her head in the game now.
‘She be not a warhorse, shitwit, what in name of Gods do ye play at?
‘I kicked loose from my stirrups just as another wretched came at me out of the dark. The thirst was back on me, the lanternlight wild and strobing. This was a bad wager and I knew it, but I’d little choice now save roll hard or die.
‘“Gabe, look out!” Chloe roared.
‘Behind! Ashdrinker warned.
‘I spun in time to fend off clawing hands, the coldblood flailing as I split its chest apart. Even with odds like these, I wasn’t without a trick or three. I snapped the seal on a glass phial and tossed it. Two wretched toppled in a blast of silver caustic, their skin blackened, eyes bubbling as the silverbomb ripped the air.
‘These were only fledgling Dead, but enough ants can slay a lion. Ashdrinker whispered warning as another wretched lunged through the dark – an old man with gore-matted hair. He should’ve died in his bed, this fellow, surrounded by loved ones. Instead, he ended beneath some broken tower south of the ?mdir, his head sailing free as my sword flashed in the dark. I tossed a phial of holy water, heard another peal from Chloe’s horn as glass shattered and Dead flesh sizzled.
‘A wild-eyed man with bloody hands made it past the soothsinger’s torch and struck Chloe from the side. She cried out, silversteel blade sailing from her hand, screaming as the thing plunged its fangs into her arm.
‘“Chloe!” Dior cried.
‘“Sister!” the ’singer roared.
‘The man lunged to save her, only to have another wretched strike him from behind. Dior picked up the fallen torch, stabbed at the flailing coldblood. A soulless screech of pain rang through the woods as the monster went up in flames, arms pinwheeling as it fell, and as I watched in astonishment, the boy spun the torch between his fingers and lit his fucking cigarelle. I hurled my last phial of holy water, emptied my wheellock into another wretched’s face. But that many foes, my thirst burning brighter, I was beginning to suspect we might be proper fucked.
‘And then, I heard a whisper. Saw a flash of midnight-blue, a ribbon of red. One wretched collapsed headless, another fell back convulsing, crimson steam rising from its eyes. A figure moved among the monsters now, sharp as the north wind, quick as the lightning in an Eversea storm. Long black hair and a red sword, cutting through those wretched like a dose of bad medicine.
‘Stand n-not amazed, Gabriel, fight!
‘I set about it, hacking at the coldbloods as this newcomer flickered among the dead trees, scattering the wretched like flower petals about its feet. And as we dispatched the last of the monsters together, I knew what kind of monster it was.
‘The highblood stood now among the scattered corpses. Not sweating. Not breathing. She was dressed in a long red frockcoat and black leathers, a silken shirt parted from her bare and bone-white chest, throat wrapped in a red silk scarf. She had the body of a maid, though I knew she was nothing close. The sword in her hand was as tall and graceful as she was, gleaming red and dripping onto the bloodied snow at her feet. Her hair was the blue-black of midnight, running down to her waist, parted like curtains from a dead thing’s eyes. But her face was covered in a pale porcelain mask, painted like a madame at winter court – black lips and dark kohled eyes.