his blade falling only after ostentatious, taunting sweeps and displays of his unholy dexterity were made.
In the small pause between one such blow and the next, Khale struck. He drew a dagger from one of his greaves and drove it into the place where Death’s heart should have been. Death had no heart to speak of—the wound was no more fatal than the bite of an ant—but it was the distraction Khale had needed. Faltering, Death’s black eyes wide at harm inflicted upon him by a mortal, he fell under Khale’s sword. His smoking blade was shattered and his head cut from his shoulders.
Khale mounted it upon the splintered spike of a standard that was trampled into the mud nearby. And as he stared at his black-eyed trophy, he felt a sudden and terrible cold surge up from his heart. It swelled into his throat, choking him as surely as a freezing hand might. And the eyes of Death were upon him as the God’s bloodied lips spoke a curse.
“For what you have done this day, for raising your hand to one such as I, for turning Death’s blade aside, I name you Wanderer. The roads of this world, you shall walk them all. The men and women of this world, you shall know them all. The pain of darkness and death, you shall feel these things always. Yet you shall not die, for you are mine: Death’s Herald. And on the last day of the last age, you shall sound the fatal notes of my Horn and bring all Creation down to nothing. And only then, when all things know Death, shall thou know thy true death and, at long last, sleep.”
And with these words, the black eyes closed and the head and body dissipated as ashes on the wind. Khale was alone on the battlefield. Alone in the world.
A killer like no other.
A warrior stronger than Death.
Murtagh poured more honeyed whisky into his cup, drained it, and then decided he would finish the bottle tonight. “May the Gods and their bones forgive me, and may their Shadows save us all.”
Chapter Ten
Leste stood before the decrepit doorway that led into the Church of Four. The church building was a rude structure of recovered stone, the windows patched with woven straw and dried moss. No light was permitted in the Church, save that which the Fathers and Brothers fostered within its dank walls. Dark and desolate, it towered over all other buildings in its district—bequeathed to the Church by the King in return for their support of his claim to the throne.
She had spent most of the day angrily walking the streets of Colm. The men and women of the Watch nodded their greetings but she could see they were all thinking of Murtagh’s orders. Their eyes were wary and guarded. Their gestures to her were tight and ready, in case she tried to strike them.
Leste performed the four bows out of habit more than faith. She had always felt a disquiet about the Church and its malnourished denizens with their black robes and bowed heads. Whenever their faces were shown, they were solemn and pale, and their gaze turned inward, lost and despairing. They reminded Leste too much of the world outside the walls of Colm: a world that was gradually creeping in through those walls, dulling the thoughts and tainting the lives of those who lived here.
She had an idea that the Church existed only to perpetuate the world’s misery, to tie people to it, rather than to ease the pain of those in suffering and to drive away the cold.
Still, she had been brought up in the Shadows of the Four, like every child in Colm, and, for once, she hoped they would hear her prayer, bless her journey as it lay ahead, and curse the enemy she pursued.
Leste crossed the threshold and waited for her eyes to adjust to the scented gloom inside. She could see people kneeling before each of the four idols, presenting the gifts demanded by each of the Four. To Murtuva: a fresh kill. To Chuma: a token of decay. To Voyane: blood drawn by another’s hand. To Mirane: an offering of food and nourishment. Leste grimaced at the smell of the offerings
In the small pause between one such blow and the next, Khale struck. He drew a dagger from one of his greaves and drove it into the place where Death’s heart should have been. Death had no heart to speak of—the wound was no more fatal than the bite of an ant—but it was the distraction Khale had needed. Faltering, Death’s black eyes wide at harm inflicted upon him by a mortal, he fell under Khale’s sword. His smoking blade was shattered and his head cut from his shoulders.
Khale mounted it upon the splintered spike of a standard that was trampled into the mud nearby. And as he stared at his black-eyed trophy, he felt a sudden and terrible cold surge up from his heart. It swelled into his throat, choking him as surely as a freezing hand might. And the eyes of Death were upon him as the God’s bloodied lips spoke a curse.
“For what you have done this day, for raising your hand to one such as I, for turning Death’s blade aside, I name you Wanderer. The roads of this world, you shall walk them all. The men and women of this world, you shall know them all. The pain of darkness and death, you shall feel these things always. Yet you shall not die, for you are mine: Death’s Herald. And on the last day of the last age, you shall sound the fatal notes of my Horn and bring all Creation down to nothing. And only then, when all things know Death, shall thou know thy true death and, at long last, sleep.”
And with these words, the black eyes closed and the head and body dissipated as ashes on the wind. Khale was alone on the battlefield. Alone in the world.
A killer like no other.
A warrior stronger than Death.
Murtagh poured more honeyed whisky into his cup, drained it, and then decided he would finish the bottle tonight. “May the Gods and their bones forgive me, and may their Shadows save us all.”
Chapter Ten
Leste stood before the decrepit doorway that led into the Church of Four. The church building was a rude structure of recovered stone, the windows patched with woven straw and dried moss. No light was permitted in the Church, save that which the Fathers and Brothers fostered within its dank walls. Dark and desolate, it towered over all other buildings in its district—bequeathed to the Church by the King in return for their support of his claim to the throne.
She had spent most of the day angrily walking the streets of Colm. The men and women of the Watch nodded their greetings but she could see they were all thinking of Murtagh’s orders. Their eyes were wary and guarded. Their gestures to her were tight and ready, in case she tried to strike them.
Leste performed the four bows out of habit more than faith. She had always felt a disquiet about the Church and its malnourished denizens with their black robes and bowed heads. Whenever their faces were shown, they were solemn and pale, and their gaze turned inward, lost and despairing. They reminded Leste too much of the world outside the walls of Colm: a world that was gradually creeping in through those walls, dulling the thoughts and tainting the lives of those who lived here.
She had an idea that the Church existed only to perpetuate the world’s misery, to tie people to it, rather than to ease the pain of those in suffering and to drive away the cold.
Still, she had been brought up in the Shadows of the Four, like every child in Colm, and, for once, she hoped they would hear her prayer, bless her journey as it lay ahead, and curse the enemy she pursued.
Leste crossed the threshold and waited for her eyes to adjust to the scented gloom inside. She could see people kneeling before each of the four idols, presenting the gifts demanded by each of the Four. To Murtuva: a fresh kill. To Chuma: a token of decay. To Voyane: blood drawn by another’s hand. To Mirane: an offering of food and nourishment. Leste grimaced at the smell of the offerings
Similar Books
