The Fall of Waterstone by Lilith Saintcrow

Author:Lilith Saintcrow [SAINTCROW, LILITH]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2024-06-20T00:00:00+00:00

My shieldmaid ran, her weapon held high by one bent arm. A twisting, massive effort, silent as the dead bodies twitching in her wake, and she loosed almost before my stunned eyes could focus enough to understand what they beheld.

Her aim was true.

Naciel screamed afresh as the blade sank deep into Maedroth’s back. Speared like a wolf was he; shieldmaids often hunt those creatures when they prey overmuch upon a steading’s flocks. Tainted with orukhar ichor, the steel forged in Dun Rithell made a heavy sound as it sheared ribs and punched through the Watchful’s chest, protruded dripping from his front.

And Arneior was close behind, the fury of the Wingéd Ones hard upon her. No man may treat a woman so while a shieldmaid is nearby.

Her hands closed about the haft; Arn dug her heels in and ripped the weapon aside with a coughing cat-growl of effort. Bone cracked, gold-tinged scarlet spray-splattered, and Maedroth the son of Alaessia made a nightmarish sound somewhere between a scream and a gurgle. Naciel scrambled aside, a confusion of silvergreen cloth, strands of hair torn from her head still caught between his clawing fingers. The silver ring upon his hand flashed, a dart of sickening light wrung free and splashing unheeded against Laeliquaende’s stone.

Arneior had her balance now, the rage upon her sure and deadly as that upon my father who they named, in awe, the Battle-Mad. She kicked at the back of his left knee; Maedroth staggered, still vital despite the horrific wound. Her spear-butt dropped, jabbed forward, and hit his lower back—a horrible sound, accompanied by more bone creak-snapping, and he was flung like a doll, landing upon his face.

Tiny flakes of ash began to descend, black snow. Much of Laeliquaende was burning, and those small weightless feathers had once been beautiful things, whether cloth, wood, stone… or flesh. I reeled past fallen orukhar, bile whipping the back of my throat—she had told me to stay, but the battle was over—and had to hold up the shadow-cloak’s hem with one sweating hand. I reached Naciel’s side and dropped to my knees with a jolt that clicked my teeth painfully together as Arn stood over the fallen Watchful.

She lifted her spear and struck, but not with the blade this time. No, she meted out a punishment due to violators, whether of hospitality or innocence, and bludgeoned the rest of the Elder’s immortal life from him with her spear’s blunt end. The pounding did not stop until his skull was cracked like a flung egg, and now I know the look of Elder brain when it is dashed from that strong, attractive casing.

The ruins of his head she hacked free with a flick of her spearblade, and lifted it by black, blood-matted hair. The golden tinge to his crimson ichor made strange patterns along dry stone, and she dropped the ruined thing upon his buttocks, so that when he met Hel in the afterworld that goddess would know by his condition what he had done.

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