‘The cathedral was a circular spire of marble on the edge of a shallow cliff. The doors were bronze, crafted with eerie reliefs of angels battling the fallen. Great bells rang in the belfry, Archer calling out in answer as we followed a winding road to the cliff base, and at last, found the entry to Skyefall’s houses of the dead.
‘As was custom, two archways led into the necropolis – one facing west for the dead, the other, which would usually face east, for the living. Large reliefs were carved into the stone – human skeletons with angels’ wings, and the Mothermaid holding the infant Redeemer. Wrought above the entrance were words from the Book of Laments.
‘I AM THE DOOR ALL SHALL OPEN. THE PROMISE NONE SHALL BREAK.
‘I tried to keep my nerves steady as we dismounted. Greyhand closed his eyes, one hand outstretched towards the necropolis. I wondered at his game, but in a few minutes, my answer appeared in the form of several mangy rats. They emerged from the shadowed stairwells leading to the crypts, snuffling and blinking in the fading daylight.
‘“Fairdawn, little lords.”
‘My master knelt on the cold stone and offered the vermin morsels from one of his pockets. Again, I felt that stab of envy, watching him commune with those beasts. The Blood Chastain was a curse, but still, it must have been a kind of wondrous to speak to animals of earth and sky. I patted Justice, giving him a swift hug and wondering what it would be like to know something of his mind. Something of where I’d come from.
‘“What tidings, little lords?” Greyhand asked. “What troubles?”
‘The boldest rat, a fat fellow with a missing ear, chittered angrily. Greyhand nodded in sympathy, like an old friend griping over a mug of mulled wine.
‘“A sad tale. We shall mend it presently.”
‘Our master stood, and the rats scampered back into the gloom. “They speak of darkthings in the crypts. Wrongthings.” Greyhand shook his head. “Even the lowest of God’s creatures recognize the evil of the Dead. But it seems there are more than one.”
‘“How many?” I asked.
‘“They’re rats, boy, not bookkeepers. They only know one and more than one.”
‘Greyhand nodded to himself, now certain: Coldbloods were at the heart of the disease afflicting this town. I felt a warm thrill in my belly as my master drew a phial of sanctus from his bandolier, tipped a dose into his pipe. In San Michon, on the road, we took the sacrament at dusk, a routine part of our daily prayers. But we were given only the smallest taste to keep our thirst quelled.
‘Greyhand was measuring a heavy dose. Obviously expecting trouble.
‘He lit his flintbox, offered the pipe to de Coste. I watched the lordling breathe in, his every muscle stretching taut. Exhaling a cloud of scarlet, I saw that Aaron’s teeth had grown long and sharp, his eyes flooding blood-red. It was my turn next, and the dose hit me like a warhammer to my chest, setting all my blood afire. Greyhand took the unholy sacrament last, finishing the pipe and breathing it down, his whole body trembling. When he opened his eyes, they were the colour of murder.
‘He took two flasks of hellspark from our saddlebags, upending them over the stairs into the necropolis. When he was done, both stairwells were soaked with the oily red liquid and reeked of sulphur so thick my eyes watered.
‘“De Coste, you guard the duskdoors. De León, the dawn. If you hear the sound of my horn, the kith have evaded me. Light the hellspark to cut off their escape.”
‘“By the Blood, Master,” we both answered.
‘“God walks with us this day, boys. Stand your ground and fear no darkness.”
‘Greyhand stripped off his greatcoat and tunic, leaving his tattooed torso and arms bare. He was pure muscle, wiry and iron-hard, his aegis etched in beautiful lines of silver. Slinging on his bandolier and flail, he tipped his tricorn, then stepped into the gloom.’
Jean-Fran?ois tapped his quill on the page, bringing Gabriel’s tale to a halt.
‘… Honestly?’ the silversaint glowered. ‘You’re interrupting me now?’
‘A brief clarification. But an important one.’ The historian raised one tapered brow. ‘Are you truly saying warriors of the Ordo Argent stripped half-naked to fight?’
Gabriel nodded. ‘Being silverclad, we called it. Modesty is of little use to a corpse. And armour is of even less use when your opponent can crush steel with its fists.’
‘But what about thralls? Surely they used blades and other weapons mundane?’
‘We weren’t worried about lackeys, coldblood. We were worried about their masters. The people who die in battle? They mostly die once the battle is done. It’s not the swordblow or arrow that kills you. It’s the bleeding you do afterwards. We were palebloods. We healed. So while an angry, well-trained thrall with a nice sharp broadsword was a threat, it paled in comparison to the threat of having your heart shown to you by the unholy bastard who just ripped it out of your chest with its bare fucking hands.
‘It’s not as if the aegis made us impervious either. But it served as a conduit by which God’s power could be felt on the battlefield. The light of the aegis burns the eyes of the unholy. Its touch scorches their flesh. It’s like an armour of blinding faith, making us harder to focus on, punishing to hit. It was an edge, and against faekin, duskdancers, coldbloods, we needed every one we could get.’ Gabriel leaned back in his chair. ‘Now, can I get on with my story? Or would you like to fucking tell it?’
Jean-Fran?ois waved his quill. ‘As you like it.’
‘Right. So Greyhand descended into the necropolis. De Coste and I exchanged a red glance, but there was little for us to say. Aaron remained at the duskdoors while I trudged downhill to cover the other entrance. And there, I settled to wait.
‘Paleblood senses are sharp at the best of times, but with a dose of sanctus in us, the whole world comes alive. I could hear the town above: wagons on the cobbles and the choir practising in the cathedral and the calls of a hungry babe. I watched Archer circling endlessly in the grim skies overhead. The hellspark on the stairs was pungent, but I couldn’t smell myself under the ghostbreath. Lionclaw hung heavy in the scabbard at my hip. I read the inscription above the necropolis door, over and over. Words from the Book of the Redeemer.
‘KNOW ONLY JOY IN THY HEART, BLESSED CHILD. FOR ON THIS DAY, LIFE IS THINE.
‘Ten minutes passed without a sound. Then twenty. I stepped farther into the entrance, head tilted, but all I could hear was a faint drip somewhere within.
‘“He’s been gone an age,” I called.
‘De Coste looked up from the small, tight circle he’d been pacing. “Breathe easy, Peasant. Greyhand is a cautious hunter. The dead can’t kill the Dead.”
‘I nodded, but my unease was growing. I felt useless standing there on guard. I was a ball of nerves and restless energy, a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, that infamous Nordlund fire hot in my veins. And then came a faint sound up the crypt stairs.
‘“Did you hear that?”
‘“… Hear what?”
‘I stepped back beneath the arch, squinting down the stairs. “A cry?”