The axe fell, bisecting the log into two wetly pink pieces. Blake straightened – squinting against the snow whipping his face – as Face Bhan replaced the split log with another.
“Gods,” Fink – their Foxblood captor – groaned, sheltering from the blizzard by leaning against a broken wall, “I never considered that cutting an inanimate object could be so hard!”
“Har har,” the young man intoned. “Almost as funny as me shoving this axe up your arse.”
The Foxblood cackled, then coughed as the frigid air sent tendrils down his throat. “You’re doing better than you were,” the Blooded admitted. “I just wish that meant you were good.”
Blake grunted, carefully keeping his face away from the worst of the wind. “Better me than this old bastard.”
“Old- “ the words was interrupted as the Face spluttered. “Thirty-two. And better old than bad with axes.”
“Better bad with axes than thirty-two and lookin’ fifty.”
“Better looking fifty than looking a baby boar.”
The young man’s swing embedded itself halfway through the next log while he raised a cotton-wrapped hand to his sparse facial hair. “I look more like… a bear.” He’d never seen a bear before. “A mighty bear.”
Bhan snorted as Blake pounded the axe the rest of the way through. “Could be diseased bear.”
“You’re diseased by time.”
“I diseased by you.”
Fink chuckled and huddled deeper into his fibre coat as they continued to try to distract one another from the bitter cold.
They worked in the outskirts of the abandoned village their captors had chosen to shelter in, in the shattered remnants of what was once a house. Time, wind, the Aching and the constant freezing and melting of condensation had conspired to leave only a few walls and the barest fragments of a wattle and daub roof – used to shelter the tree-trunks Olga deigned to fell. The rest of the village fared little better, making it seem closer to a graveyard than anything else, with each intact wall a grim reminder of what lay buried beneath the snow.
Amidst the dead place, only one structure had remained entirely intact: a building at the centre of the village. It stood by virtue of its position rather than its material: the shield the other houses had once formed and the sturdy stone beneath it had kept its mud-bricks in-place, barring a few gaps Bhan, Erin, and Blake had been forced to patch.
To Blake, it seemed almost miraculous that anything had survived at all. In the scarce moments between storms, the snow-covered landscape was the most tranquil he’d ever seen. Frost smothered the alien landscape the Aching had left behind, leaving only bristling heartwoods, speartrees, and shrubs. But it was the tranquillity of death. Nothing could grow in the bitter cold. Only freeze. Even the memory of sunlight lay concealed beneath bitter clouds, bright blue welkin forgotten.
Most of the time, it was tumultuous. Screaming squalls ate the heat from fingers and ears, blinding eyes with powdery snow. It had been nearly two months since the Aching had come and gone, yet Bhan still insisted the storms might endure for longer. Like the flap of a bedsheet, something about the shifting of the land stirred winds all across the Heartlands. The Face had told them it was rarely this strong, but that could be because most Achings were weaker. The older man had gone quiet after saying that.
It all seemed like a terrible portent. No human – even Faces – could read the future, but as young as he was even Blake could smell the sour stench of change on the wind. As if the world would end again. When he lay down to sleep at night, it almost seemed as if the scarce Godsblood in his body trembled…
Blake slammed the woodaxe downwards, only to meet air as the implement passed through the space the log should have occupied and jarred against the scarred stump beneath. Beside the pile, Bhan’s fingers repeatedly failed to find purchase around the next log.
“Damn,” the young man spat, then yanked off his makeshift gloves and kneeled to grasp the Face’s hands in his own. Beneath the fur wraps, their temperature was glacial. “We good to stop?” he asked Fink.
The Foxblood waved a hand in dismissal. “Is he okay?”
“Ack!” Bhan spat. “No problems, no problems. I lived colder days.”
With Frost besieging them, many days had been spent in quiet conversation. Initially, they’d had little to speak about other than Orvi – or Vin, as Bhan knew him – but as time passed both had ventured into other topics. The Face had repeated enough stories about ‘colder days’ in his youth that despite him being a fantastic storyteller, Blake still felt like screaming at the mere mention. Bhan’s northern homeland was cold, he gathered – but apparently even as a youth the man had never handled the temperatures well. He was over a decade older, now, and pulling on memories of a body that no longer existed.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Blake said, trying to rub life back into the man’s fingers.
After a few moments, he took his makeshift gloves – little more than strips of fur padded with dusty cloth – and shoved them over Bhan’s hands. The man put up a token resistance, but accepted the help.
The tanned young man shoved balled fists into his armpits. “Damn,” he hissed. “We need to get back.”
“Here,” Fink said, producing a small wooden flask from beneath his cloak. “Drink some.”
Blake uncorked it, gave it a sniff, and winced. “You allowed to give us this?”
The hunter’s face darkened. “I could care less about what they think.”
“They’re not gonna be mad at you when they smell our breaths.”
“Fox’s bleeding brain,” the man swore, then removed a few chunks of tallow from a pouch. “It’ll stink up your breath.”
“Gratitude,” said Bhan.
Fink waved a hand while glancing away.
As they began preparations to leave the ruined house, each took a swig. It tasted like fire lit from horse dung. When Blake immediately erupted into a fit of coughing, the two other men slapped him on the back.
“That’s awful,” he said. “Did Pat piss in it or somethin’?”
The Foxblood descended into a fit of cackling, then began rapidly drumming his fingers against his thigh. “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Fink finally admitted.
They piled the firewood into sacks, carefully keeping each load manageable. Blake handed Fink the woodaxe back, which the man accepted after a brief moment of hesitation. That was slightly frustrating; last time Peeler saw him with something approaching a weapon, he’d been slapped across the face.
Soon enough, a warm glow took residence in Blake’s chest – warm enough that he could almost forgive its transcendentally awful flavour. Almost. If the aftertaste hadn’t lingered. If the tallow – spiced with some earthy ingredient – wasn’t so determined to cling to the folds of his mouth.
But the constant battering of the snowstorm allowed no room for petty concerns. Every step was thick with icy powder, conspiring to penetrate the woven fibre cloaks they huddled beneath and suck away the warmth beating through their veins. The wind scoured moisture from eyes made almost useless by the heavy snowfall. Featureless silhouettes loomed at the edges of Blake’s vision. He knew them to be walls, yet couldn’t help but think of the cages full of twisted, broken bodies in the ruins of Spires, and wondered whether they’d stay buried beneath the broken city until the end of time.
They trudged with string tying each other together. Both Bhan and Blake tripped multiple times – boots caught by unusually heavy snow or a sudden buffeting of wind – to be helped up by whomever was closest. Every fall came with the weight of the wood, and each was more difficult to rise from than the last. If any words were said, they were caught and frozen before they could reach mortal ears.
Eventually, the broken walls grew into shapes recognisable as hollowed houses, and the gale began delivering the worst of its bite onto their walls. A few more minutes found them at the entrance to the Blooded’s house. On a clear day, unburdened by sacks of firewood, the journey might have taken three minutes. This time it had taken them almost ten, allowing the cold to sink its teeth into their bones.
Fink leaned his shoulder against the door to open it, revealing warm orange firelight flickering around an otherwise shadowy hall. Once all three were inside, he shut it again, then kicked the heavy board of wood they used to seal the door’s bottommost gap back into place. The wind howled against the door, but could make no progress. Slowly, Blake felt himself begin to defrost.
Then, Fink cocked his head. “Don’t go anywhere yet,” he whispered, then dumped his sack of firewood down and headed towards a set of muttering voices.
As soon as he disappeared around the corner of the hall, Bhan began pacing after him.
“Oi,” Blake hissed. “What’re you doing?”
The Face paced back. “We quiet, and only the Foxblood hears. Fink say nothing.”
“How d’you figure?”
“Eh… He likes the others little.”
Blake did know. Before the Aching, they’d run into several scattered remnants of Baylar forces. In each group, Pine – the Dolphinblood that had interrogated him – had pushed Peeler to make Fink torture one for answers. Every time was met with increased resistance from the Foxblood, and each time he’d eventually fallen into his work with manic glee. The aftermath saw the Blooded curled in a quiet place, fingers tapping a rapid beat as they covered his eyes. He’d begun spending less time with his peers and more with mortals.
Captain Peeler was – by all reports – an excellent fit for his Spiderblood. He was a good planner; it was why their team’d had so much success hunting Ravenkin in the Wastes. That didn’t mean he was a good leader.
“You stay back, then,” Blake told the Face. “Don’t need your aching knees giving me away.”
Bhan rolled his eyes, then extended a hand towards the end of the hallway in invitation. The young man crept towards its end, wincing every time its floorboards creaked. Whose idea were ‘floorboards’ anyway? Why not just good, decent dirt or sandstone? He felt half a step from crashing through them.
Despite the noise, those within the fire room were too distracted to notice.
“…a Lizardblood, the plan no longer works,” Peeler was saying, voice strained.
“What do we keep you around for?” That was Pine – the Dolphinblood. “Find a new plan.”
“The plan needed Larion – or any Lizardblood – more than any other Blooded. The Aching could’ve snapped the legs off all of us – excepting Oeus – and we’d be better off.”
The Dolphinblood huffed. “Including you.”
“Yes, including me.”
“You’ve had months- “
“Months don’t matter! Time doesn’t matter! We know it has Maja’s abilities, but we’ve no idea how far the Ravenblood has progressed – how many it’s killed – or how powerful it’s become!”
“Are you blaming me, Captain?” There was a dangerous amount of emphasis on the title. “I’ve practically held your hand- “
“Get off it, Pine,” gravelled Olga, low and deep. “Blake’s your biggest success.”
“And you wouldn’t- “
Peeler cut her off. “We need information to make a plan that won’t get all of us killed. Information you’ve failed to provide.”
“I found that Baylarian deserter. And the deserter.”
A sharp exhale. “So we know it’s powerful. That’s not enough.”
“Hah! Curse your own bad fortune, not my skills. The Aching was unlucky.”
Fink’s voice cut in. “Is survival the first thing on your mind, Captain?”
“Dying is a bad outcome. I shouldn’t expect a Foxblood to understand.”
A high, barking cackle. “We’re out here to kill. To torture – you’ve made that abundantly clear. You’ll make my hands dirty, but shy away from injuring your own? You’re lucky I- “
Something slammed against the floorboards. “We’ll make no progress,” rumbled Olga. A few heavy stomps, then a pause. “Move.”
“We need you here,” Pine stated. “You- “
“Listen, you grotesque little snot: I might crush you faster than your magic can squash my rage. Let me leave.”
Shuffling, then several more stomps. Blake backpedalled back to the doorway.
The steps paused. “Fink’s right. Disregard survival, Captain. This is too important not to.”
A hunched silhouette stretched into the hallway, cut by flickering firelight that revealed the Oxblood’s blunt features twisted in quivering fury. She stomped to the doorway as the two men pressed themselves to either wall.
She paused. “Where are Oeus and the twins?”
Blake blinked, then licked his lips. “Uh… Storehouse, I think.”
Olga grunted. “Give me one of your sacks.”
Wordlessly, he heaved one off the floor and handed it to her. A meaty paw seized it, yanked the door open, and stomped out into the howling storm. Bhan heaved it shut before the cold could bite through their skin.
The Face opened his mouth. “What- “
“Argument – it’s not done,” Blake whispered quickly, then crept back up the hallway.
“…possible there’s another way?” mused Peeler. “One that’s- “
“Stop.”
Blake blinked. That was Stitch. He hadn’t been aware she was in the room.
“You- “
“I’m the only one among you who fought the Cult,” she snapped. “I don’t want to kill him – I tutored him for half a decade. And whatever the twins say, the notion he managed to kill General Maja is ridiculous.”
Peeler’s voice was level. “Does the Representative- “
“Jackson,” she said, emphasising the lack of title, “agrees with me. We both knew him, and in hindsight, Maja’s injuries weren’t something he was capable of. He had neither the strength nor height to make them. Perhaps Ravenbloods don’t have to personally kill; yet even if they do, his tone…” She paused. “The boy clearly lied.”
Blake covered his mouth.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she hissed, then paused. “He already knew he’d been outed as a Ravenblood. It might be he wanted to spare his family from the stigma. Or he truly felt as if he had killed her. Or some Ravenblooded reason we can’t comprehend. I truly have no idea.”
“Then why- “
“Because it’s not a matter of what I want. And even if it was…” Stitch sighed. “I’ve seen Ravenbloods. Hundreds of them: all raving mad. But they weren’t happy. They weren’t enjoying themselves. Most of them were terrified. There are no Ravenblood transferral stones – I don’t believe one is even theoretically possible for him, with all the other blood types mixed in. The best thing we can do for humanity – and Orvi himself – is kill him. Before he does the same to hundreds.”
Peeler chuckled awkwardly. “Surely… not.”
“I understand it’s difficult, with a piece of Siik in you, but…” There was a rustle as she stood. “Pull yourself together.”
With that, she strode out of the firelight. When she turned into the hallway, her pinched face fell upon Blake, who stared at her with wide eyes. After a moment, she looked away and strode into another room.
Moments later, Fink rounded the corner and seized Blake’s arm. “Leave.”
As he was being dragged away, the young man sputtered, “What- “
“Don’t play coy with me. You’re lucky the others are so distracted, or I’d be ordered to flay the skin off your back.” His ensuing smile seemed more like a sneer. “I’d enjoy it, too.”
“Are you- “
The Foxblood lay two fingers on the side of his temple and drummed them rhythmically. After a moment, his expression settled. “No. Come on,” he said, heaving open the front door. The wind’s pealing seemed delighted. “We’ll go back to your snow hut, and- “
“You can’t,” blurted Blake.
Fink – perfectly still even as the storm had the other two men fighting for balance. His fingers froze mid-beat. He barked a sudden laugh. “Interesting, to think that- “
“Erin’s there.”
The Blooded’s teeth clenched. “I…”
Bhan shook his head.
Fink swallowed. “Alright.” His eyes fell to the white snow outside. “I’ll be by in a half-hour with food.”
“Thanks,” Blake muttered, before turning and stumbling back out into the biting cold.
He and the Face trudged through the packed snow to round the back of the house, where what appeared to be a large mound of snow had settled. A gully dove through the ice and into a hole embedded at the bottom of the mound. Blake watched as Bhan stumbled down, then easily slipped his wiry frame into it. The younger man quickly followed, squeezing into the hole on his hands and knees as his scratchy cloak dug into the packed white material around him. The whistling of wind faded as he journeyed deeper inwards, replaced by quiet chatter. At the end of the tunnel lay a small opening in its roof, which Blake stepped up into, revealing the small snow-hut they spent most of their time inside.
Bhan had designed it; drawing on memories of younger years to craft a replacement to the drafty room they’d been placed inside. As Erin and Blake had quietly gathered, dug, and compacted according to his orders, their doubts lay obvious in their silence. What warmth could possibly come from ice? But even early in Frost the nights threatened to freeze them solid, and with the Aching having vomited its bounty over the nearby land, feeding eleven people and one dog was little issue. There wasn’t much else to do. Their success had been as relieving as it was surprising. It wasn’t Wastes warm, but with all three of them inside it was warm enough.
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None of them had made any attempt at escaping their captors. With the three of them caged by six Blooded, only a truly impenetrable plan would allow them to get away. A lesser gambit would see them returned with their ankles broken – Peeler had made that extremely clear. Yet even if they did manage to lose the Esfarians in the Heartlands and somehow avoid freezing to death, one key problem remained: they would still kill Orvi. If they couldn’t map out a way to outpace their captors and warn Blake’s friend, he’d be dead by the time they arrived.
They were left with a curved room tall enough to stand upright, which they’d layered with furs and fibre mats they’d idly woven. Dozens of chimes dangled from the ceiling, wrought from bronze, bone, and glass to await a finger’s touch. On Blake’s bed, a sturdier coat was in the process of being made, alongside several knapped shovels. Alongside them were Orvi’s tiny sculptures, embedded up to their knees in the floor. In Frost, there was little to do but make things and talk.
Erin and Sash contrived to do both.
“…interesting, because when you pluck a flower it doesn’t lose its colours or anything like that, correct?” the girl said, fingers twisting around the edges of a cloak. Most of its edges were fringed with tiny pieces of drapery.
“Uh-huh,” grunted Erin, her eyes darting between Sash’s fingers and her own clumsier efforts.
“But Godsblood stops being Godsblood when it sits outside a body for too long and it’s really weird, because I think that happens even when the body’s dead?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it isn’t as if that’s all that makes a person Blooded, because if they lose some of their blood they don’t get less, uh…”
“Divine?” Erin offered.
“Indeed! Or… they might. But not for long? I think bloodtech weakens Blooded a little bit if they’re using their blood but it comes back. What’s so different about a dead person’s blood?” Her eyes were bright, above a mouth flapping like a hummingbird’s wings. “And transferral stones work by taking blood out a person’s body and putting it quickly into someone else’s, and it takes a lot longer than just eating the body, but eventually you get all of it out so it’s incredibly strange.”
“Eyah,” greeted Bhan as he wiped snow off himself.
“Eyah Bhan!” Sash said.
Simultaneously, Erin gave a far more subdued “Eyah.”
Blake doffed his cloak and carefully shook it before hanging it on a peg embedded in the wall. As he rolled his shoulders, he turned to find Sash glaring.
“What?” he asked.
“Eyah, Blake,” the girl enunciated carefully.
He squinted.
“Say it back.”
“We weren’t gone for- “
“Don’t be rude.”
Blake supressed the urge to roll his eyes. Doing so in front of Sash rarely ended well. “Eyah, Sash,” he said.
She gave a satisfied hum, then turned back to her work.
Before Sash could return to regaling them with the same topic she’d spent the last few weeks talking about – before that, it was Strains, and before that it was wrestling – Erin cut in. “How was it?”
Bhan shrugged. “Even as still seas. But Blake- “
“Fink didn’t do anything?” she interrupted.
Blake snorted. “Would we be in one piece if he did?”
“Blake!” Bhan snapped, then addressed Erin in a lower, gentler voice. “We fine, Erin.”
She nodded, wide-eyed. “Good.” She bobbed her head again. “Good. What was that about Blake?”
“Blake hear some things.”
“What kind of things?”
Bhan looked at me expectantly.
“Uh. There’s a few.” Blake rolled his tongue around a suddenly dry mouth. “Peeler’s worried, for one. Whatever plan they had for, uh, killing Orvi needed a Lizardblood.”
“Did they say why?” Erin asked.
“No. Not that I heard, anyway. And, uh…”
The sound stretched as he gathered his thoughts.
“Stitch… and Jackson… think Orvi didn’t kill Maja.”
Beyond a razor-sharp focus in their eyes, neither Bhan nor Sash reacted. But Erin visibly straightened. “They’re certain?”
Blake eyed her sideways. “They don’t think Orvi was capable of making the wounds that ended her. And that he was definitely lying.”
“And they still want to kill him?”
“Yeah.”
Erin’s gaze was fixed somewhere behind his head. “He didn’t- “
“You knew him!” Blake yelled.
Everyone present flinched – including himself.
He repeated the phrase, more quietly. “You knew him.”
Though he glared at Erin, it was Sash that looked away.
His brows furrowed. After a moment, he yanked his cloak back off its hook and turned away.
“Where you going?” asked Bhan.
“I’ve gotta tell Dash.”
As he crouched back down, his hands and knees fell back into the freezing snow of the tunnel. Shivers ran down his arms, but he shuffled ahead anyway. From behind, protests grew increasingly distant as the wind’s screaming grew louder and the cold laid itself upon his skin like chisels awaiting the touch of a hammer. Then he was staggering upright as the world howled all around him, his body twisting to search for some landmark.
The storehouse: that was where Dash was supposed to be.
Blake trudged through the snow, torquing his body to help shake his legs when they were covered in snow. Sometimes the ground beneath his feet was hard-packed; other times its flawless appearance would give beneath him without any indication of its flawed structure. As his foot landed upon one such spot, half his body fell into a concealed hole, folding one of his knees while the other jammed painfully against the ice.
A pair of hands helped him clamber out. When he’d been extracted, he found Erin shaking her head at him and moving onwards, with Bhan and Sash close behind. Blake followed.
The relentless ferocity of the storm made hearing anything but its cries almost impossible, but Bhan managed to circumnavigate its anger by pulling Blake’s ear next to his mouth. Before they’d crawled after him, all three of them had alighted on one simple problem: Oeus – the Owlblood – and Olga – the Oxblood – would both be with Dash. On top of that, the boy hated being alone with any of the captives – so much so that whenever his twin visited, he’d frequently appear to drag her away. Someone would have to separate them. They’d settled on Sash.
The logic of it was obvious. Anyone else was liable to get beheaded. Erin would go with her, but that didn’t change the fact they were putting a thirteen-year-old girl – Orvi’s sister – at risk.
But Blake tightened his jaw and said nothing, for there was nothing to say.
The storehouse sat suspended in a maelstrom of white, as cracked as the lines of an old labourer’s face. Between the feeble logs that made up its walls escaped an orange glow, making the building seem like a bottle trapping a firefly.
The two men ducked around its side while Erin and Sash heaved open the door and entered. Minutes passed with hands stuck in armpits – cold threatening to freeze their eyeballs solid in their skulls. Blake glanced at his fingers, and marvelled at the fact they were still attached. He squatted down to use his back as a windbreak, but every gust cut through his body as if it were nothing at all. When he heard the door open, it took every ounce of self-control not to seize Bhan and rush inside. It slammed shut and after a brief pause he did exactly that.
Inside lay a dozen different ramshackle cabinets and an air thawed a single step above deadly by a firepit blazing in the building’s centre, Pat – the old dog – curled around it. His ears flicked when Blake entered, but otherwise remained content not to move. The walls barely slowed the wind at all. Kneeling beside an open cabinet knelt Dash, shivering beneath his many layers while he shoved firewood inside. The adolescent consulted a strip of bark pasted on its door and added fifteen to its tally.
Blake licked dry lips. “Hey.”
The boy whirled, hand falling to a small knife on his belt. “Blake,” he stated, hand still hovering over its hilt. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
The pock-marked young man turned to Bhan. “Keep lookout, yeah?” When the older man acquiesced, he ambled over to the firepit and sat next to it. Briefly, his eyes fell upon the knife.
“What?” the boy growled.
“Ox’s balls, Dash. Whaddaya think we’re gonna do to you?”
The adolescent’s face remained carefully neutral. “I don’t know.”
Blake opened his mouth, then sighed. “We’re unarmed. And neither of us are lookin’ to get stabbed. We’re just here because I heard something I thought you should know.”
“And I had to be alone because…?”
The young man winced. “I’d probably get my head lopped off for telling you.”
Dash blinked. His hands fumbled for the whistle around his neck. “What are you trying to do with my sister?”
“Nothing!” The exclamation was thick with exasperation. “Absolutely nothin’. She agreed- ”
“She doesn’t know- “
“This really isn’t a good look for you, Dash. Making your sister pick between friends or you isn’t fair.”
“You’re a thief and a gang-leader!”
“Can’t be a gang-leader without a gang,” Blake muttered. He continued, slightly louder. “And I can guarantee I’ve killed less people than your Esfarian friends.”
Dash’s jaw jutted forward. “They had good reasons.”
“Come on, mate. If they’re so good, why’d your mother walk away?”
The boy’s mouth worked like a fish out of water. “S- She had other reasons!” His voice cracked in the middle.
“That doesn’t make them- “ Pat let loose a brief growl, and Blake paused. He ground his teeth. “I didn’t come here to talk about this. It’s about Stitch.”
Dash eyed him suspiciously. “…What about her?”
“She reckons Orvi didn’t kill Ma.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “…You’re lying.”
Blake shook his head. “You can ask Fink. Don’t think he’ll kill me for it. You can even ask Stitch.”
“The Ravenblood,” Dash spat, as if the phrase were some rotten thing lodged in his mouth, “said he killed her himself!”
“Why d’you think he said it, dumbass!?” Blake spat. “Huh?! Think, Dash: if he’s not some bloody mass-murderer – if he’s your brother – why’d he do it? When the whole city knows he’s got some dead god in his veins? What possible reason could he have for saying he tricked you?”
Dash stared at him. Pat sidled towards the boy, hackles raised.
“Oh, I don’t know – maybe, he didn’t want anyone getting suspicious of the two kids adopted along with him!”
“That’s wrong- “
“He’s your bloody brother,” Blake bellowed, “and you fell for it like he was nothing to you. Stitch knows it. She thinks Orvi couldn’t have hurt Maja if he tried – that he was clearly lying. Jackson knows it. I know it; I reckon your sister knows it.” He paused, panting. Moisture pricked at his eyes. “Why not you?”
Dash’s eyes were wide. His dog let loose a low whine.
A voice cut in from behind. “Blake,” Bhan warned. “He a child.”
Blake ignored the Face. “We found a box filled with carvings Orvi made – and he made one of you. You think he doesn’t care about you?” He scoffed. “No. You didn’t think at all. You didn’t… You didn’t bloody believe him.”
“I believed him.”
“You didn’t believe in him.”
Dash swallowed. “If he just killed the Dolphinblood, then Ma wouldn’t have hurt her foot. If he hadn’t helped that kid, then all the Esfarians wouldn’t have died. He hated her! He told me! Why would he have done that, if not…”
Blake’s lip curled. “He was stupid.”
“He’s a Ravenblood.”
“He was always a Ravenblood. Never stopped him from being your brother.” Blake shook his head. “But you were so bloody eager to stop being his.”
Dash blinked rapidly. His mouth formed shapes, but it took several tries for him to form words. “Jackson and Stitch still want him dead. They know what a Ravenblood is. If we don’t- “
“Maja knew!” Blake interrupted, incredulous. “Your mother! A general! You trust them more than her?”
“Blake!” Bhan snapped. “All make mistakes. Stop- ”
The young man levelled a finger towards the boy. “You’ve been runnin’ from me all Frost. I’m starting to think it’s because you already knew all this, and you just didn’t want anyone saying it out loud.”
Dash’s voice was desperate. His eyes avoided Blake’s gaze. “If he wasn’t a Ravenblood, none of this would’ve happened! We could’ve all been a family. No one would’ve gotten hurt.”
“How’s what’s in him his fault?”
“He chose- “
“Chose? What choice can a six-year-old make?”
“If it was so obvious,” Dash murmured, “why did it take you three years to go after him?”
The fire in Blake’s chest spluttered. “Erin didn’t want to go.”
“You could’ve gone anyway.”
The young man swallowed.
Dash looked up. “You thought he was innocent. Why didn’t you go after him? And why now?”
“You were gonna kill him,” Blake said quietly.
“You couldn’t have been certain. And why not earlier?”
“I… had other people to take care of.”
Dash’s eyes widened. “…I heard your Butcher Street Boys all died or got work with Esfaria.”
Blake closed his eyes.
“And…” the boy slowly began, “I remember you trying for work, too. But you never got hired.”
Something twisted in his stomach.
Dash blinked. When Blake opened his eyes, the kid was staring directly at him. “That’s when you left to find Orvi.”
His hands groped blindly through the cold air. “It’s not… He was always tougher than me,” he began. “Better fighter. Smarter than me – when he wasn’t set on gettin’ his hands or somethin’ that wasn’t his.”
Blake stared at the firepit, its flames slithering through the air. “Yeah, sure: he might’ve changed. But he still is all that. He’s still the same person. He’ll be okay. Why…” His voice hitched. He coughed to clear it. “Why can’t you see that?”
Dash leapt to his feet. “You saw the town on the hill! There were dozens of bodies, and Peeler thinks they were all him. Do you think Orvi could’ve done that?!”
“Peeler’s a lying little rat,” insisted Blake. “He would’ve said anything to get you on board. And that isn't the bloody question, is it? Did Orvi kill your mother?”
The adolescent paused, finger still levelled accusingly. “They don’t know that. He planned everything – he knew how the city would react.”
“They don’t know,” repeated the young man. “You don’t know. He’s your brother. Give him a chance.”
“No!” Dash’s face contorted. “No one gave me a chance. Why does he get one? Why don’t I get one? Why- “
Blake snarled. “You’re not a kid anymore – you’re only one year younger than he was. Stop bein’ such a selfish little brat- “
A canine growl interrupted him. “You have no idea- “
Blake pushed through the boy’s words. “You’re betting your brother’s life- “
“He was never- “
“Gods – he would’ve died for you- “
“Blake!” Bhan’s voice split through their hisses like the crack of a whip. “Enough.”
With his mouth opened to deliver an incoherent retort, the young man turned. Yet when confronted with Bhan’s worn face clenched in more anger than he thought the Face could muster, the words died in his throat. Without breaking eye-contact, the man gestured pointedly towards Dash, where the sound of Pat growling emanated.
Whose eyes silently dripped tears.
In an instant, Blake saw himself continuing his tirade. Or turning and fleeing into the storm. The instant distended into a moment, then the moment into a pregnant pause. Back in the Foot, tracking food and the movements of rival gangs had been only half of his job. The other half had been looking after dozens of children of all ages, smashing furniture or insulting one another or running away or folding themselves into a corner and crying, often occurring one after the other in quick succession. Though he’d been several years younger, the same urge to discard them and walk away had persisted. Yet it had never been so powerful.
Blake clenched his eyes shut, and drew Dash into a loose hug. The boy’s arms hung limply by his side, yet he allowed it all the same.
Between pauses formed by the boy’s hitching breath, Dash managed to speak. “Even if you’re right… He could still be like… Stitch and Jackson say.”
The young man stared through the gaps in the rickety ceiling. “Just… wait and see, yeah?”
“But what if…”
Blake let the question trail into silence, unanswered.
----------------------------------------
It didn’t take long to notice the howling of wind concealed several voices. Amidst the noise, only the occasional shouted word was comprehensible.
“…idea…”
A pause.
The rumbling voice could only belong to Olga. “…stupid…safe…matter…home…”
Another pause. Though neither of the men could decipher anything, Dash shrugged his way out of Blake’s arms and muttered: “That’s Sash’s voice.”
Phrases emerged from the noise as the speakers grew closer. “…best possible outcome…our lives for theirs is good sense…”
A high, quavering voice protested, “…they wanted!”
“Peeler has command, not Jackson.”
“They have not done anything wrong!”
“Sash,” came a lower, more even tone. Oeus’ voice. “We might not need to use the plan.”
“You have still made it! They deserve- “
Blake whispered to the other two. “Where’s Erin?”
Bhan’s gaze snapped towards him, then to the door. “We leave.”
The young man turned to Dash. “Don’t tell- “
“I wouldn’t,” the adolescent stated firmly. “I won’t.”
The two men moved to the door. “Thanks,” Blake said, belatedly.
They hauled it open and stumbled into the seething mass of white. The tentative heat that had built over their time around the firepit fled within seconds, leaving Bhan’s teeth chattering wildly. Blake grabbed the older man by the shoulder and began hauling him along, towards their snow-hut.
He managed three steps before a hand closed around his wrist.
“Why are you two out here?” asked Fink, orange sideburns thick with snow. Peeking out of his pockets were several leaf-wrapped chunks of pemmican.
Instinctively, Blake tried to yank his arm away, yet the attempt was immediately met with his body flipping through the air to land softly in the snow.
A cackle resounded from above him. It was immediately cut off with a frustrated growl. “Sorry,” the Foxblood said, before pulling him back to his feet. He brushed white powder off Blake’s cloak, then shot the young man an apologetic smile with too many teeth. “Instinct.”
“Nah, it’s fine, I get it. Uh, it’s bloody cold, so…” Blake smiled, and turned to walk away.
The dark silhouette of Olga loomed from out of the snow. Beside her were two smaller shapes: Sash and Oeus. A handful of powerful strides brought the Oxblood’s blunt, ugly features into clarity. She stopped half a dozen paces away.
“Did you hear that?” she rumbled, black eyes darting between the two captives.
Fink frowned. “Hear what?”
“Yeah,” Blake quickly grinned, patting the Foxblood’s shoulder. “What he said.”
Olga stared.
Blake’s grin wobbled.
“You heard.” The lines of her face twisted. Rage built behind her eyes. “Come with us.”
“What were you saying?” Fink repeated.
She snorted. “You expect me to believe you didn’t hear?”
“I just came from their little hut; I was rushing. All I caught was the girl complaining.”
Olga sighed. “Peeler wants them to serve as makeshift Lizardbloods in the plan.”
“You’re serious?” Blake half-shouted.
“You didn’t hear,” the Oxblood stated flatly.
“Not that!”
“Olga,” Fink slowly began. “They’re not… They’ll die.”
She glowered at him.
The man moved closer, until he stood directly in front of her. “This is against the Accords.”
Her glare remained stable. “It’s the plan with the highest likelihood of success.”
“They aren’t soldiers.”
“We have fought monsters, Fink – Ravenkin,” she began. “They all grew from animals. The Ravenblood was once human. It may still possess a human intellect. Or at least enough of one that it will drag hundreds of non-combatants down with it. There are no half measures.”
“He might not- “
“Then we won’t have to.”
“No, he might not be- “
“Fink.” The utterance was tense with barely restrained anger.
Fink stared up at her. Eventually, his shoulders slumped.
Olga sidled past him, eyes fixed on Blake and Bhan. Behind her, the Foxblood began walking into the howling winds. The giant woman’s lengthy strides carried her over to the captives in a handful of steps. Her hands rippled with more muscle than a human should possess. They didn’t even have the decency to close around the war-hammer on her belt.
A grown man’s head would barely reach her elbows.
“Come with me,” she rumbled.
Blake raised his hands, staring up at her. “We won’t run. Can’t make it anywhere in the storm.”
A smirk stretched across the Oxblood’s blunt features. “You will make it- “
Behind her, Fink’s silhouette lashed an arm at Oeus’. He wrapped a hand around Sash’s mouth before the Owlblood’s body hit the ground.
“- to where I need you.”
Blake licked his lips. “Uh, please. Wherever you’re putting us, it’ll be colder. We’ll- We’ll freeze.”
Her jaw audibly creaked as her teeth ground together. “Come, or I’ll cut your number down to two.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, trying for a smile that had no place being there. She lunged for his arm and he stumbled backwards. The back of his boot fell on a patch of icy snow and slid out from underneath him, sending him slamming to the ground.
The Oxblood loomed above him, a sneer pasted beneath eyes stoked with fury beyond human measure. Blake fumbled through the snow for a weapon – any weapon – but his hands found only powder. Olga raised a massive boot, then staggered sideways as one of Fink’s arms hooked around her neck while the other repeatedly sunk a dagger into the side of her neck.
Her arms lashed out faster than mortal eyes could follow, snapping for the Foxblood on her back. Yet for all her fervour, all she received was a tendon rupturing with a distorted snap. She froze – wild eyes at odds with her stillness – then slammed herself downwards, onto where the Foxblood clung to, but Fink had slipped away the moments her toes had left the snow.
Olga lay on the ground, air abandoning her mutilated throat in dull gurgles barely audible above the wind. One arm braced against the freezing ground, only to be nailed there by one of Fink’s daggers. It slumped back down. Dark red blood slowly ate through the snow as it steamed, like poison scouring the face of an elk. Her eyes blinked towards the clouded sky. Her mouth moved.
Blake didn’t hear her final breath.
The Foxblood’s eyes were wide; his teeth bared in a manic grin. After a moment, he glanced at his hands and stared at its fingers, quietly drumming a repetitive beat around the dagger. When he gazed back at the body, his expression was hollowed of all savagery. Fink turned away from the sight with his eyelids screwed shut.
Almost absent of any intonation, he asked, “Do you want the blood?”
It took a moment for Blake to realise the Blooded was talking to him. “No,” he answered, before he had time to truly think. “Never wanted to be anyone but me.”
Fink nodded, eyes still closed. “Lucky.”
When Sash emerged from the storm, Bhan gingerly took her hand and began forging their back towards the storehouse. Blake walked in their steps for a few moments, before turning back and seizing Fink’s hand. It took longer than it should for him to drag the man through the storehouse’s doors.
As soon as he sighted the dark blood splattering the Foxblood’s hands, Dash was asking questions. Blake fielded the first few, but when they became more specific he too turned to stare at Fink.
The Esfarian Blooded stared at the ground. “I- “
The storehouse door slammed opened, triggering a startled bark from Pat and causing Fink to snap his blade towards the entrant’s throat. Her cloak was drawn shut and her arms smuggled within, as if disdaining the threat the Foxblood posed. Above the dagger, Erin eyed the blade disdainfully.
Her gaze fixed upon the blood dripping from it. “The two outside died by your hand?”
Fink lowered the weapon. His yellowed gaze shied away from hers.
“Why?”
The man ran his filthy fingernails through thick orange hair. “They were going to kill him,” he stated.
“Blake?”
“Yeah.”
Erin closed the door with the side of her boot. “That was enough?”
He pleaded as if the young woman held his life in her hands. “They weren’t good people.”
“But you thought – you think – they were doing good work.”
Fink shook his head wearily.
“Why?”
It took several long moments for him to gather a reply. The wind howled, and the others waited. When Fink spoke, he looked to Erin as his judge.
“At the Foot. Esfaria’s nearly finished killing the Ravenkin. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all dead, by now. Your Orvi? He’s the last one.”
Fink rubbed the bridge of his nose and let loose a long, weary breath. “I’ve spent the last four years getting rid of the remnants of Avri. We heard ‘the last Ravenblood’… and it sounded like a challenge. The last loose bit of thread in an otherwise immaculate garment, just waiting to be snipped away. That’s what I heard, too. But…
“He’s the last, though. The rest of the Ravenblood lays in the Wastes, as empty of divinity as mortality itself. There won’t be any more. What harm can one Ravenblood do?”
No one replied. The question answered itself.
“I know. I know. But… If he hasn’t done anything… “
His tone was quiet. Plaintive. “If you could kill a person just for the blood they carried, then why not me? Why not you? Why not every Blooded that breathes?”
Erin nodded slowly. “Why not,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.
Fink looked away. “I don’t know. I can’t know. But if your Orvi needs killing, then kill him.”
“And if he does end up needing to die,” Erin said slowly, “will you do it?”
“Yes.” He smiled hollowly. “Despite everything.”
Erin nodded, lips drawn into a thin line. She slipped one arm out from her cloak to grip the Foxblood’s shoulder bracingly. “Why not,” she said.
By the time Blake realised her hands were covered in red and blue and green blood, Erin had already whipped the long ivory stiletto protruding from her arm into Fink’s guts and ripped the implement sideways. Her face flashed through dozens of different expressions before firming into a grim resolution.
“Fink!” Blake gasped, lunging to catch the man before he collapsed.
Erin intercepted him. He struggled against her grip, mindless of the blood – the blood of those within the house, he realised – coating her torso beneath her cloak. Yet against muscles borne of hours of mindless exercise every morning his efforts were useless.
“Stay back. He’s still dangerous,” Erin begged. “Blake, please. Just leave it. Please, just leave it. Stay back. Don’t look.”
Her pleas continued in that vein, but the young man’s eyes were fixed on Fink’s. The Foxblood shuffled his way backwards to lean against one of the rickety walls. Small shakes wracked his shoulders while a repetitive ‘Ah’, ‘Ah’, left his mouth – cackling, Blake realised. Orange seeped through his clothing then began spreading across the ground. It slowly leaked from his body.
The wild hilarity drained from Fink’s eyes as he stared at the orange liquid travelling across the ground, leaving only relief. He looked at Erin for several moments, then back to the blood. Fink smiled.
The blood spread. The man paled. His smile fell.
In the instant before Fink died, he gazed at his lifeforce with eyes full of fear.