Anthony Ryan - Blood Song

“‘He called forth the lightning,’” Vaelin quoted. “‘And the village burned. The people fled to the river but he swelled it with rain until the banks burst and carried them away. Still his vengeance was not sated and he brought down a blast of wind from the far north to encase them in ice.’”

The thing formed a smile, chilling in its complete lack of cruelty, a smile of fond remembrance. “I can still see his face, my father, frozen in the ice, staring up at me from the depths of the river. I pissed on it.”

“The Witch’s Bastard,” Vaelin whispered. “The story must be three centuries old.”

“Time is as much a delusion as your faith, brother. To look into the void is to see the vastness and smallness of everything at once, in an instant of terror and wonder.”

“What is it? This void you talk of?”

The thing’s smile became cruel once more. “Your faith calls it the Beyond.”

“You lie!” he spat, even though there was no sound from the blood-song. “The Beyond is a place of endless peace, complete wisdom, sublime unity with the everlasting souls of the Departed.”

The thing’s lips twitched for a moment and then it began to laugh, loud and hearty peals of amusement echoing across the beach and the sea. Vaelin felt his hand itch for the dagger in his boot as it continued to laugh, resisting the urge with difficulty. Not yet…

“Oh,” the thing shook its head, thumbing a tear from its eye. “You utter fool, brother.” He leaned forward, the face of what had been his brother a red mask in the firelight, hissing, “ We are the Departed!”

He waited for the blood-song’s call but heard nothing beyond an icy silence. It was impossible, it was blasphemy but there was no lie in this thing’s words. “The Departed await us in the Beyond,” he recited, hating the desperation in his voice. “Souls enriched by the fullness and goodness of their lives, they offer wisdom and compassion…”

The Thing was laughing again, near helpless with mirth. “Wisdom and compassion. There is no more wisdom and compassion amongst the souls in the void than there is in a pack of jackals. We hunger and we feed, and death is our meat.”

Vaelin closed his eyes tight, resuming his recitation, the words tumbling rapidly from his lips. “What is death? Death is but a gateway to the Beyond and union with the Departed. It is both ending and beginning. Fear it and welcome it…”

“Death brings us fresh souls to command, more bodies to twist to our will, sate our lusts and serve his design…

“What is the body without the soul? Corrupted flesh, nothing more. Mark the passing of loved ones by giving their shell to the fire…”

“The body is everything. A soul without a body is a wasted, wretched echo of a life — ”

“I HEARD MY MOTHER’S VOICE!” He was on his feet, dagger in hand, crouched in a fighting stance, eyes now locked on the thing across the fire. “I heard my mother’s voice.”

The thing that had been Barkus got slowly to his feet, hefting the axe. “It happens sometimes, amongst the Gifted, they can hear us, hear the souls calling in the void. Brief echoes of pain and fear mostly. That’s how it all started, you know, your faith. Several centuries ago an unusally gifted Volarian heard a babble of voices from the void, among them the unmistakable voice of his own dead wife. He took it upon himself to spread the word, the great and wondrous news that there is life beyond this daily punishment of grief and toil. People listened, the word spread and so began your faith, all built on the lie that there is a reward in the next life for servile obedience in this one.”

Vaelin fought to master his confusion, tried to stop himself willing the blood-song to speak, to give the lie to this thing’s words. Wood cracked in the fire, the surf beat against the shore in a ceaseless rumble and Barkus regarded him with the cool, dispassionate gaze of a stranger.

“What design?” Vaelin demanded. “You spoke of his design? Who is he?”

“You’ll meet him soon enough.” The thing that had been Barkus clasped the haft of the axe with both hands, taking a firm grip, holding it up for the edge of the blade to catch the moonlight. “I made this for you, brother, or rather I allowed Barkus to make it. He always hungered for the hammer and the anvil so, although he resisted manfully until I took away his reluctance. Beautiful isn’t it? I’ve killed so many times with so many different weapons, but I must say this is the finest. With this I can bring you to the brink of death as easily as if I were wielding a surgeon’s knife. You’ll bleed, you’ll fade and your soul with reach out to the void. He’ll be waiting for you there.” The smile the thing offered was grim now, almost regretful. “You really shouldn’t have given up your sword, brother.”

“If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have been so willing to talk.”

The thing’s smile vanished. “Talking’s over.”

He leapt over the fire, axe drawn back, teeth bared in a hateful snarl. Something large and black met him in mid-air, fastening its jaws on his arm, rending and tearing as they crashed together onto the fire, thrashing, scattering flame. Vaelin saw the hateful axe rise and fall once, then twice, heard the enraged howl of a slave-dog as the blade bit home, then the thing that had been Barkus was rising from the dregs of the fire, hair and clothes aflame, his left arm hanging ruined and useless, nearly severed by Scratch’s bite. But the right arm was still whole, and he still held the axe.

“Asked the Governor to set him loose at nightfall,” Vaelin told him.

The thing roared in pain and rage, the axe arching round in a silver blur. Vaelin ducked under the blade, lancing out with the dagger, piercing the thing’s chest, seeking the heart. It roared again, swinging the axe with inhuman speed. Vaelin left the dagger embedded in its chest and caught hold the haft of the axe as it swung round, backhanded a savage blow to the thing’s face and follwed with a kick to the groin. It barely staggered and delivered a stinging head-butt, sending Vaelin reeling across the sand, falling onto his back.

“Something I didn’t tell you about Barkus, brother!” the thing said, leaping closer, axe raised. “When you trained together, I always made him hold back.”

Vaelin rolled to the side as the axe bit down on the sand, twisted to send a kick into the thing’s temple, surging to his feet as it shook off the pain and swung again, the blade meeting only air as Vaelin dived over the arc of the swing, ducked in close to snatch the dagger from its chest, stabbed again then stepped back to let the axe swing within an inch of his face.

The thing that had been Barkus stared at him, shocked, still, smoke rising from his burns, his ruined arm bleeding onto the sand. He dropped the axe and his good hand went to the rapidly spreading stain on his shirt. He stared at the thick slick of blood covering his palm for a second then slowly sank to his knees.

Vaelin moved past him and retrieved the axe from the sand, fighting revulsion at the feel of it in his hands. Is this why I always hated it so? Because this was its final purpose?

“Nicely done, brother.” The thing that had been Barkus showed blood stained teeth in a grin of absolute malice. “Perhaps the next time you kill me, I’ll be wearing the face of someone you love even more.”

The axe was light, unnaturally so, making only the faintest whisper as he brought it up and round, slicing through skin and bone as easily as it did the air. The head of what had been his brother rolled on the sand and was still.

He tossed the axe aside and pulled Scratch from the dying remnants of the fire. Heaping sand onto the smouldering burns, tearing his shirt to press rags against the deep cuts in his side. The slave dog whimpered, tongue lapping weakly at Vaelin’s hand. “I’m sorry, daft dog.” He found his vision blurred by tears and his voice caught by sobs. “I’m sorry.”