Too Cold to Bleed Page 4

  “This is the work of evil,” Fransen shouted, spraying spit over Kalfinar’s face. “There is no world in which Dajda is not primary amongst the gods.”

  “What about a world without Dajda?” Dedicant Valus said. “What of your world then? What of your order, your Tuannan? Your world is nothing without Dajda, and soon thereafter, neither is ours.”

  Fransen sagged in Broden’s grip and a shudder ran up the tall Tuannan’s body. His sandaled feet slid out in front of him and he slumped to the floor, weeping. Broden released him.

  Kalfinar crouched to face the Tuannan. “What would your brothers and sisters of the Tuannan choose if faced with such a world?”

  “There is no corruption,” Fransen whimpered in a trembling remnant of his defiance. “Dajda is without corruption.”

  “You’re not so convincing now, Fransen.” Kalfinar stood. “Fight’s out of him. What do we do now?” he asked Valus.

  The Lihedan dedicant looked sorrowfully towards Fransen, whose bony shoulders shook from his sobbing. “There are others in his order who will fight this. Power corrupts, and they will fight to keep it. You must make the deal without those of Fransen’s order. The majority of Tuannan will have to accept. But Fransen’s sect will never.”

  “Do you know of those in the Tuannan who will listen to you, who can make the deal?”

  “Yes,” Valus said as she stepped over to Fransen and hunkered down. She placed an arm around the tall man’s shoulders and kissed the top of his bald head. “Be not full of pain and sorrow. Your Dajda will live on. Be full of joy at the unity of our faiths and balance restored.” She turned from the weeping Tuannan and faced Kalfinar. “You must gather the Tuannan and make the deal. Only then can we give you the aid that will bring Dajda home.”

  We will bring Evelyne home. Kalfinar looked up at Valus, her eyes betraying that she again was inside his thoughts. We will bring her home, Kalfinar. But you must make the deal.

  Kalfinar sat in silence and watched as the last ballots were collected. Eyes filled with aggression flicked up towards him.

  “With this action, you may as well have struck the head from Dajda yourself,” Fransen hissed beside him.

  Kalfinar turned to face him, narrowing his eyes.

  “No matter if your effort to undermine Dajda works or not, know this: you have made enemies here this day.”

  “I’ve never known a life without enemies. Here I am, near forty winters passed, and still I breathe. Do you think your threats bother me?”

  Fransen’s black eyes stared coldly at Kalfinar. “You’ll be remembered as a foolish and weak man.”

  “That I am. But I care not about being remembered. I care only about keeping our people safe, and getting Evelyne back.”

  “You think she can just come back?” Fransen’s thin lips split in a mocking grin. He grumbled an ugly laugh and turned back to where the last of the ballots were being collected. “Even if she can be found, she has to die for Dajda to again be free.”

  A heat burned in Kalfinar’s belly in the instant, and he felt the rage mounting. “What did you say?”

  Fransen smiled, staring out towards the assembly.

  “What do you mean she has to die?” Don’t give him the pleasure. He’s trying to provoke you. Calm. Stay calm.

  “You heard me. She knew what the bargain was in order for her to carry Dajda.”

  Kalfinar gripped Fransen's forearm where it rested on the arm of his chair and squeezed, hard. Ignoring the wince of pain from the Tuannan, Kalfinar leaned in so his lips brushed Fransen’s ear. “It matters not if you are right about any of this. Know this: one day, perhaps today, tomorrow, next week, or even many years from now, I will come to you, and I will bleed your life out into the world. It will be slow, and it will hurt. A lot. Because, do you know, as well as being remembered as a foolish and weak man, I’ll also be remembered as a fucking maniac. How do you like that?”

  Fransen swallowed, the pointed lump at his throat plunging like his confidence.

  “Good. Watch your back. Of course, perhaps I am just saying that to frighten you. It’s not nice when someone does that, is it?”

  “Chief,” Merkham said as he stepped up towards Kalfinar. “The ballots for your counting.”

  “Thank you.” Kalfinar reached out and took the box.

  Merkham settled down in front of him with a sheaf of paper and quill at the ready.

  Kalfinar pulled free the first of the ballots. “For.” The writing was of florid hand, and heavily underscored. He pulled free the next and opened it. “Against.” Merkham’s quill scored under each column. “Against.” The ballot slip had more written on it: ‘You will die.’ Kalfinar looked up into the faces of the assembly. Hostile, neutral and friendly, but all with an air of nerves about them. He pulled free the next ballot, and read aloud the single word. “For.”

  After many minutes of reading aloud the ballots, Kalfinar could tell it was close, and only three ballots remained. “What are the totals?”

  Merkham’s quill waggled as he counted the marks against each, his lips moving as he calculated. “One hundred and eighty-two against, and one hundred and eighty-three for.”

  And twelve promises of death for me. “A close ballot.” He looked about the room and addressed the fearful faces. “We have three more to call. Be warned that when this ballot is done with, there will be no quarrel welcome in this house. Any who feel the need to argue this point will be taken into custody and spend a week in the High Command pit.” Kalfinar reached down into the box and pulled free a folded ballot. “For.” Relief swelled in his chest, his pulse quickening. Best they can hope for is a draw now. A rumble of discontent spread through the assembly. Kalfinar reached down into the box, grasping hold of the penultimate folded sheaf of paper. He opened it up and looked at the single word. “For.”

  Merkham scratched the tally as the room exploded with noise, Tuannan leaping to their feet to protest.

  “Take the protesters into custody,” Kalfinar roared at the top of his voice. “We don’t need them causing trouble.”

  The noise dropped off as the Tuannan regained order. Kalfinar looked across at Valus and the rest of the Council. “You have your promise from the faith. Dajda will release the yoke in exchange for your aid.”

  We are full of thanks and love for you, Kalfinar. Today, you have done a great thing. Valus’ soft, accented voice sounded in Kalfinar’s head as she silently smiled to him from across the room.

  “You don’t know what you’ve done,” Fransen croaked from his left.

  “I know exactly what I’ve done. I’ve taken the necessary steps to bring your god back, and bring our people comfort and safety.”

  “You’ve brought about the Great Imbalance. You’ve opened the gates to hell and there is no stopping the devils that will spill out into–”

  Kalfinar’s fist crashed into Fransen’s face, sending him flailing backwards to trip over the chair, feet kicking over his head and down in a silent heap. Kalfinar looked around at the astonished faces. “What?” he asked, palms upturned, protesting his innocence. “I assumed he would have preferred that to the pit, don’t you?” He sat back in his chair. “Actually, he ought to be in the pit with the rest of his kind.”

  “The governorship?” Merkham asked from where he sat.

  “Yes. Bring in those who remain of the High Command. We’ll take the vote now.”

  Kalfinar waited for Merkham to respond.

  Merkham sat at the ornate desk and stared at the tally sheet before him open-mouthed. The voices in the room began to rumble, rising from soft whispers hissing about the great hall, then growing into open chatter. Who was to be the governor?

  “Major Merkham, this is the last time I ask you. Proclaim the new governor.”

  Merkham looked up, his face ashen. The sheaf of paper began to tremble, then shake violently. Merkham simply stared at Kalfinar.

  “General Subath, if you will,” Kalfinar ordered the old veteran, who stepped f
orward from where he stood at ease and took the sheaf of paper from Merkham’s palsied grip.

  Subath cleared his throat. A crooked smile edged its way across his face. “By a score of,” Subath’s brow furrowed, “um, well, by a shitload of scores, I declare the new governor to be none other than Major Merkham himself.” Subath clapped the stunned major across the shoulder, snapping him to attention.

  “No, no,” Merkham stammered, “it can’t be me. I’m not, well, I’m simply not suited for–”

  “Nonsense,” Kalfinar snapped, sitting forward and smiling. It was the result he had wished for, and given the lack of other potential candidates, it was the result he expected. “There’s no man better equipped for such a duty than you, Governor, and I for one wish to offer you my warmest congratulations.”

  The great hall broke into applause, with Merkham’s head turning to view the now standing masses of Tuannan and members of the High Command.

  “I’d like to add my congratulations.” Subath smiled, his scarred knuckles tensing as he gave Merkham’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “Now, Governor,” Kalfinar said over the applause, “the first matter for you to contend with is that of the position of chief marshal.”

  Merkham looked up at Kalfinar, his expression betraying a lack of understanding. “But you, Kalfinar, are the chief marshal.”

  Kalfinar withdrew a small roll of paper from the pocket of his coat and passed it to a guard who in turn handed it to Merkham.

  Merkham unrolled the paper and read the inscription. He looked up at Kalfinar, shaking his head. “I’m well aware of our laws, and the clauses of the Constitution. You’re in no perilous state of health, are you?”

  Kalfinar looked to Subath. He raised his fist to his mouth, coughed twice and smiled. “Perilously so.”

  “What’s this all about?” Subath asked, his brows knitting in suspicion. “You mean to be off after Grunnxe?”

  “I do.”

  “But you’re the chief marshal! You can’t leave.” Subath’s voice rose.

  You feel fear, old friend. Do you see it coming? Kalfinar smiled as Merkham read the rest of the note.

  “Actually, my dear friend,” Merkham said, standing and giving Subath’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “No!”

  “Why, yes!” Kalfinar grinned.

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Of course he can’t.” Merkham nodded seriously towards Kalfinar. “And as our chief marshal is so gravely unwell, it falls to me, as governor, to decide that you, General Subath, will be our acting chief marshal until Kalfinar is restored to better health.”

  Subath’s face reddened, and his eyelid began to twitch.

  “The eyelid!” Broden whispered to Kalfinar amidst his choked laughter.

  “Bastards!” Subath hissed, and turned, storming from the great hall.

  “Well,” Broden said, sighing with a smile. “That was entertaining. Now, I suppose we’ve an expedition to be preparing for, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Aye,” Kalfinar whispered, his eyes holding those of Dedicant Valus. “We’ve no time to waste. To my study.”

  Five

  The Takers

  Ruah struggled up the steps towards the top of the palisade, partly thanks to the pain in her ruin of a leg, partly through sheer arse-ripping terror. There’d been raiders before, of course, but not in the last three years, and never in such numbers. She grimaced and hauled herself up the last two steps. She stood unsteadily behind where Administrator Dhendrin and Paw peered out at the plain.

  “What’s happening?” Ruah cursed the tremble in her voice for betraying her cowardice. She looked across and saw Halpern’s sneering face. Fuck yourself, Hal.

  “Thought I told you to get somewhere safe? Out of trouble?” Paw said, turning towards her with a frown. Dhendrin lowered her eyeglass and turned around impassively.

  “You did. But others who can hold a spear are here at the wall. I can help.”

  “You can help by doing what you’re told and keeping your skinny arse away from sharp metal.” Paw stepped towards her, and his voice lowered to a whisper. “I don’t want you in harm’s way, Roo. Get somewhere out of sight. Go on, get gone.”

  “Twisty’s right, Paw,” Dhendrin said, turning back and raising the eyeglass towards the mass of raiders advancing on the plain. A great cloud of brown, dirty dust rose up behind them. “Give her a spear and let her stand with the rest of them.”

  “Let her stand with the rest of us?” Halpern snorted from along the palisade. “She can barely stand at the best of times! She’ll use that fucking spear as a crutch. Send her back into the church with the babes. She’s no use.” The three other young watchers who stood with Halpern laughed mockingly along with him.

  Ruah saw Paw’s knuckles turn white as his fists tightened.

  Dhendrin heaved a sigh but continued looking through her eyeglass. “Listen, half-head, we’ve more use of Twisty holding a spear than we have of your frigging mouth. So why don’t you do us all a favour and shut it, before I come over and beat it shut.”

  “But, Ma–”

  “But nothing.” Dhendrin cut Halpern off. “Son, grown man or no, I’m still happy to take you over my knee and beat your arse shiny in front of the town. So why don’t you concentrate on keeping your sharp tongue in your mouth and pointing the sharp end of that spear towards those arseholes out there.”

  “Aye, Ma,” Halpern said, face flushing.

  Ruah felt like beaming a smile his way and supplementing it by giving him the finger. But she swallowed the desire, as always, and looked back at Paw. He wasn’t smiling either.

  “Don’t want you here with a spear, young’un,” he whispered.

  “I don’t fucking believe it.” Dhendrin’s voice tore Ruah’s attention from Paw. “It can’t be.”

  “What?” Paw grumbled, turning back towards the plain.

  Ruah hobbled up beside him. Breathe. Step. Pain. Pray.

  “At the head of the horde, look.” Dhendrin handed the eyeglass over. “Look.”

  Ruah watched the brass end of the eyeglass as the old man swung it up and towards the mass of raiders. “Right then.” He sighed as the eyeglass travelled. “What have we got—” The brass end stopped dead. “No. No, that’s not right.”

  “What is it?” Ruah asked.

  “Not right, is it?” Dhendrin said.

  “Paw, what is it?” Ruah urged.

  “That old crow is supposed to be dead,” Paw said, lowering the glass. “Last I heard, the governor of Carte’s son near split him in two.”

  “Aye,” Dhendrin replied. “And he’s looking a damn sight fitter than before.”

  “Aye,” Paw grumbled. “Neat trick, that.”

  “Paw?” Ruah pressed.

  The old man turned towards her and smiled. “It looks like our good King Grunnxe has returned from the dead, and shaved a good twenty years off his bones as well.”

  “King Grunnxe.” Ruah peered out to the plain. “Ain’t that a good thing?”

  Dhendrin snorted a laugh as she peered through the glass.

  Paw looked over his shoulder. “Child, if you can somehow reason past how he ought to be dead, and not riding up to our gates, then reason this: I served in plenty seasons and seen Grunnxe kill almost as many of our own soldiers as the trench rats did. No, child. Grunnxe coming to your door with an army is rarely a good thing.” He stepped in closer to her and squeezed her shoulders with his wrinkled old hands, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Get yourself gone, Roo. Outta sight.”

  “You can shoot, can’t you Twisty?” Dhendrin asked over her shoulder.

  “Aye,” Ruah replied, holding Paw’s eyes firm.

  “Good. Take a bow, and get up somewhere high. You’ll know if you're needed. Know you won’t let us down.”

  Ruah chewed on the ragged end of one finger. She bit a tag of hard skin, and winced as it pulled too deep. She tasted the metal tang of blood and sucked. She watched from the upper window
of the Stock Drivers' Union House, having gone to the nearest tall building after Paw had found her a good bow and half-full quiver of arrows. From her vantage point she could see the palisade and most of the ground before it.

  The army had stopped a short distance from the wall of the station. A single rider approached the gate. He had a thick spread of black stubble that seemed to grow from under his eyes, and all the way down his neck to the top of his boiled leather cuirass. His eyes were wide-set, with a wild look to them.

  “That’s far enough,” Dhendrin called. The rider pulled up his horse. “What do you want?” Dhendrin asked.

  “Are you the administrator of this station?” the man asked.

  “I am. What do you want?” Dhendrin repeated.

  “I am the voice of your king, Grunnxe. Open your gate and welcome your king.”

  “No offence meant, and all,” Dhendrin hooked her thumbs into the heavy leather belt at her waist, “but out here on the plains, we tend to make a habit of not letting people with sharp metal in. Call it a rural superstition.” Ruah couldn’t tell from looking at the back of Dhendrin’s head, but she fancied the administrator was smiling at the man.

  “Your king instructs you to open your gate immediately.”

  “Last I heard, Grunnxe got skewered by the trench rats. The old man was dead, wasn't he?” Dhendrin replied.

  “Listen here,” the rider said, his voice no longer booming. “If you don’t open your gate and let us in, the old man up there is going to fucking burn your walls down and string you up by your tits so the buzzards can feast on you. Why don’t you save us all the pain, and just open your bastarding gates? We need some food, and we need some water. That’s all.”

  Ruah watched as Dhendrin spoke with the town elders. Paw stood outside the huddle, and flicked a glance up to where Ruah was hiding. She smiled at him, but then remembered he couldn’t see shit all in the distance. Dhendrin broke from the discussion and stepped up to the edge of the palisade. Her hands rested on the pale pointed tips of the old logs that made up the wall. Ruah wondered how far they'd had to go to find the trees to build the palisade.