out. And if she decided to hide, well, he would have to kick through every decrepit hut and shelter, into every leaking tent and rust-seized wagon.
Birdsong drifted down from the trees of the slope on the opposite side of the camp, the sound startlingly clear. Tendrils of smoke from rain-dampened hearths undulated upward, each one solid as a serpent in Seerdomin’s eyes. He was, he realized, walking into their nest.
But Spinnock, you need not do this, you need not even know of this. This is a human affair, and if she is willing then yes, I will drag her free of it. Back to you. One can he saved and that should be enough.
He wondered if the Redeemer ever saw things that way. Taking one’ soul into his embrace with a thousand yearning others looking on-but no, he did not choose, did not select one over another. He took them all.
Seerdomin realized he did not care either way. This god was not for him. Redemption had never been his reason for kneeling before that barrow. I was lonely. I thought he might be the same. Damn you, High Priestess, why didn’t you fust leave me alone!
Not my mess.
Spinnock, you owe me, and you will never know. I will say nothing-let this rain wash the blood from my hands-
He had begun this march half drunk, but nothing of that remained. Now, everything was on fire.
Reaching the slope of the camp’s main avenue, he began the ascent. The rain was fine as mist, yet he was quickly soaked through, steam rising from his forearms. The ground gave queasily beneath his boots with every step. He arrived at the crest leaning far forward, scrabbling in his haste. Straightening, something flashed into his vision. He heard a snap, a crunch that exploded in his head, and then nothing.
Gradithan stood over the sprawled form of Seerdomin, staring down at the smashed, bloodied face. Monkrat crept closer and crouched down beside the body.
‘He lives. He will drown in his blood if I do not roll him over, Urdo. What is your wish?’
‘Yes, push him over-I want him alive, for now at least. Take his weapons, bind his limbs, then drag him to the Sacred Tent.’
Gradithan licked his lips, tasting the staleness of dried kelyk. He wanted more, fresh, bitter and sweet, but he needed his mind. Sharp, awake, aware of everything.
As Monkrat directed two of his Urdomen to attend to the Seerdomin, Gradithan set off for the Sacred Tent. Sanctified ground, yes, but only temporary. Soon, they would have the barrow itself. The barrow, and the ignorant godling within it.
Along the track, the once-worshippers of the Redeemer knelt as he passed. Some moaned in the dregs of the night’s dance. Others stared at the mud in front of their knees, heads hanging, brown slime drooling down from their gaping mouths. Oh, this might seem like corruption, but Gradithan wasn’t interested in such misconceptions.
The Dying God was more important than Black Coral and its morose over-lords. More important than the Redeemer and his pathetic cult. The Dying God’s song was a song of pain, and was not pain the curse of mortality?
He had heard of another cult, a foreign one, devoted to someone called the Crippled God.
Perhaps, Monkrat had ventured that morning, there is a trend.
There was something blasphemous in that observation, and Gradithan reminded himself that he would have to have the mage beaten-but not yet. Gradithan needed Monkrat, at least for now.
He entered the Sacred Tent.
Yes, she was still dancing, writhing now on the earthen floor, too exhausted perhaps to stand, yet the sensual motions were still powerful enough to take away Gradithan’s breath. It did not matter any more that she had been a Child of the Dead Seed. No one could choose their parents, after all. Besides, she had been adopted now. By the Dying God, by the blessed pain and ecstasy it delivered.
Let her dance on, yes, until the gate was forced open.
Gradithan lifted his head, sniffed the air-oh, the blood was being spilled, the sacrifice fast closing on the threshold. C7ose now.
The Dying God bled. Mortal followers drank that blood. Then spilled it out, transformed, so that the Dying God could take it once more within himself. This was the secret truth behind all blood sacrifice. The god gives and the mortal givesback, All the rest… nothing more than ornate dressing, nothing more than ob-fuscation.
Die, my distant friends. Die in your multitudes. We are almost there. ‘You are dying.’
Seerdomin opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face stared down at him.
‘You are bleeding into your brain, Segda Travos. They mean to abuse you. Tor-ture you with terrible sights-the Urdo named Gradithan believes you a traitor. He wants you to suffer, but you will defy him that pleasure, for you are dying.’
‘Who-what…’
‘I am Itkovian. I am the Redeemer.’
‘I-I am sorry.’
The man smiled and Seerdomin could see how that smile belonged to these gentle features, the kind eyes. Such compassion was… wrong.
‘Perhaps it seems that way, but you are strong-your spirit is very strong, Segda Travos. You believe I am without true compassion. You believe I embrace suffering out of selfish need, to feed a hunger, an addiction.’ ItkOvian’s soft eyes shifted away. ‘Perhaps you are right.’
Seerdomin slowly sat up. And saw a domed sky that glittered as if with millions upon millions of stars, a solid cluster vying for every space, so that every splinter and whorl of darkness seemed shrunken, in retreat. The vision made his head spin and he quickly looked down. And found he was kneeling on a ground composed entirely of coins. Copper, tin, brass, a few sprinkles of silver, fewer still of gold. Gems gleamed here and there. ‘We are,’ he said in an awed whisper, ‘within your barrow.’
‘Yes?’ said Itkovian.
Seerdomin shot the god a quick glance. ‘You did not know…’
‘Is knowing necessary, Segda Travos?’
‘I no longer use that name. Segda Travos is dead. I am Seerdomin.’
‘Warrior Priest of the Pannion Seer. I see the warrior within you, but not the priest.’
‘It seems I am not much of a warrior any more,’ Seerdomin observed. ‘I was coming to save her.’
‘And now, my friend, you must fight her.’
‘What?’
Itkovian pointed.
Seerdomin twisted round where he knelt. A storm was building, seeping up into the dome of offerings, and he saw how the blackness engulfed those blazing stars, drowning them one by one. Beneath the savage churning clouds there was a figure. Dancing, and with each wild swing of an arm more midnight power spun outward, up into the growing storm cloud. She seemed to be a thousand or more paces away, yet grew larger by the moment.
He could see her mouth, gaping like a pit, from which vile liquid gushed out, splashing down, spraying as she twirled.
Salind, Gods, what has happened to you?
‘She wants me,’ Itkovian said. ‘It is her need, you see.’
‘Her need?’
‘Yes. For answers. What more can a god fear, but a mortal demanding an-swers?’
‘Send her away!’
‘I cannot. So, warrior, will you defend me?’
‘I cannot fight that!’
‘Then, my friend, I am lost.’
Salind came closer, and as she did so she seemed to lose focus in Seerdomin’s eyes, her limbs smearing the air, her body blurring from one position to the next. Her arms seemed to multiply, and in each one, he now saw, she held a weapon. Brown-stained iron, knotted wood trailing snags of hair, daggers of obsidian, scythes of crimson bronze.
Above her stained, weeping mouth, her eyes blazed with insane fire.
‘Redeemer,’ whispered Seerdomin.
