"THE BOY RAN first. The little one. No more than six when he Became. He moved swift as a deer, down the valley right toward me. The others followed: the blonde woman, a haggard man, another man shorter and broader. At least two dozen in the pack now.
"With a gasp, I was on my feet, broken arm swinging useless at my side. The pain returned as I tore my saddlebags loose with my good hand, sheathing my broken blade. I bid my poor brother farewell, and then I was running, down the valley toward that ribbon of distant road. The ford was at least three miles past it. There was little chance I could outpace a pack of wretched for that long. But I knew they'd stop for Justice—his blood was pooled in the mud, ripe in the air. Mongrels like these wouldn't be able to resist.
"I could feel the shakes, the thirst making my heart stutter, my belly ache. Stumbling, almost slipping in the mud, I snatched a glass phial from my bandolier. Just a pinch of powder remained in the bottom, the color of rose petals and chocolat, the promise of it making my hand shake all the worse. But reaching into my greatcoat, my heart sank into my boots as I realized my flintbox was gone.
"'Fuck my face…' I whispered.
"I groped around my belt, my coat, but I already knew the tale; I must have lost it when Justice threw me. And now I had no way to even the odds stacked against me.
"And so I ran on, slinging my broken arm up inside my bandolier and wincing in agony. It would heal with time, but the wretched would give me none. My only hope now was the river, and that was slim hope at best. If they caught me, I'd be dead as Justice."
Jean-François looked up from his tome. "You feared them that much?"
"The graveyards of the world are full of fools who thought of fear as anything but a friend."
"Perhaps your legend has swelled in the telling, de León."
"Legends always do. And ever in the wrong direction."
The vampire brushed his golden curls aside, dark eyes roaming Gabriel's broad shoulders. "It is said you were the most fearsome swordsman who ever lived."
"I wouldn't go that far." The silversaint shrugged. "But let's put it this way; you'd not want to flip me the Fathers if I had something sharp nearby."
The vampire blinked. "Flip you the Fathers?"
Gabriel raised his right hand, fingers extended, then cupped his forearm with his left. "Old Nordish insult. It implies your mama had so many men in her bed that your paternity is impossible to determine. And insulting my mama is a good way to get your face stabbed."
"Then why flee? A paragon of the Silver Order? Wielder of the Ashdrinker himself? Running like a whipped pup from a pack of foulbloods?"
"Law the Third, vampire."
Jean-François tilted his head. "The Dead run quick."
Gabriel nodded. "There were two dozen of the bastards. My swordarm was broken in at least two places. And like I said, I had no way to smoke."
Jean-François glanced to the bone pipe on the table before them.
"So reliant upon sanctus, were you?"
"I wasn't reliant on sanctus, I was addicted to it. And oui, I had other tricks among my gear, but my arm was twice-fucked, and it was too much to risk fighting that many. I'd little hope of outpacing them either, truth told, but I've always been too stubborn to just lie down and die. And so, I tried to boot it. Rain in my eyes. Heart in my throat. Thinking of all I'd meant to do returning here and wondering if I'd ever get to do any of it. I glanced back and saw the wretched were finishing with Justice's body. They rose from the mud and came on, lips red, teeth bright.
"I reached the road, staggering in the mud as thunder rolled above. I was almost done by then. The wretched close to my heels. Drawing my sword in desperation.
"If thou art b-brutally murdered here, she whispered, and I end my days hanging on the hip of a m-mindless shamble-bag of m-maggots, I shall be terribly upset with ye.
"'The hell do you want from me?' I hissed.
"Run, Little Lion, she replied. RUN.
"I did as the blade told me. One last burst of speed. And as lightning arced across the skies, I squinted through the drizzle and saw it before me. A miracle. A carriage, drawn by a miserable grey draughthorse, sitting in the middle of the road."
"Divine intervention?" Jean-François murmured.
"Or the devil loves his own. The carriage was surrounded by a dozen soldiers. Feed was scarce those nights, and keeping a horse had never been a poor man's game. But each of these men also had a mount—good stout sosyas, standing downcast in the rain while their riders argued, shin deep in the muck. I saw their problem in a heartbeat—the weather had turned the road into a quagmire, and their carriage was sunk to its axles.
"The soldiers were well geared and well fed. Clad in crimson tabards and iron plate caked with filth, they tried to drag the carriage free. And standing at their head, whipping that poor dray as if the mud were the horse's fault, were two tall, pale women. They were near-identical—twins maybe. Their hair was long, black, cut in pointed fringes, and they wore tricorns with short, triangular veils over their eyes. They were clad in leather, and their tabards were also blood-red, marked with the flower and flail of Naél, the Angel of Bliss. I realized these were no ordinary soldiers, then.
"This was an inquisitor cohort.
"The men heard me coming, but didn't seem too ruffled. And then they spied the pack of corpses on my tail, and all of them looked fit to shit. 'Martyrs save us,' breathed one, and 'Fuck me,' gasped another, and the inquisitors' jaws near dropped off their heads.
"Gabriel, 'ware!
"The whisper rang in my mind, silver behind my eyes. I turned with a cry as the first wretched caught me. It was close enough that I could smell its carrion breath, see the shape of the little boy it'd been. Rot had set in hard before it turned, but it moved quick as flies, dead doll's eyes glinting like broken glass.
"My sword cut the air, an offhand swing that was far from poetic. The blade met the monster's thigh and just kept going, sending the thing's leg sailing free in a gout of rotten blood. It fell without a sound, but the others came on, too swift to fight and far too many to best. The sosyas screamed in terror at the sight of the Dead, bolting in all directions, hooves thundering. The soldiers shouted after them in rage, in fear."
Gabriel steepled his fingers at his chin. Pausing for thought.
"Now, there's three ways a person can react when they look their death in the eye, coldblood. Folk talk about fight or flight, but in truth, it's fight, flight, or freeze. Those soldiers saw the two dozen corpses charging them down, and each chose a different path. Some raised their blades. Some messed their britches. And those inquisitor twins glanced to each other, drew long, wicked knives from their belts, and sliced through the harnesses binding the horse to their carriage.
"'Run!' one cried, scrambling onto the terrified beast's back.
"The other leapt up behind her, gave the dray a savage kick. 'Fly, you whore!'
"Gabriel, ye mu—
"I sheathed my sword, silencing her voice in my head. And I reached to my belt, left hand shaking as I drew my wheellock. The pistol was silvered, a sevenstar embossed in the mahogany grip. The shot I could've given Justice was still loaded in the barrel. And glad I'd saved it, I gave it to the inquisitors instead.
"The shot rang out, the silver slug ripped through one woman's back in a spray of blood. She toppled from the dray with a cry, the horse rearing up and throwing her sister into the muck. Breathless, I bolted past the baffled soldiers and leapt onto the dray's back.
"'Wait!' the first woman cried.
"'B-bastard!' the other coughed, bloodied in the mud.
"But I'd no time for any of them. Clutching the dray's mane with my one good hand, I raised my heels for a kick. But she needed no encouragement, screaming in terror as the wretched came on. The horse dug her hooves into the mire and bolted, and in a spray of black mud, we rode away toward the river without a backward glance."
Gabriel fell silent.
A quiet rang in that cold cell, long as years.
"You left them all there," Jean-François finally said.
"Oui."
"You left them all to die."
"Oui."
Jean-François raised an eyebrow. "The legends never called you coward, de León."
Gabriel leaned into the light. "Look into my eyes, coldblood. Do I strike you as the kind of man who's afraid to die?"
"You strike me as the kind who would welcome it," the vampire admitted. "But the silversaints were meant to be exemplars of the One Faith. Slayers of monsters most foul and warriors of God most high. And you were the best of them. You weep like a child over a dead horse, but shoot an innocent woman in the back and leave god-fearing men to be slaughtered by foulbloods." The historian frowned. "What kind of hero are you?"
Gabriel laughed, shaking his head.
"Who the fuck told you I was a hero?"