NOVEL NEXT Chapter 20 - Bloodshed
with eyes that gleamed like morning dew
she promised dreams, both pure and true
yet gluttony, her fatal snare
led men to paths beyond repair
- "Never Enough," Verse 2
Killián and Jebah circle each other, just out of reach of the tips of their scythes. Killián's gaze appears to be fixed on Jebah's left hand, and he stays slightly to the right—despite his resistance, he's clearly taking his friends' advice.
Suddenly Jebah lunges forward—he executes a swift, powerful strike from his left. Killián sidesteps, parrying the blow with the javelin tip of his blade. Jebah counters with a flurry of attacks, his arms moving with brutal force. Killián deflects the strikes, his movements measured and controlled. He spots an opening and aims a thrust at Jebah's unprotected side—Jebah throws himself out of the way, falling to his knee, barely avoiding the blow. He's on his feet barely an instant later and retaliates with a vicious backhand swipe. It catches Killián's shoulder—leather tears, and his olive skin splits open beneath it. Blood trickles down his chest—not a lot, but it makes a breath catch in my throat.
"Finish it!" Linden's still on his feet, jumping up and down. "Get him back for that, general!"
Killián retreats a couple of steps, glances at the injury. When he raises his scythe, both of his hands are trembling. Jebah approaches, stalking like a wolf approaching a bluedeer—there's a slight sway to his hips. Killián circles, adjusting his fingers on the grip of the bistaff. They look stiff, even from up here.
"Is that all you've got?" he asks—the Colosseum has fallen so quiet that his words travel.
"Not even close," Jebah says—is it the glinting sunlight, or are his eyes wet? "This is for Ambre, you sick fuck."
He charges again, this time feinting with his left, then swinging right in a deadly arc. Killián anticipates the move, blocking with the right and bringing his own blade down onto Jebah's exposed left wrist. Jebah screams and jerks his hand back, but it's too late—the blade made contact. He drops his sword. Killián seizes the moment, kicking the fallen blade away and pressing the attack.
"Yield, Jebah!" He screams as scythe flashes and Jebah dodges. "This doesn't have to end in death!"
"Just do it!" Jebah screams. "End it with your mind already!"
He stops moving, closes his eyes.
Killián stops too.
They stand there, facing each other. One second. Two. Three.
"Yield," Killián says.
"You'll have to kill me—"
"Stop it! Stop the fight!"
A horseman rushes in through the gates and onto the sand. A cascade of debris showers over Killián and Jebah as he stops, jerking the reins back with enough force to snap the horse's neck. They stare up at him, beyond confused— Killián's hands twitch, and he drops his scythe. The rider dismounts, grabs Killián's arm, and says something to him.
Killián and Jebah exchange a glance.
"Duel's over," Killián yells up at the announcer, and then he's running toward the stairs and taking them two at a time. He reaches us before the audience has fully processed what's happening—Jebah's still in the center of the pit, wrapping a handkerchief around his wrist with a blank expression on his face.
"Xobs are taking Valenès," Killián says when he reaches us—he's not even out of breath. "Belén, start sorting soldiers into prides and dens. Segolé, get the twins out of here and back to the First Circuit. Torrense, Péri—go to the stables and see how many horses you can scrounge up. We're going to need steeds. Lefe, get a pride together and lead them straight to Roanoît—I want you assembling reinforcements from the farming villages. Ko, Linden, Kempe—you're with me. Bard—Where do you want the medi-tents?"
"Eastern border of the capital. Think you can get together a group of medics?"
"I'll find as many as I can."
We move.
###
"Xobrites have penetrated the Judicial District and are holding seven justices in the Municipal building."
We're in the scrapyard on the eastern end of Valenès—L-Street is a ten-minute walk from here. Killián's turned the rusted hood of a mechanized vehicle into a war table. Beneath the cover of a canopy in the center of the medic's laager, he inks a black X onto a map of Valenès.
Most of the elite guard circles him, and a handful of denmasters linger close. I'm standing between Linden and Kempe off at his right-hand side, trying to make sense of a map of the catacombs. I didn't even know Valenès had catacombs, but apparently they're under all districts except The Frontier and its respective farmlands. Now I've been tasked with estimating how many civilians will use them as a means of escape, and how many search and rescue teams we should send down into the tunnels. I've heard about The God King's famous bunker before—where pre-Circuit denizens hid while the world was being blown to smithereens—but somehow it was never brought to my attention that part of the elaborate system of underground tunnels is located below my hometown. I didn't have the guts to tell Killián that when he gave me my assignment—that'll come back to haunt me later.
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"We can take back the town center," Péri says. "Give me Lefe's troops when they arrive from Roanoît, and I'll organize a counterattack."
"They have hostages." Torrense's hand taps the map above the X, carefully avoiding the smudged ink. "My scouts have reported that three additional dens are stationed at the right angle of the border. This is just their first move."
"We need to evacuate the Knowledge Center," Bardic says from Killián's left-hand side. "Their minds are the future of this city."
"The professors at the Faculté de Droit refused to leave when we sounded the war sirens this morning," one of the denmasters says—a grim-voiced, stocky man. "They fear Xobrites will burn the libraries. We'll lose 200 years of records, and they claim their lives are nothing in comparison."
"So we send our troops to the southern end of the Judicial District and hold the school until we can advance." Killián rolls the map neatly and scans all faces beneath the tent. "Torrense, Péri—assemble your dens. Kempe, go to The Frontier and see if you can assemble the farmers into something that resembles a pride."
"Linden speaks yeoman," she says. "He should do it."
Under ordinary circumstances Kempe's tone would probably send Linden into a conniption, but he doesn't balk.
"We'll do it together," he says.
"The rest of us will enter the Judicial District from the north and address their western flank." Killián addresses the denmasters. "I want them pushed beyond the city limits by nightfall."
The war counsel dissipates, and Killián catches me as I start to leave. The horse I rode in on is tethered to a nearby post—she's fine, but she's not Sinope. Everywhere around us, soldiers and medics are pitching tents that will soon hold countless victims.
"I want you shadowing one of Bardic's subordinates," Killián says. "Not an aide. Lyron. Maybe Rejod—he's all but memorized the Pocket Medical Guide. Makes him a bore at dinners, but you'll learn a lot from him."
I have one counterargument. "I know this city."
"The Judicial District?"
"…No."
"The catacombs?"
"Now that you mention it…"
I step over to my mare's saddle and rub a hand down her bare back, icy to the touch. She huffs in Killián's direction, and he tosses a blanket over her. I adjust the hem so it doesn't brush the ground and pull it up her neck.
"Why do you want me to play healer?" I ask, knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.
"Until your soul is secured, I want you out of combat." He meets my eyes. "Follow my orders, Ko. Now's not the time to go rogue."
I open my mouth to argue and change my mind at the last second. Now is the time to drag my worst fears, kicking and screaming, into the light—they've been under the rug and the dust is infecting my lungs.
"Leómadura." My voice is steady, somehow. "Killing him didn't do anything. He still has my essence."
"I'd hoped Yosif would meet him on the other side." Killián's expression remains impassive. "Unfortunately, Leó plays the game. He's been going through the mirror since he was a child—he knows the Lands of the Dead."
"I've been hearing his voice." My throat feels tight as I swallow. "It's really bad, Killián."
You think this is bad? If thoughts can sound mocking, this one does. Just wait until you're dead. Fingers crossed it'll be this battle, yeah?
Killián pulls me aside as a handful of hussars approach to feed and water the steeds on either side of my mare. We hover at the far end of the canvas overcropping. I shiver and tuck my hands in my armpits. It feels a bit like large needles are repeatedly stabbing the skin of my palms.
"These conversations are uncomfortable for me." Killián's voice is low, flat. "You are what you are."
I know what he means. "A Whoreson."
"A Diable."
"A lot of good that's done for me."
"I reformed the military codes when I first took the scythe 20 years ago," he says. "Lady Death's guard welcomes all castes. You are a soldier—don't let our proximity to L-Street make you feel like nothing has changed."
Shame curls inside me like a wriggling worm. The ground sways beneath my standard issue boots like I'm surfing the Rivière Rugueuse. I can't bring myself to meet his tawny gaze, hardened with lines from a face that's seen many battles and a crooked nose that's been broken more than once. The blood on his shoulder has dried.
My voice comes out quieter than I would like.
"How do I get my soul back?"
"I'm working on it."
He reaches out and grabs my shoulder almost like he's about to pull me into a one-armed hug, then seems to think better of it. The touch releases, he withdraws. Look at me, he murmurs, so soft it's not an order, and at last I raise my eyes to meet his. I've grown a couple inches since I first met him, but it's still a bit like peering up at Le Château du Roi Dieu when you're standing at the First Terminal stronghorse station. The wall keeps ascending. In shadows from the overcropping, his eyes are blacker than brown. Fierce eyebrows slash downward like descending ravens.
"We'll fix it," he says. "I just need time."
There's nothing to protest. "Stay safe," I say.
It earns me the barest of smiles.
"You too," he says. "Don't leave the medic's camp."
Right, says the voice in my head. Because that will keep you safe.
I want to tell him to eff off, but it's probably best not to taunt someone who has your soul.