‘Whenever we were forced to stop in the open, Greyhand would hang that corpse he’d captured from a nearby tree branch. I’d no idea why he didn’t just kill the thing at the time. De Coste would order me to gather wood, then light a fire as high and hot as he could. The apprentice or his master would sleep while the other kept watch, often smoking a pipeful of an odd, blood-red powder as they stood vigil. When they smoked, I saw that their eyes would change hue, the whites flooding so bloodshot they turned red. I asked de Coste for a taste one night, and the boy just scoffed.
‘“Soon enough, Peasant.”
‘Anyway, de Coste was sharpening his sword that eve. Beautiful weapon, it was. Silver and steel, with the Death Angel Mahné at wing on the crossguard. Archer sat on a branch above, bright falcon’s eyes shining in the dark. Greyhand’s captive corpse had been dangling inside its burlap bag for hours, unmoving. But one of the logs in the fire burst with a crack, and de Coste slipped, sliced his finger nice and deep. And all of a sudden, that thing on the branch above started moaning and bucking like a landed fish.
‘Greyhand was at prayer, as usual, his back red raw from self-flagellation. He opened his eyes and snarled, “Shut up, leech.” But the corpse only thrashed the more.
‘“Feeeee,” it begged. “Feeeeemmmeee.”
‘I looked at the blood dripping from de Coste’s finger, my stomach curdling even as the scent of it sent a small thrill along my skin. And Greyhand spat the darkest curse I’d heard in my young life, climbed off his knees, and drew his beautiful silvered sword.
‘Then he stomped around the fire, tugged the burlap loose, and laid a beating on that thing like I’d never witnessed in all my years. It screamed as he struck it with the pommel, the silver hissing where it touched its wasted skin. Greyhand kept swinging, and the monster’s cries turned to whimpers, and still he beat it, bones crunching, flesh pulping, until, as God is my witness, the thing started blubbing like a child.
‘“Stop!” I cried.
‘Greyhand turned on me, eyes like fire. Fucking brave or fucking stupid, you can decide, but monster or no, this seemed a kind of torture to me. And I looked to that awful thing sobbing on its branch and declared, “It’s had enough, Frère, for pity’s sake.”’
Gabriel sighed, elbows on his knees.
‘God Almighty. I thought I’d seen rage in my papa before. But I’d seen nothing so terrifying as the look that crossed Greyhand’s face then.
‘“Pity?” he spat.
‘He stalked towards me, and I recognized the look in his eyes – the same that Papa wore when he was about to raise his fists. I tried to push Greyhand off, but God, he was strong, hauling me to my feet and backhanding me across the face. My lip split, black stars bursting behind my eyes. I felt Greyhand dragging me towards that thing hanging from its tree, holding me out by the scruff. And like a flame doused by water, the weeping died and the corpse came alive again. Madness burned in its eyes. Hunger like I’d never seen. I roared in horror, but Greyhand edged me closer as the monster clawed towards my bleeding lip.
‘“You pity this abomination?”
‘“Please, Frère! Stop it!”
‘Greyhand slapped me again, harder than my papa ever had, sending me sprawling. I looked up from the frozen mud to de Coste for aid, but the apprentice didn’t move a muscle. Greyhand towered over me, flame and fury in his eyes.
‘“Rid your heart of pity, boy. Light a fire in your chest and burn it out at the root! Our enemy knows not love, nor remorse, nor bonds of fellowship! They know only hunger!” He pointed to that thing, still keening for my blood. “Were this abomination permitted to, it would rip you privates to chin and glut itself like a hog at trough. And tomorrow night, perhaps the next, you might rise, just as soulless as the thing that slew you! Seeking only to slake your thirst on the heartsblood of fools who speak the name of pity!”
‘His shout rang over the crackling fire, the hammer of my pulse. Looking into that living corpse’s eyes as it pawed towards my bloody mouth, I felt myself filled with that same loathing, that same hatred as the day my sister came home.
‘“What are they?” I heard myself whisper.
‘Greyhand’s gaze burned like the bonfire. “We call them the wretched, Little Lion.”
‘“But what are they?”
‘He stared at me, and much as I wished to, I refused to look away. A quiet stole over him then. Regret softened the cruel lines of his face. He offered his hand, and knowing no better, I took it. And Greyhand brought me over to the fire’s edge and sat me down, staring into the crackling blaze while de Coste watched on in silence.
‘“What do you know of coldbloods, boy?” Greyhand finally asked.
‘“They feast on living blood. They’re ageless. Soulless.”
‘“Oui. And how is one made?”
‘“All those slain by them become them.”
‘Greyhand looked at me then. “Thank God and Redeemer that’s not true, boy. Were it so, we’d already be lost.”
‘Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire. I could feel a weight in the air. A rush of adrenaline. These were the first real answers Greyhand had offered in nine days, and now that he was speaking, I didn’t want him to stop. “Please, Frère. What are they?”
‘Greyhand ran his hand over his pointed chin, stared deep into the flames. I put his age at only thirty, but from the lines of care about his eyes and mouth, he seemed a much older man. I still feared him – feared his fists as I’d feared my papa’s – but I wondered what it was that had made him so. If once, he’d been a boy just like me.
‘“Listen close now,” he said. “And listen well. Coldbloods do give their curse to those they slay. But not always. They cannot choose who their affliction is passed on to. And there seems no rhyme or reason as to which of their victims will turn and which will simply stay dead. It could be the victim rises only a few heartbeats after death. But more often, days or even weeks pass. And in the meantime, their corpse will go the way of all flesh. When it rises, a coldblood’s victim will be locked forever in the state in which it turned. Beautiful and whole. Or otherwise.” He glanced to the hanging monster. “Times past, if a victim turned many days after dying, the sun would quickly end them. The brain rots with the body, you see. And knowing no better, mindless coldbloods would simply perish with their first dawn. But now …”
‘“Daysdeath,” I whispered.
‘“Oui. The sun no longer harms them. So they live on. Wandering. And killing. And in the seven years since the daystar failed us, multiplying.”
‘“How many are there?” I murmured, licking at my split lip.
‘“In the west of Talhost, past the Godsend Mountains? Thousands.”
‘“Seven Martyrs …”
‘“It’s worse than you know, Little Lion. The oldest and most dangerous, the beautiful ones who call themselves highbloods? It used to be they lived in secret. But four months ago, a highblood lord led an army of wretched against the walls of Vellene. He stalked the streets like the angel of death, pale and fey and impervious to any blade. He slew His Imperial Majesty’s own cousin, and claimed the keep for his own. He encroaches farther through Talhost even now, and with every massacre his dark brood commits, more Dead join their number. A few rise as highbloods, forever young and deathless. Yet more become wretched, hideous and rotten. But all those slain are bound to his will. Rumour has it he is the most ancient coldblood that walks this earth. His name is Fabién Voss. But he has declared himself the Forever King.”