Scar Night Page 0,40
through enemy flesh and the archons’ swords blazed until earth was as red as the sand-choked sun. And when at last the winds died and the killing was done, the corpses of twenty thousand men lay strewn across the Deadsands. The remainder of the horde fled from the Tooth, and from the angels, and Callis stood triumphant upon a mountain of the dead.
“All who are still whole will be blessed and cast into the abyss,” he commanded. “They will be redeemed.”
Balthus said, “But they sought to destroy us. They do not deserve a place in our lord’s army.”
The angel smiled. “A magnanimous god, Ulcis.”
* * * *
Did Callis really live for a thousand years?” Dill asked.
The Presbyter took a moment to focus on him, and then looked away. “Records conflict,” he muttered, “although most would agree with that estimate. Alas, his sons did not inherit their father’s longevity.”
Dill considered this. A thousand years of life from one sip of angelwine. Had there been more of the elixir, would the angel still be alive today? “But the Heshette returned,” he said.
“Returned, yes, but never again in those numbers. The Battle of the Tooth taught them a harsh lesson. It wasn’t until two hundred years ago that the balance began to shift again. Our spies discovered a caste of shamans among the Heshette who were urging the desert peoples toward a second war. We struck out, hoping to halt their momentum, to slay the shamans, but our efforts only strengthened their cause.”
The old priest sniffed, rubbed at his nose, and went on, “They rose again, and for many years our armies held them back with nothing but faith and steel. And with the aid of Callis’s sons, of course. The Herald’s line held strong.”
Dill grimaced inwardly. The scratch on his finger seemed at once to sting. But the Presbyter continued, as though speaking to himself. His eyes had dulled a little, but he spoke with passion.
“Each time the heathens recovered, they returned, though rarely any stronger than before. Scattered tribes, mostly—roused as always by the Heshette core and their snake-tongued witch doctors. They remain loyal to Ayen, and have vowed to destroy her outcast sons.” Sypes seemed to drift within himself for a moment. “Tattooed and bearded savages…cannibals too, it’s said. They eat their own wounded and drink some foul brew fermented from blood and milk.” The Presbyter’s brow furrowed. “But then, they say a lot of such things in this city.”
Dill tried to imagine the Heshette, their sun rituals and the human sacrifices the missionaries sometimes spoke of. In his mind they scrapped like dogs, fork-tongued shamans flitting among them like whispering ghosts. He imagined himself standing before them, on the abyss rim, the last archon standing guard before the panicked streets of Deepgate, his sword high, his eyes dark and deep as Ulcis’s lair.
The Presbyter went on, “Faith and steel, and god’s will, kept us safe for so long, but that summer thirty years ago galvanized the tribes and raised their hopes. A drought, the worst in history, withered most of our crops. Dust storms ruined the rest. The Coyle, never known to fail before, dried to a trickle. Everyone suffered equally; those of us in Deepgate as much as the desert folk. But the tribes saw omens in that drought. They believed the goddess Ayen was punishing them for our actions. For the first time since the Battle of the Tooth, they stopped warring among themselves and united. Once more they marched against us as one army, the shamans among them, urging them on. Our troops were stretched too thin in the desert, so we retreated and fought them on the perimeter of the chasm.
“Even then we were outnumbered. Our soldiers had training, discipline, keener swords, but they struggled against the sheer weight of numbers. Gaine himself slew more than forty of the foe. The tribes always were afraid of your line, and understandably so. You should have seen him.”
Dill saw in his mind the tribes advance: all tattooed and wild-eyed, an army of rags and muscle. He saw his father alone, defiant, before them. Gaine’s sword flashed, cleaved through flesh and bone. Heads flew from shoulders and blood rained. Men sank before him. Gaine took to the air and the heathens fled screaming back into the Deadsands.
* * * *
And Devon saved us,” Rachel Hael said. She had entered without knocking and, judging by Sypes’s expression, it was a habit he felt she should shake off.
Dill spun round.