Anna Stephens - Bloodchild

Best guesses put him in Listre, but in the chaotic aftermath of the fall of Rilporin and the days afterwards with Mireces and East Rankers struggling to come to terms with the loss of the Dark Lady, the man could have marched past the city with drum, flute and flag and no one would have noticed.

Corvus had never had this much territory to control before and his influence – or lack of it – had never extended so far from his power base, and he’d never had to function with his heart torn from his chest.

The Dark Lady’s absence was madness clawing at the edges of his mind, questioning his every decision, whispering at him to lie down and die. Every night, when he pulled a blanket around him, the temptation was there, at the tip of his dagger. Every morning, the grief mocked his cowardice. Corvus survived by packing the hurt down inside himself to fester, like an abscess beneath a tooth, buried and stinking.

It was different for the common Mireces and East Rankers – all they had to do was follow the orders given them by their leaders. For Corvus, his surviving war chiefs, Lanta and General Skerris, it was like trying to stand against an avalanche to make sure others survived. And what should have united them was driving them apart.

Two weeks after Rilporin’s conquest, Skerris and the East had left the capital, flooding west and north to occupy the major towns along the Gil and the Tears to take control of supplies, stores, wealth and crops. It made military and economic sense, and it left Corvus with an altogether unfamiliar sense of loneliness. Despite his mild contempt for the fat general, Skerris was a talented commander and a faithful son of the Red Gods, and he needed someone he could trust in Sailtown. On the other hand, aside from the one-eared, snivelling Silais, Skerris was the only other who truly understood the workings of Rilpor. And he needed to restore order as soon as possible. The question was how – and which sort of order. Rilporian laws and customs, or Mireces? Prisons or executions? Persuasion or forced conversion?

It was a new way of life, requiring new thinking, and Corvus hated it.

Now that parts of the palace were habitable, he’d taken up residence there, as befitted the King of Rilpor and because he thought he should. There was a suite for the Blessed One, though she never used it. She never left the temple district or the shrine that she had constructed on the flagstones in the great temple square that were stained by the black splats and sweeps of divine blood. The site of the Dark Lady’s manifestation and destruction.

Valan lived in the heir’s quarters, both because they were close by and because he was, until Corvus produced a son, his successor. War chief Fost had a suite of rooms and so did the other surviving or newly made chiefs, but there was no communal living, no longhouse camaraderie like back home in Eagle Height. The palace was empty and Rilporin was too big. Corvus hated that, too.

Outside, the endless sounds of hammering and of dragging stone, the shouts of slave labourers and their Mireces overseers, painted a backdrop of noise both like and unlike his home village. This is home now, he reminded himself firmly. They had thousands of slaves, soldiers and civilians, though the number of deaths since their victory was far higher than the usual attrition rate as Mireces offered their wealth to the Red Gods, seeking to fill the voids in their souls with Rilporian blood.

In the last weeks they had cannibalised entire sections of the city to gather enough stone to fix the walls and wood to repair the gates, and while they weren’t pretty, they were high and sturdy once more. Holy Gosfath had left them more than enough shattered stone after His rampage through the city to fling it at any enemy who approached, using the East Rank’s trebuchets. Those slaves who were carpenters were attempting to fix the catapults and stingers, too. When Listre came, when any enemy came, they wouldn’t find him unprepared.

They’d scoured the city: every house, alley, building and cellar had been looted of people and goods both. Corvus had given every Mireces two slaves, more wealth than some of the lowest warriors had ever had, but all were expected to lend them to the great rebuilding of the city. The remaining slaves were awarded to those who’d fought hardest. Corvus had accepted only six, three strong men and three pretty women, though the surviving war chiefs and most of the warriors had clamoured for him to take more. He declined; he had an entire country, and enough riches had survived the burning to tempt the greediest of men, something Corvus had never been, despite what his enemies said of him.

And so by seeming to take less than his due, his men cleaved still more closely to him. He would need such loyalty in the months to come. Rilpor might be beaten, but it wasn’t subdued, not by a long way. More Mireces would die in the next few years than in an entire generation of raids. Perhaps more than they could afford to lose.

The marketplace that had once stood in the killing ground in First Circle was operating again, albeit run by the victors now, and the flesh trade was brisk as men bartered slaves for goods and goods for slaves. The sealing of the gates had done much to curb the escape attempts and the city was loud with Mireces voices, sullen with fear and pregnant with violence.

It almost felt like home – unlike the echoing palace.

‘It’s time to send Fost to fetch our women and children, Valan. It’ll do much to steady the men, having their consorts and legacy back with them, and once the women are running the households and keeping the slaves in check, we can look to the rest of the country. There is still much work to be done. Besides, it will be good to hear more Mireces voices than Rilporian. The consorts will make the city our home, and this country ours too.’

Valan grinned. ‘It will be good to see Neela and my girls again, I admit. I’ve been too long from them.’

‘That we could all find such contentment in the arms of a single woman,’ Corvus said, feeling his mood lighten. Teasing Valan for his unusual fidelity never got old.

‘There’s only one Neela, Sire. But perhaps you will find some pretty Rilporian who will walk the Dark Path at your side. The Lady’s …’ He faltered, tongue tripping over the words.

Corvus swallowed against the spike of hurt and he found the healing cuts on his left arm without conscious volition, wounds he’d carved into himself in the moments after Her destruction, blood that hadn’t been enough to save Her.

‘The Lady’s will,’ he said deliberately, pressing against the stitches and offering the pain to the gods. ‘She’s coming back, Valan. The Blessed One and high priest Gull work tirelessly. Whatever happened, She is still our Lady. Our pain calls to Her, the Blessed One calls to Her, and She will come back. She must.’

‘I pray it is so.’

The old banter was swallowed by the new world and the loss of Her, and Corvus strode restlessly to the window. The fine glass was missing, but the view was one of industry and scars being repaired, and besides, the weather was warm down here in the flatlands and the breeze soft against his face, unlike the ice-edged winds of the Gilgoras Mountains. Everything down here was soft – the women, the weather, Rilporian courage.

A world rebuilt in honour of the Red Gods. Washed clean in blood. It would be hard, but it was his sacrifice to the gods. He would build paradise in Gilgoras for Them. His will – Their will – crystallised. ‘She will return, and She will look down on this new world we have dedicated to Her, and She will be pleased. All Rilpor will worship. And all Gilgoras will follow our example.’

‘Our feet are on the Path,’ Valan murmured and Corvus’s mood lifted again. ‘Sire, the food situation isn’t what we hoped. Some of the fires we set when taking the city burnt grain stores, and more was ruined or consumed by the defenders before they fled or were captured.’