‘I slammed another timber home. Dior climbed down from the palisade, gazing at Ashdrinker. I worked easier with the blade off my hip, and so I’d set her against the barricade. The boy’s eyes roamed the beaten scabbard, the silvered maid on the crossguard.
‘“Does it really … speak to you?”
‘“More’s the pity,” I grunted, slamming another beam down.
‘“Where’d it come from?”
‘“Ah, there’s the rub, Dior,” Bellamy replied. “No one knows. A mentor of mine, the famed soothsinger Dannael á Riagán, sings that the Black Lion took the blade from the halls of a sleepless barrowking, deep in the weald of Nordlund. But the historian Saan Sa-Asad tells that the chevalier won Ashdrinker in a riddle contest with a nameless elder horror, deep in the bowels of the Godsend Everdark. I even heard one tale that the Lion took Ashdrinker from the trove of the dread faequeen, Ainerión. Her kiss spells death for any mortal man, Dior, and yet the Lion loved Ainerión so long and so sweetly, he was able to steal the enchanted blade from her bedside after she collapsed in exhaustion. But as far as I know, the chevalier has never once confirmed any of these tales.”
‘Bellamy looked to me hopefully, one eyebrow cocked.
‘“Shut the fuck up, Bouchette.”
‘“How’d it break?” Dior asked, eyes still on the sword.
‘“Eh?” Bellamy blinked.
‘“The end,” the boy said. “The pointy bit, whatever you call it.”
‘“The tip?”
‘“Oui. I saw it when we came through the walls. It’s been broken off.”
‘Bellamy tilted his rake’s hat back and rubbed his chin. “I confess I didn’t notice. No tale ever mentioned the blade being broken at all. But … to the bold, the bouquet.” The youngster walked towards Ashdrinker, hand outstretched. “Mayhaps we can ask her?”
‘“Oi!” I snapped. “Touch that sword and you’ll be playing your lute with your fucking toes, Soothsinger.”
‘“I jest, mon ami.” Bellamy tipped me a wink and a roguish smile. “A fellow who lays a familiar hand on another man’s blade might as well be laying hand on his bride. And I never touch brides without express invitation.”
‘“You’re a bastard, Bel,” Dior grinned. “A scoundrel, a bounder, and a cad.”
‘“I’m a romantic, M. Lachance. Stick with me long enough, I’ll teach you how.”
‘“Meantime, how about the pair of you get the fuck back to work?” I growled.
‘The soothsinger pulled his cloak tighter and scratched his dark curls. Dior scoffed and trudged off into the snow. We piled the breaches as high and thick as we could, leaving only the main gate unlocked for Saoirse to return by. Stacking the boulevard and narrow streets with broken furniture and timbers, we created an inner ring to fall back to if things went tits up. It was bitter cold, and by the time we were done, night had fallen like an anvil. But still, I was satisfied. Between our walls and weapons, we could see off a dozen wretched. With the storm raging on, Bellamy and I trudged back to the Hammered Smith.
‘The company were within, Rafa bent over a pot steaming in the hearth.
‘“Is that fucking potato again?”
‘“I have turnip, if you prefer,” the old priest smiled.
‘“Where’s Saoirse?” Chloe asked.
‘“Still scouting with Phoebe,” Bellamy replied. “They’ll return anon.”
‘I grabbed a bowlful of accursed spuds, scoffed them quick enough not to touch the sides. Walking a slow circle, I scuffed the charcoal map I’d drawn on the boards with my bootheels. For a moment, I was reminded of San Michon’s Library; that great, grand map of the empire across its floor.
‘“Through blood and fire, now dance with me.”
‘I glanced up as Chloe murmured, saw her eyes fixed on mine. I knew she was living the same moment I was. How long ago it all seemed then. And how far away.
‘“Right.” I tapped the map with one toe. “I’ll man the gates, with little Lord Talkstoomuch on the highwalk. Chloe, you and Saoirse take the east breach, Rafa and Bellamy the west. If you hit trouble, sing out. I’ll be there. If we’re overrun, fall back to the inner circle, then the cathedral. Holy ground will keep them at bay as a last resort.”
‘“Why not retreat to the cathedral now?” Rafa asked.
‘“And then what? Hole up inside until we starve to death? These things can wait forever if they’ve a want to. But don’t concern yourself, priest. These rotten bastards will come at us mindless and frontways without a bloodlord leading them.”
‘Dior was finishing off his second helping, talking with ballooning cheeks. “You asked the soldier we met about that. What’s a bloodlord?”
‘“Highbloods can control the lower caste of vampires, Dior,” Chloe replied. “The deeper their blood, the more wretched they can keep under sway. With an intelligence directing them, wretched are far more dangerous. But this rabble seem to have none.”
‘Rafa nodded, signing the wheel. “Thank the Almighty for his mercy.”
‘The boy swallowed his ambitious mouthful, staring at me. “And what did that soldier mean? When he said you bathed the battlefield silver?”
‘“Ah, the aegis,” Bellamy smiled. “The holy magik for which the silversaints are named and famed, Dior. See that ink on the Black Lion’s hands? In truth, it covers most of his body. And in battle, it serves as a conduit for his faith in our Lord above.”
‘The boy’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair. “You mean … you fight … naked?”
‘“Not entirely,” Chloe smiled. “Being silverclad, the Order names it.”
‘Bellamy nodded, eyes alight. “When the chevalier fights tonight, you’ll see the aegis aglow, like a thousand torches. At the siege at Tuuve, it’s said the Black Lion burned so—”
‘“Shut the fuck up, Bouchette,” I growled. “The holy water we’ve stocked in those wine bottles will scorch them better than acid. Likely not enough to kill them, but it’ll soften them up some. If they make it through the palisade, fire burns these leeches better than a gigolo with the clap. So if you’re not wielding silver, a torch is your best weapon.”
‘Rafa’s fingers brushed his wheel, eyes on the sevenstar around Chloe’s neck. “I can think of another weapon, Silversaint. Faith is more than a match for any flame.”
‘“Mayhaps you could pray for an angel or two, then? See if any show up?”
‘The old man smiled at me, dark eyes twinkling over his spectacles. “I think God has already sent us angels enough, mon ami. But I shall pray he watch over us this night nevertheless.”
‘“And what’s the point of that, priest?
‘Rafa blinked. “What is the point of—”
‘“Praying. Oui.”
‘The old man looked at me as if I’d asked the point of breathing. “I …”
‘“Two soldiers stand on a field of battle,” I told him. “Both are convinced God is on their side. Both pray to their Lord and Redeemer to smite their enemy low, and to the Mothermaid to protect them from all harm. But somebody’s going to lose. Somebody’s wasting their fucking time. Maybe, just maybe … it’s both of them?”