The Silver Scar Read online

  Father Troy … Trinidad swallowed the sick rising in his throat and steadied himself on the mounted gun as the dray rolled to a stop at the town gate. Spotlights and lanterns burned against the gloom, lighting the road immediately inside the gate and some distance outside. Constructed of cinderblock and red stone salvaged from dismantled university buildings, the walls flanking the gate were thick enough for two marshals to walk abreast. Heavy artillery jutted from the top like thorns. Since the wealthy Church funded the protection of the parish, marshals usually played nice with the black-cloaked, tattooed men who bore the Church’s sword. Still, archwardens never knew when they’d run into a marshal who had something to prove.

  One of the marshals strolled their way. “Evening, archwardens.”

  Trinidad took the opportunity to crouch down, out of the wind. “You see anything odd pass through here? Any Wiccan traders or the like?”

  The marshal took a step closer and leaned his arm against the side of the dray, next to Daniel’s open window. His gray-and-black camo smelled of gunpowder and stale sweat. “Quiet day so far. Weather’s driving them all inside, I guess.”

  “Gate cleared?” Daniel asked him.

  He reached up and tugged on Trinidad’s blue scarf. “Depends. Hunting Indigos tonight?”

  Trinidad felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. If gate guards knew about him killing the Indigo king, then how high up had the rumors climbed? To the mayor? The bishop?

  Daniel coughed. “Nothing like that. Just a little parish business.”

  “Well, be careful for crissake.” The marshal waved at the gate operator and the thick sheets of riveted plate metal slid open on creaking wheels.

  A poor settlement lay in the remains of a mid-twentieth-century neighborhood beyond the south gate. It crept up the foothills toward bombed-out shells of old government buildings, dissolving from houses into shanties. Moonlight glinted on occasional patches of snow and the protective white sigils painted on doors. As they passed beyond the neighborhood, they saw no one and nothing but copses of dead trees and the black ribbon of unkempt highway stretching through the no-man’s-land between the Golden and Boulder Parishes.

  The air chilled Trinidad’s lungs, seeped through the heavy cloak, and crept beneath his armor. He gritted his teeth against chattering and tried to focus on facts rather than his fears. Most hostages were kept safe enough, held for ransom. It’d be that way with Father Troy, too. Indigos might want revenge against Trinidad, but if parishioners were hungry enough to take the cross, surely Indigos could be bargained with as well. The Church would offer food, medical care, livestock. Whatever it took to get Father Troy back.

  Ahead, the long ridge called Leyden on old maps but Dragonspine by the locals cut into the opalescent smoggy sky like a monstrous backbone. It used to be a playground when he was a kid, but no one lingered there anymore. It was too dangerous in this era of Indigo and slaver raids.

  Trinidad stomped a boot to reawaken a numb foot. He forced himself to stretch his body, exposing his wind-burned cheeks to the cold air—accepting it, becoming one with it, as Roman had taught them. But he muttered into the wind, “You’re riding in back on the way home, Danny.”

  An oblong, boxy shadow blocked the road a half-klick ahead. He squinted, but the moon snuck behind clouds before he could get a better look. Still, it could only be another dray, and this close to Boulder Parish, it could mean hostiles. He thumped his fist on the roof, but Daniel had seen it. He slowed as shots clipped the cab, and Trinidad dropped to his knees to take cover, wishing he was at the wheel, wishing for control.

  No room for a full bootlegger’s turn, the road was too narrow. Daniel steered the dray to one side anyway, and Trinidad had to cling to his gun to not be thrown out as they bumped and tilted into the ditch at the side of the road.

  Inside the cab, Daniel fought the wheel as the tires caught in a rut. He slammed against the rut a couple of times but couldn’t climb back out of the steep ice-slicked mud in the gully next to the road. He settled for running the dray alongside the road. The ditch was deep enough to give them a little protection, but even as Trinidad swung the gun around and fired, he knew it would all be over in a few minutes.

  He couldn’t see well and he couldn’t steady his shots from the bouncing gun. Return fire pinged off the dray’s armor. Trinidad decided to let go, to throw all the firepower he had at them. If he was going to die here—in the cold, in the dark—he wasn’t going to leave his enemies any binary aerosol ammo to kill Christians with. The rifle barrel heated and steamed in the cold but Trinidad kept the belt running through. No time to change it. No time to think. Nothing to do but keep his finger on the trigger and sweep the area with binaries as best he could. What the bullets didn’t kill, the binary gases would.

  He couldn’t hear anything past the rip of his gun. Daniel slowed, trapped by the noose of Indigos. Fleet figures surrounded them. As the dray jolted from return hits, Trinidad struggled to keep his balance and fire at the same time, working his way through the heavy coil of rounds. The mesh-reinforced glass of the windshield and side windows cracked and buckled under the blizzard of return fire. Trinidad could only answer with long sweeps of his rifle, peppering the air with binaries and wondering how in God’s name he hadn’t been hit yet.

  The moon, stained crimson by pollution, emerged from the clouds like a bloody sore on the sky casting a reddish light on the scene. Indigos spidered forward, covering their progress with return fire, more Indigos than Trinidad could ever recall seeing in a raid. Fifty. A hundred.

  Me, Trinidad thought. They’re after me. Not Daniel—

  A spray of blood splashed the inside of the cab and the rear window exploded. A bullet punched Trinidad’s breastplate and knocked him onto his back. He scrambled for purchase on the flatbed as the dray lurched. It thudded to a halt against a boulder, throwing Trinidad to the ground. He hit hard. Empty of air, his lungs seized in his chest. Icy wind swept over him. The last of the warmth sieved from his body. A beat. Two. Four. He sucked air, clinging to consciousness. The taste of copper and ash coated his tongue. His head rang.

  The world reeled beneath him but training drove him to stir, even if he didn’t know why it was important to move. Nor did he know why the ground shuddered under him or why so many people shouted and screeched or who they all were. Blood poured from his nose and clogged his throat. He coughed, trying to breathe. Sweat glued his Flextek to his skin, ripping free painfully when he shifted to look at the dray.

  The door creaked open and Daniel fell out. He left a trail of blood as he crawled across the dirt on his belly—one arm dragging from a shoulder wound.

  It all came back to Trinidad with startling clarity. Screeching battle cries. Indigos.

  A subfrag boomed. Blood-soaked memories of his parent’s explosion bombarded Trinidad. But Roman had spent years conditioning him to a single response. The explosion drove him to his feet like the hand of God lifted him, sword in one hand, pistol in the other.

  Daniel released a broken cry, piercing the Indigo voices. He writhed, clawing at his chest, trying to get at the binary aerosol burning holes in his lungs. Trinidad felt a wave of panic, waiting for the first sting, for the bubbling of blood in his airways. But the gale at his back scoured the air around him of the murderous aerosols. Thick, heavy silence lay behind the echo of the subfrag.

  A nearby Indigo, face obscured by a gasmask and scarf, stared at him. Trinidad ran at him and leapt, sheathing his sword in the Indigo’s shoulder.

  The copper scent of death filled his lungs. The world flipped and came back screaming. Indigo war cries grew to a cacophony; feet pounded the earth. It was all silenced with a clanging shout and an answering rattle of spears banging metal breastplates.

  Two Indigos, heavily armored and filter-masked, dragged the gasping Daniel into the broken light shed by the headlight of the dray. One of them pressed his pistol to Daniel’s good shoulder. A woman’s hard voice, hollowed by a gasmask: “Fuckin throw down or I bl
ow him apart, limb by limb.”

  Daniel’s hoarse voice snagged on his failing lungs. He writhed in the Indigo’s grip, gasping for air. She didn’t let go.

  “He’s gonna die tonight,” the Indigo said. “It’s up to you how long it takes.”

  Trinidad let his gun and sword clatter to the stony ground.

  The Indigo shifted her pistol to Daniel’s forehead and fired. Blood splattered the dray and rocks. She reached up and pulled down her gasmask and hood. The light sparked on chains woven into her blonde dreadlocks. “Consider that my last act of mercy.”

  Trinidad ran at her, screaming incoherent rage, but they flocked to him, driving him to the ground with boots and fists. He choked on unshed tears and blood, trying to suck air into unwilling lungs, struggling until someone kicked his groin. The sharp spike of pain obliterated his air and fight. Rough hands hauled him to his knees, gasping and coughing. They unsnapped his armor, tearing the plates from his body and flinging them aside. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked it behind his back, pulling until he groaned in pain. The woman who shot Daniel hit him with her fists several times in the stomach and face, leaving him breathless and stunned. She stepped away, shaking out her hand and cursing.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

  Trinidad’s head hung low, he could barely lift it to look at her. Still gagging on his own blood, he shook his head.

  Hands cut Trinidad’s shirt from his chest with a knife and held the blade out to the woman, hilt first. She took it.

  “Reine d’Esprit. You must know the name. You killed my Papa Roi.”

  “He tried to kill my—priest.” A coughing fit broke through his words and he spit out a mouth full of blood. “So help me, if you’ve done anything to him, I’ll kill you too.” He fought them, nearly got free until a fist slammed his head back and lights sparked behind closed eyelids.. He sagged in the Indigos’ grip. Laughter filtered through a blackening haze.

  Reine’s voice knifed through it. “Fuckin wake him up.”

  Someone waved an acidic scent under his nose and he twitched back, abruptly clear-headed. She punched him again. Pain flared so hot in his ribcage he choked on stinging bile.

  “Get him on the ground,” she commanded.

  Rocks and roots dug into his back as they forced him down. They spread his arms out, a man on each, two on his legs, pulling each limb uncomfortably straight. He thrashed his body, but his strength failed under the unrelenting strain on his joints.

  Reine knelt next to him. She tickled the blade along his cheek, gently, not cutting. He cringed away, unable to help himself. He tried to drag Roman’s torture training back into his mind, his will to hold firm, to resist succumbing. It wouldn’t come. There were too many Indigos, too much oppressive hatred.

  “The Wiccans want you. Castile’s payin good for your bounty. You’re gonna feed us for months.”

  Trinidad twitched violently at the name. Castile … Castile was dead. He is supposed to be dead.

  “Can’t let him have all the fun though.” She gestured with the knife. “Hold his head up so he can watch. And get that torch over him so I can see what I’m doin.”

  They shoved Trinidad’s head up until his chin locked against his chest. He groaned as his neck and shoulder cramped, but the vicelike hands didn’t relent, fingers digging into his skull. Someone lowered an oil torch low over his bare chest. A spark fell and stung him, struggle again, snarling wordlessly, but their grip held him firm. She flicked the knife along his chest, caught the skin there. He felt the sting of cold air on severed nerves as she lifted the blade to her mouth and licked it. She flicked her tongue across her lip, leaving a crimson smear.

  “I’m gonna to do to you what you did to my papa. Remember that, bitch? What you did to him?”

  His sword had caught on the old man’s spinal column. She was going to cut his throat. He threw his body into a futile struggle again. The one who held his head slipped fingers around his throat and squeezed. He couldn’t get air and he couldn’t move. A shroud fell over his eyes and the Indigos spun away.

  The acrid scent assaulted him again. He startled back to consciousness, gulping air. They’d reset their grip on him while he’d been unconscious, paralyzing his limbs under their weight. He tried but couldn’t move. They shoved his head up again, chin-to-chest. Silence fell but for the light wind rustling the dried grasses and the heavy breath around him.

  “Stop strugglin or it’ll go too deep. You’re worth nothin to me dead.” Reine lowered her knife to his skin. He couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t twist away. The blade sliced through with a slight pop, blood welling over the edges. Deep stinging followed, burning like she’d set his chest on fire. Satan’s Kiss, archwardens called such cuts with a sword because the wound blazed like the devil had licked it.

  Trinidad tried not to scream and failed. Blood sheeted from the gash in his chest, steaming in the cold. He clenched his eyes shut but callused fingers pried them open, forcing him to watch as she carved another agonizing gorge into his skin. She ignored his screams, her tongue in the corner of her mouth, eyes on her task.

  His whole world narrowed to the wet sound his skin made as the knife scored it, the searing pain, the metallic scent of blood so thick he could taste it, the soft grunts of his tormenter between his screams. Voices wavered like the torch flickering over him, harsh laughter and jeers seeping through the agony. But it all seemed far away in comparison to the knife. The night started to close in, but someone waved the foul-smelling stuff under his nose in time for him to realize fresh anguish. The acrid scent blended with the salt scent of his own blood, keeping him lucid. Trinidad destroyed his voice screaming, pain and horror leaving him breathless. Incessant tremors jarred him. His heart raced under the edge of her knife, pumping blood from his wounds.

  Reine considered her handiwork. She tapped the tip of the bloody knife against her lips and pushed her dreadlocks from her sweating face before lowering the blade again. The final line, curving and cruel, took longer than the rest. It stole the last Trinidad’s breath, sheared every nerve to the quick. His heart clenched and blackness closed over the pain.

  SEVEN

  When Castile and Trinidad had been young, all the coven kids used to race along Dragonspine. Whoever kicked a stone woke the dragon and lost. As the firefight raged below on the road and then dwindled into silence, Castile stared down the length of the moonlit stone ridge to where it disappeared into darkness. He suppressed a shudder. He fancied the dragon stirring beneath his feet as if it scented prey.

  This is a mistake. This is a mistake. An echoing mantra driven by uncertainty. “Hunter’s great balls,” he said aloud, more to break the silence swathing the six coven warriors he’d brought with him. “What’s taking so long?”

  One of the soldiers with him, Sage, flicked a sign against the night sky. “Herne, bestow upon us strength and resolve.”

  The others answered in low voices. “So mote it be.”

  But Castile took no comfort from the words. This was really it. Their last chance at stopping the Christians’ crusade. And stopping them had gone so well in the last one—

  “They’re coming.” Magpie’s voice, loud against the wind, made Castile hiss at her for silence, but she held her ground. She was right. No need to hide their presence anymore; this was a scheduled meeting.

  The rest of his soldiers—holding bows, arrows nocked—turned their faces toward Castile. He twitched his chin and they started the trek down the rocky path off the north end of Dragonspine. He tightened his grip on the one shotgun spared for the mission, then on second thought handed it over to Magpie. He might need his hands free to handle Trinidad.

  His warriors followed silently, barely moving scree under their boots. All that running and racing and play had trained them to ghost through the night.

  “This is all wrong,” Magpie muttered to him. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “There are things you don’t know, Mags.”

&
nbsp; “Only because you won’t tell me.”

  Castile’s words came out sharp. “Take point.”

  “Yes, sir.” She pushed ahead of him, shoving at his shoulder and knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth and held back a sharp retort.

  The wind whipped up as they’d waited, tugging on cloaks and jackets, stirring doubts. Everyone’s faces were white and pinched; the group stiffened collectively as they neared the Indigos’ flatbed dray. Indigos hopped off the back, adjusting their scarves and pushing dreadlocks back from their faces. More followed on foot. Confused by their numbers, Castile stepped forward, seeking Reine. She appeared around the dray, her arms loaded with an awkward bundle, her dirty blonde dreadlocks looking black in the dark. She didn’t acknowledge Castile as a couple of Indigos dragged a limp body off the flatbed and dumped it on the ground.

  Castile stepped forward, squinting. He hadn’t expected things to go easy for his old friend. But Trinidad’s tattooed head lolled without resistance, his bare chest a ruin of blood and torn flesh. Castile tensed.

  Reine dropped her bundle, a pile of armor and weapons, next to the archwarden. “Your new toy comes with accessories.”

  Castile dropped to his knees next to Trinidad and pressed his fingers to his jugular. A pulse, skittering far beneath the surface. “What have you done to him?”

  “Same he did to my father,” Reine said.

  Air sieved from Castile’s chest. “Go,” he said to Reine. “Get the fuck out of my sight now.”

  “No. Fuckin you owe me. I brought him to you. That was our savvy.”

  “Our savvy …” Castile choked on mirthless laughter. “He’s no good to me dead, you stupid bitch. He’s no good to any of us dead.”

  “He’s not. I made sure of it. Now. The bounty.”

  Bows behind Castile creaked as fingers drew back strings. Castile looked at the Indigos, most of their faces still covered with scarves. The half-dozen Indigo spearguards lifted their spears to their shoulders.

  “Cas?” Magpie, her shotgun pointed at Reine. Her hand was steady, but she’d never seen how red blood ran, not up close. He couldn’t count on her to hold her shot, much less duck one of those spears.