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The Feast of Saint Luthera – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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THE FEAST OF SAINT LUTHERA

Victoria Hayward

Asrien tasted blood through the blizzard.

When the other combatant had fallen, her lance had flown from her hand, striking Asrien hard in the chest and face. Asrien’s own mount had staggered at the impact but rallied, great muscles bunching under the horse’s shoulders as she struggled for footing on the frozen ground. Asrien shook their head, spitting a tooth into the snow and levelling their las-lance at the enemy.

The adversary turned from across the field of combat. It was an ancient machine three times the height of a human. Its metal torso swung around to face Asrien, glinting eye-lenses flaring through the falling snow, regarding Asrien with its low-slung head. Its weapon flared. Asrien swore, and wheeled Tempest around, dodging the shot. They would have to get much, much closer if they were to hit their target, but the old war engine was canny. Its range was greater than Asrien’s, and it knew it simply had to stay out of shot on the other side of the field of battle until it had struck out the last combatant. It stepped away on its backward-jointed legs, autocannon barrel tracking its target.

Asrien whispered to the horse, the animal’s dark ears pricking as she heard her master’s voice. They would have to be fast to make it in range before the next shot came. Tempest reared, mane billowing, then her hooves hit the ground, ice shards howling skyward as she galloped. Asrien bent over the destrier’s neck, holding the las-lance close, watching for the enemy targeter’s tell-tale flicker.

It came, and Asrien swerved the horse to one side, dodging the shot, then steered the mount back full tilt towards the enemy. Adrenaline flooded Asrien’s body as they urged the horse forward. Tempest tossed her head, foam spraying from her mouth. Many yards of frozen ground still yawned between them and their attacker. It was too far to make it before the next shot. Through the fall of dirty snow Asrien saw the targeter flicker. At this range they stood no chance.

Gripping the lance tightly, Asrien kicked free from the stirrups and vaulted from the saddle. As they braced for impact, they saw Tempest veer away, eyes rolling as the enemy’s shot screamed overhead, narrowly missing the spot where she and Asrien had been mere seconds before.

Asrien’s hand smashed into a rock as they landed, knocking their lance free. They rolled, gasping in freezing air at the pain, and levered themself onto shaking elbows. The frozen soil had knocked their breath away, and despite their padded gambeson, they’d badly jarred their shoulder. The enemy was striding towards them, foot plates cracking the ice under tons of metal and weaponry with a hiss of hydraulics and the whine of weapons recharge. Asrien scrabbled in the snow with the numb fingers of their uninjured hand for the las-lance, and with teeth gritted, lurched to their feet. The enemy was nearly on top of them, and as Asrien started to run, they saw its targeter flicker. This was it. The war machine fired even as Asrien dived in mid-air, holding their aim at the target on the war engine’s plated right thigh.

The engine’s las-shot cracked out above them, hissing as it evaporated the snow and singeing Asrien’s left ear. There was barely time for Asrien to register the pain, or the muffled explosion in the snow close by before their lance slammed into the enemy, jolting their arm as it made contact and throwing them to the ground.

A horn blast blared out, and the machine immediately stopped moving. Asrien sat up slowly, resting their back against one of its mighty metal legs, and panted, staring in shock at the blast mark in the ground in front of them. The explosion had ruptured the snow, churning up a ring of filthy soil around it. It should have been a dummy shell, filled only with dye. But the blast had been real. Asrien touched the arm of their jacket, feeling the tear the shrapnel had made, their fingers coming away bloody.

Asrien became conscious of the spectators for the first time since the bout had started. Even through the muffle of the snow, the murmur of concerned voices from the staged wooden seating carried down to the arena. People were standing and trying to see. Asrien saw the king sitting in the royal box, apparently entirely unbothered by the accidental use of a live round.

‘Lord!’ a voice shouted. A hatch had opened on the top of the adversary Armiger, and a burly woman was climbing out. ‘Oh, Throne. Lord Asrien!’ she called again. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Bronn. I’m fine.’

Bronn swung out of the cabin and thudded down onto the ground. Her pale hair was spiked with sweat and she wore a padded bodyglove, lightly armoured in the same livery as the Armiger. ‘Throne,’ she swore, pulling off her combat gauntlets and throwing them in the snow as she strode to Asrien. ‘Medicae!’ she yelled. Then she knelt and touched Asrien’s cheek. ‘Your poor bloody face.’

‘The court is watching,’ Asrien said, looking up into Bronn’s eyes.

‘Screw the court. Anyway, it would be stranger if a knight wasn’t screwing their squire.’

Asrien raised an eyebrow. ‘It is just as well that my fortune was never to be made by my looks.’

‘Unlike your famously charming personality.’ Bronn half-laughed, half-sobbed.

‘You’re shaking,’ Asrien said, feeling Bronn’s hand tremble.

‘Of course I am. I just nearly killed you. Why in the hels was that round live?’

‘Accidents happen.’

‘Move aside, squire,’ a chirurgeon called gruffly.

Bronn stepped away, hands clasped anxiously behind her back.

‘It’s just bruises,’ Asrien said.

‘Apart from the broken hand, lord,’ the medicae said, unrolling a length of bandage.

The horn sounded again.

Asrien grunted. ‘Bronn, fetch my horse. The king wishes to address the combatants.’

‘Lord, you must rest,’ the chirurgeon said.

‘The king won’t wait,’ Asrien said, reaching for Tempest’s reins as Bronn led her over.

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