‘You OK?’ they ask, although they already know the answer.
Shroudweaver nods. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s barely a start,’ Skinpainter replies. ‘I …’
Their words fade beneath a second scream from the long man. It’s become something animal now, terrified and wordless. The grey-cloaked man spasms onto his back, his fingers tearing at hisface until they find purchase around his eye socket and start to dig. Skinpainter catches their wrist. A spark of irritation flashes across their face as they brush their lips against the man’s twitching ear. ‘Ride it out.’
The long man’s eyes roll like a frightened horse. Their voice is a guttural whisper. ‘I cansee.’
Skinpainter winces, anger fading to guilt, ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
The man’s fingers tighten on his wrist. ‘Help me.’ A pathetic sound, thin, writhing with madness. Skinpainter holds him for a second. How many like him in the mountain? How many murderers following the crow-witch? They smile, bloodlessly. ‘Very well.’
In one fluid motion, they swing a boot with finality against his skull, before turning back to Shroudweaver’s widened eyes. ‘I’ll deal with him later. For now, we have to find Kinghammer. Ice. The rest.’
There is steel in their voice. ‘We have to fix this, Shroud. We have to bind him. Whatever it takes.’
Shroudweaver readjusts his wrappings. ‘I know, but first we find Ship. She has to be safe.’
Skinpainter holds his arm for a moment, a flood of bitter responses coursing across the back of their teeth. Eventually, they nod curtly. ‘Of course. Of course.’
Shroudweaver smiles. ‘I know where she is. Follow me.’
Skinpainter falls into an easy lope at his side. Runs a finger underneath their robes to the torn remnants of the gift. Pulls them back sticky and wet. Running out of time. They nudge Shroudweaver. ‘It always seems to end this way, doesn’t it? Chasing after the people we love. Trying to keep them safe.’
‘It always ends with your damn mountain,’ Shroudweaver grins into the brief silence. ‘It’ll be worth it though.’
Skinpainter’s heart sinks as they recognise the path Shroudweaver’s feet are following, down to the sleeping chambers and the children. ‘Ship’s down here?’ they ask.
Shroudweaver nods as they round a corner and the noise of battle wells to meet them. ‘I could feel her soul anywhere.’
Skinpainter shakes their head slowly. ‘Sure. Me, I just look for trouble, and there she is. Figures.’
As if they’ve conjured her from the shadows, Skinpainter finally sees Shipwright ahead of them, amid a tight knot of familiar faces. Steelfinder, Roofkeeper, Quickfish. Nigh, damnably small. Their heart lurches.
Between them and her, a mass of the bleeding and broken dead, their voices edged as jackals.
For a second, resignation clamps around their heart, but then they shake their head. This time needs to be different. As they roll up their sleeves, they stretch an arm to Shroudweaver. ‘Take my hand. We need to colour the weave.’
Shroudweaver’s brows rise. ‘Really?’
Skinpainter smiles. ‘Trust me. They’re not taking our people.’
Shroudweaver’s silver-dancing fingers lace into theirs and as his power threads their bones, Skinpainter feels the pattern extend, multiply, move beyond worlds. Geometries laid bare behind the skin. They reach out to the weaver’s shimmering strands, and feel a jolt of sorcery in their gut. It lifts them into the air, sends tattoos spiralling from their hands to strike into the reeling dead. The power tears loose a surge of emotion they’ve not felt in years. As Skinpainter’s feet leave the ground, their heart cries out in terror, joy and hope.
Then hand in hand with Shroudweaver, they begin to paint.
76
RESURGENCE
The fiercest magic, the powers of a weaver and a painter combined, grants them but the briefest respite. For a few seconds, the dead are pushed back like tide water by geometries, ebbing in blood and teeth.
It can’t last. The Empire’s unleashed rage is snarling through the mountain. There will be more dead at their back. It’s a wild relief to see a small group still standing, Nigh clutching Quickfish’s legs, Steelfinder’s weary face beneath her helmet.
Skinpainter hadn’t dared hope they’d survive, had already half-snipped those threads, already begun to grieve. Yet for the moment, they’ve held. This time might be different. The relief cuts their legs from under them, and they fall to their knees. Their breath races, as they watch Shroudweaver tumble into Shipwright’s arms. Blood thunders in their head, their pulse thready. Perhaps it’s not just relief then. Magic howling through them like a storm, scouring them bare.
After a spell, they let Steelfinder’s hands raise them from the floor, feel the last traces of geometries fall from their aching skin, feel the nerves underneath blaze into cold, exposed fire. There is no time to linger on the pain. Scant moments to guard the fallen against the dead. Skinpainter grits their teeth and begins salvaging, push, pull and purify. Hard strikes to drive out the lingering taint, quick movements to seal the broken lines of old tattoos. Triage. Mending the injured, as best they can. Salvaging the meat where the rot has not yet set too deep.
