“But even so-how is this the concern of the Monasteries?”
“It’s not. Not directly. It’s the concern of the Empire. Because BlackStone Mining is an Artan operation-run, most likely, by Aktiri and Overworld Company goons trapped here on Assumption Day-that has found a way to control the dil T’llan.”
“How do you know this?”
“Not important. The point is: there’s an Ankhanan insurgency already operating in Purthin’s Ford.”
“This Smoke Hunt?”
“Freedom’s Face.”
“Oh, please, Caine-we know all about-”
“You think you do. Among all those idealistic starry-eyed middle-class Ankhanan kids are hard-core covert operatives-most of them probably primal, concealed under different types of Illusion, but maybe humans too. Thaumaturgic Corps adepts, Grey Cats, I don’t even know what. They’re here to take out the Artans and regain control of the dil T’llan, but the Artans are under Khryllian protection. And nobody knows how much the Khryllians know about what the Artans are up to. One thing I know for sure is that this whole city’s about to go up in flames.”
“And how do you know this?”
I looked her right in the eye. “Because I’m here.”
Her answering stare went thoughtful.
“You need to get this in a report to the Council of Brothers right away, and they need to get-at the very least-a reinforced strike team inserted into Purthin’s Ford just as fast as the fuckers can friarpace. This may be the our only opportunity.”
“Opportunity?”
I took a deep breath. “The Order of Khryl has at least one, probably two, True Relics.”
The pen in her hands snapped with a sound like a breaking finger. “You cannot be serious.”
“I could be wrong. But I don’t think so.”
“Caine, it’s impossible. We would know.”
“Sure you would. They’re here, in Purthin’s Ford, and they’re in use. Regular, everyday ritual practice.”
“But they-” She let the fragments of her pen drop to the floor and passed a hand over her eyes. After a moment, she said softly, “What sort of ritual?”
“Some kind of Atonement. It seems to be something that is a guaranteed privilege of any ordained Knight. Beyond that, I’m not sure.”
I held out my right hand, opening and closing my fingers meditatively.
With just the faintest breath of mindview, I could see the power of Khryl’s Blood shining there. “The True Relic I think they have-one I can’t confirm, but I’m pretty sure-is Khryl’s Hand.”
Her face was white as the bleached sheet on the table beside her. “The Butcher’s Fist. .”
“They call it the Hand of Peace.”
“They would.”
“I think they’ve had it all along; I think Ma’elKoth built it into the Spire for them. I think it’s the only reason the Spire can stand at all.”
“You think?”
I shrugged. “Ma’elKoth and I are not on speaking terms these days. There’s some source of power holding that fucking monstrosity up. I can’t imagine anything less than a True Relic would be reliable.”
“The fortress of their faith,” t’Passe murmured. Her bloodless lips quirked toward a smile but missed it on the twitchy side. “That would suit Ma’elKoth’s, mmm, I suppose one might call it His sense of humor. Or artistic irony, perhaps: to build the Order of Khryl an impregnable keep founded upon a True Relic of their god-their worship itself upholding their Eternal Vaunt. .”
“Yeah. Look at me laughing. The other True Relic is one the Council’s gonna be even more interested in. You better tell Ambassador Raithe too. This one I can personally confirm; I was close enough to touch it. They’ve got the hilt to what they call the Accursed Blade.”
I dropped back into the chair by the stove and tried to swallow the sick twist in my stomach. “It’s the Sword of Man.”
T’Passe’s cane thumped on the floor. Both hands on its head, she shoved herself upright. “This-this would not be a Relic-Jereth was no god-”
“It’s a Relic. Whatever the Godslaughterer might have been-whatever his sword might have been-it’s for motherfucking sure a True Relic now.”
“How-?”
“How should I know? Let the giant brains at the Monasteries figure it out; what the hell else are you good for?”
“Well. . I suppose,” she murmured, frowning, “having struck the defining wound to their god would Fetishize it for them considerably. .”
“They’re not the only ones who Fetishize the goddamn thing. We call it the Sword of fucking Man, for shit’s sake.”
She stopped and turned to squint at me. “This is more than your reflexive hostility. You are angry. What has you angry about this?”
I found myself panting through clenched teeth. “Here’s another one for you giant brains,” I said. “This is what I think you better share with Raithe. I’m telling you: I was this close to that fucking thing. It’s old. It’s easily the five-hundred-plus years old it’d have to be. And it’s been in the Knights’ possession a long damned time, maybe all five hundred years. And they don’t show it to Incommunicants. But I’ve seen it before. I’ve held it in my hand. So has Raithe.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Me neither.” I stared into the flames within the stove. “I had that fucking thing sticking out of my guts eleven years ago. Three years ago I jammed it through Ma’elKoth’s face.”
“Caine, what are you talking about?”
“The Sword of Man, the Accursed Blade, whateverthefuck you want to call it.” I met her eyes, and my voice emptied out.
I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s Kosall.”
CAULDRON
RETREAT FROM THE BOEDECKEN (partial)
You are CAINE (featured Actor: Pfnl. Hari Michaelson)
MASTER: NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION, UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.
© 2187 Adventures Unlimited Inc. All rights reserved.
Wet
cool wet sting lips tongue throat
water fuck me it’s water
hakHAKH
fuck that hurts
fuck hurts just breathe
breathe
a pinhole star in the void bright and brightening and going red and wind hushing to a roar and the star screams toward me and yawns beyond the universe-
And I’m awake. And it wasn’t a dream.
I’m still on the cross.
Tilted back so I can breathe. Must be some-
It’s Crowmane. Cold yellow eyes framed with gloss feathers gleaming black-red in the light from the bonfires. Looking in her face feeds the furnace in my chest with dreams of fist-fucking her eye sockets.
She lifts a dipper to my lips and I take a mouthful of cool clean water-fuck me, it is water, it is-and I spit it on her anyway.
Try to.
My gut just won’t push that hard right now.
Water dribbles down my chin and neck and chest and some of it goes down my throat, and y’know, if she’d bring that dipper up again I’d just fucking drink it, but instead her raw-liver lips peel back around her tusks and she says something to me, waving down at the lower tier with the dipper, splashing carelessly the water that is my sole hope of heaven, painting the retaining wall with little black wet dustballs that I would gladly lick off her asshole just to get that moisture past my lips. .
Down where she points, the other bitches have Pretornio.
Shit, they haven’t even stripped him yet. I couldn’t have been out more than a couple of minutes.
Shit.
I wanted to miss this one.
Next to where the bitches hold him rises a pole seven feet tall, blunt as a knuckle and big around as my wrist. It’s fixed on a sprawling iron stand so it won’t tip over when he starts to struggle. I wish I could look away. I have, y’know, some, what you might call, issues with anal penetration. In general. And this will be, y’know-