The rite would be after moonrise at five in the morning, barely a couple of hours before dawn itself, and after checking and re-checking everything there was nothing else to do except fret, so he fell back on a soldier’s habits and tried to grab a few hours’ kip while he could.
When Ardwyn woke him she was naked, and she held the bone carnyx.
‘It’s time,’ she told him.
He removed the clothes that he’d slept in, took up his knife, and went out to join her and Gar in the farmyard, where a bonfire had been lit.
Moccus – Eater of the Moon – had shown his favour by blessing them with clear skies, though this made it chilly. The waning moon was low in the east, a fingernail sliver which would soon disappear into darkness, only to be reborn like the god himself. Virgo was on her back on the opposite horizon, and between them Mars and Jupiter were in conjunction, so close that their overlapping brightness outshone everything else in the heavens. ‘War and wisdom combined, see?’ she said, pointing it out to him. ‘As his tusks die she opens her legs to him that he may be reborn inside her.’
She raised the pale bone of the carnyx to her lips.
‘Wait!’ he said. The horn dropped, and she stared at him. ‘What if I’m wrong? It’s not too late. Maybe we could…’ he trailed off, irresolute.
She didn’t try to reassure him; that wasn’t her way. ‘Are you wrong?’ was all she asked. ‘You’ve killed him three times already. I imagine that means you know him as well as any mortal can. Besides, what’s the alternative? You’re wrong about it not being too late, I’ll give you that. We can’t go back. Mother would feed us to his children. When I first met you, you were a deserter, and that was ideal for what the Farrow needed, but I don’t need that any more. I need someone who will stay and make a stand. So, are you wrong?’
Gar added an interrogative grunt.
Everett sighed, deflated. ‘No. I’m not wrong. Do it.’
‘Good then.’ She put the carnyx to her mouth again and blew, and its mournful note rolled across the night-shrouded fields.
‘Moccus!’ she cried. ‘Great boar! Dagger mouth! Hunter’s bane! We summon thee!’
She blew a second time.
‘Ninurta! First farmer! Law giver! Healing hand! We summon thee!’
She blew a third and final time.
‘Saehrimnir! First flesh! God’s feast! Divine blood! We summon thee!’
* * *
A mile away, the people of Dodbury stirred in uneasy sleep. David Pimblett dreamed of being chased through the cathedral spaces of a primeval forest by something huge that ran on two legs but panted like a beast. Angie Robotham dreamed of harvesting root crops on her allotment, only instead of carrots and parsnips she found herself pulling up hunks of raw flesh, dripping red and twitching. At home, downstairs in the kitchen, Viggo woke Dennie with his howling.
* * *
Moccus, ancient and weary, stepped into the firelight. His nearly blind eyes squinted around at the farm buildings, and his nostrils flared as he took in the scents of this strange new place. He snarled, confused and displeased.
‘I know,’ said the deserter. ‘It’s not what you’re used to. But it will be better, believe me. The offerings of Swinley were weak and their flesh thin fodder to keep a god under their heel, but here we will deliver you from that. Here you will be free, to finally enjoy human blood as you were always meant to. Only submit to us, one more time. Once more, that we may deliver you and earn your favour.’
Aged though Moccus was, the beast-god still towered over him, and though his tusks were yellowing they were still sharp enough to disembowel him with a single toss of the head. Everett held his breath, waiting for the deity’s response. Next to him he could feel Ardwyn’s tension like a bowstring thrumming in the air.
Moccus’ snout began to wrinkle in a snarl, and he lowered his head to charge.
With a roar, Gar leapt onto his back, slamming both knees into the base of his spine while simultaneously curling his arms into the crooks of Moccus’ elbows and pulling the god’s arms back, bending his torso skyward even as he was driven to his knees. Everett leapt forward and plunged the black-bladed knife deep into Moccus’ breast even as the god managed to rip one arm free and swat him. Everett went reeling, his head full of ringing chaos. He was aware of Gar and Moccus both roaring and tearing at each other, then a great concussion in the earth nearby and then silence.
When he shook his head clear and looked around, Moccus was lying on his back, feebly clutching at the ground, his chest heaving, the blade still hilt-deep. Gar was picking himself up painfully from where he’d been flung.
Then the heaving stopped.
The deserter spat out dirt. ‘Get the chain block,’ he said, and went to retrieve his knife.
* * *
They rested after hoisting Moccus up into the apex of the tripod slaughtering frame and bleeding him
