Chase the Morning

I howled again. Not with delight, this time. The main group of Wolves were beginning to press through the crowd, but it stopped them in their tracks. Behind me I was vaguely aware of Jyp protesting to Stryge as he cut him loose ‘What the hell’s happened to him? What’ve you done? You get him back, you hear, you goddam’ old vulture? Or if Don Pedro don’t settle your hash I swear to God I will!’

‘I did nothing!’ brayed the old man contemptuously. ‘He did it himself! The one thing Don Pedro wouldn’t have bargained for – that the idiot boy had belly enough left to try and kill himself! As I meant him to! Only he tried it at the right time – when they were calling down a loa! Spilling the blood of others – but he was spilling his own! And to help others, not himself! There’s no sacrifice stronger than that – no offering you can make greater than yourself!’

‘You mean –’

‘I mean the loa came, fool! But to him! Him alone! And free of Don Pedro! And what a loa! All I did was complete the débâtment – hold Him fast! Now get me out of here! Get us all out! Do you want to be caught in what’s coming? Don’t you know who That is?’

All very interesting, but what were those Wolves hanging around for? Don Pedro was shrilling at them, but they didn’t seem too eager to budge.

‘It’s Ogoun, you idiot!’ screamed Stryge, in answer to something I hadn’t heard. ‘The one loa who’d root most gladly in such a mind as his! Ogoun Feraille the Ironmaster, Lord of Smiths – and so of industry, commerce, all that dross! Of politics, even! Ogoun the Giver of Profit! Ogoun the Giver of Success!’

‘Wait a minute!’ breathed Jyp, in tones of awe and horror. ‘Ogoun? That’s not all he is –’

‘No! He’s more!’ Le Stryge crackled. ‘Shall I turn Him loose, invoke His other aspect? Do you want to be caught in range when I do? Forget the boy – get me out of here! Save yourself!’

I turned to look at them. Jyp stepped back a pace, nothing more. Stryge snarled with laughter. ‘So be it, then! At least it’ll be amusing!’ He dug his fingers into the design, and chanted

Ogoun Badagris, ou général sanglant!
Ou saizi clé z’orage;
Ou scell’orage;
Ou fais kataou z’eclai’!

Ogoun Badagris, you bloody general!

You grasp the keys of the storm;
You hold it locked;
You unleash the thunder and lightning!

I looked down, panting. With swift strokes he was adding something to that vever, a flourish, a great crest – what looked like a sword, flanked by two banners, backed with stars …

Something stirred in me – like something vast moving under the earth, or an insect shaping in its chrysalis. But not yet ready to burst out …

I was caught, snared in some inner turmoil, suddenly unsure of myself. I looked around. The Wolves were stirring now, getting ready to charge in earnest. Stryge shook his head wildly, redoubled his chant – until a harsher laugh cut through it. It was Mall, her bonds cut, with Clare trying to support her. But she couldn’t stand, and fell to her knees at the edge of the design. She managed a brief glance of contempt at Stryge. ‘Thou’rt not all-wise, old man!’ she croaked. ‘Hast forgotten aught? But then thou wouldst – the godless sorcerer thou art!’ Dark blood was trickling from her head-wound again, but she stretched out trembling fingers, rubbed raw by her bonds, and with a vast effort began tracing lines that cut the banners across.

‘Let me!’ said Clare quickly. ‘What d’you want? Crosses? Christian crosses?’

‘Aye, so!’ whispered Mall. ‘Crusader crosses! For they’ve lent this One a Christian name, too! A saint’s name!’ Her breath rattled in her throat as she watched Clare complete the design. Something shifted, balanced on a brink – and slid down solidly into place. ‘And let Don Pedro hear it now, and tremble! For ‘tis the battle cry of his own folk, whom he betrayed! Saint-Jaques, Saint James the Great –’

‘Santiago!’ The shout burst unbidden from my lips, in the sheer glory of battle. I was a sword, a flame, a winged horseman, I was the print in Frederick’s window; I was edged iron and all the work that it could do, and I wasn’t disposed to wait. Gleefully I crooked a beckoning finger at the advancing Wolves. ‘Vin’ donc, foutues!’ I screamed. ‘Loup-garous dépouillés, écouillés! Come on, you sons of bitches! Shift ass! Come and lick my sword clean! Come on, you crap-haired cowardly sheep-shaggers!’