'I'm working on it,' I said, but stopped, my gut clenching, and watched in horror as the God lifted his arms and all the pilgrims rose as if a thousand nooses had descended from the sky and were slowly hanging them: men, women and children, their mouths gasping for breath, their heads beginning to loll to the side as their eyes rolled into the back of their heads.

'This is your doing, Falcio,' the Blacksmith shouted, his voice so full of righteous rage that for a moment I almost believed him. 'If you won't let me give this country the God it needs to be strong, then I'll destroy it all and begin again!'

Allister raced into the crowd and grabbed a little boy who was on the very tips of his toes and struggling to escape the constriction around his throat. He lifted the child in his arms, but nothing changed. 'It's not working!' Allister shouted, 'there's nothing to free him from!' He called to me from across the distance, 'They're dying someone tell me how to save them!'

'Falcio,' Ethalia said softly, her hand on my arm.

I turned to her and saw she'd taken a cut to the forehead. I reached out to wipe away the blood, but she stopped me. 'It's time, Falcio. The God acts out of weakness. Aline has shown them that his will can be resisted. The others have stood in defence of the Law. Now the Faith of the pilgrims is fading, and along with it the God's power.'

'Then how is he doing this?'

'He is still a God, and these are his followers.' She took my hand. 'There is only one way this ends. It's up to you and me now.'

I turned to look back at the God standing among the ruins of our home, his armour glowing in the light of the sun. He looked majestic, perfect . . . unbreakable. 'All right,' I said, and followed Ethalia. 'Let's go kill God.'

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE.

The Challenge

I'm usually the reckless one, but this time it was Ethalia who launched the first attack. Even as we ran up the stairs of the dais, the glow of her Sainthood was flaring around her. 'I know you, God of Fear,' she called out to him, 'and as the Law binds you, so too do I. You will be named Ingnavus, God of Cowardice. Others will know you as Relinquere, God of Despair. The rest will call you Timidus, Master of Cravens.'

The words seemed to shake him. 'I am your God,' he thundered, sending a shuddering wave of fear crashing down on us.

I started to fall backwards, unable to keep my balance, but Ethalia grabbed my hand and steadied me. 'A God, perhaps,' she said, 'but you are no God of mine.'

'Whatever she's doing, it's working,' Brasti shouted suddenly. 'The pilgrims are breathing, although just barely.'

I spared a glance back and saw them still standing on tiptoes, as if they were being stretched out. 'Let them go,' I said to the Blacksmith. 'You want to end the Law in this country? There's a way to settle this.'

'You're a fool, Falcio. Do you really believe you can chain a deity by invoking a set of rules no one even remembers, let alone uses, and then threatening us with . . . what? A futile act of valour?' His eyes drifted to Ethalia. 'Posture and shout all you want, my Lady, but you and I both know you lack the spirit for this fight.'

She smirked an unusual expression for her. 'I brought all the spirit I need, Inlaudati. Set your God upon us and let your black heart feel what burns hotter than fire and shines brighter than stars.'

What's happened to her? The glow around her was making it hard for me to see. The wind was picking up, swirling clouds of dust through the ruins. I am so incredibly far out of my depth, I thought, I might as well throw stones at the moon to knock it out of the sky.

'You will bleed,' the God declared, throwing his Awe against Ethalia.

For an instant we were lost, drowning in a pool of blood and filth, then we were scrambling, grabbing for something, anything, to pull ourselves out. I started running through my oath again, clinging to the words like scraps of driftwood. I will ride these roads . . . I will judge fair . . . ride fast . . . fight hard. I will carry the law on my back if I have to. I reached inside my coat for my piece of amberlight and leaned over to trace a wide circle on the floor of the dais. The small piece of rock flared against the wood, sparks flying as the black line grew.

'Have you decided to take up magic tricks?' the Blacksmith asked. 'Is that what you brought with you to this fight?'

'You know,' I said, completing the three yard diameter circle, 'the funny thing is, I think I might be starting to like magic.' I planted my feet outside the line and looked up at the God on the other side, steeling myself against his gaze. 'I am Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats and Chief Magistrate of Tristia. I find you guilty of the murder of Birgid, Saint of Mercy, and of Anlas, Saint of Memory. I find you guilty of a hundred other deaths and a thousand other crimes' I looked out at the wreckage all around us 'including several counts of vandalism. Do you submit to my judgement, or will you plead for trial by combat?'

The God lent a moment of his attention to me, drawing away some of his attack on Ethalia, who was struggling against his Awe. I will ride the roads, I murmured under my breath. I will find my way inside every castle and palace, every filthy hovel and rundown pigsty. I will judge fair and ride fast and fight hard.

'Marked,' the God said, beginning a ritual as old as the country itself. He reached a hand back to the axe strapped on his back and brought it forth. The wide blade of the head was made of the smoothest steel I had ever seen, the long shaft wrapped in the most beautiful tracings of silver and gold. The grip itself was made of raw iron.

Ethalia joined me on my side of the circle. 'Marked,' she said, her forehead slick with sweat, leaving me to wonder how long she could hold out once the true fight began.

The Blacksmith shook his head in disgust. He sounded almost sick with disappointment. 'You could have lived, Falcio you could both have found happiness somewhere far from here. Do you truly believe you can fight a God with those rapiers of yours?'

'No,' I confessed, and I tossed them aside. I walked over to a fallen Knight's warsword lying on the ground. I picked it up in both hands, and it was just as heavy and clumsy as every other broad-bladed weapon I'd ever used. I aimed it at the centre of the God's gleaming breastplate. 'This will make a bigger hole.'

The opening of a judicial duel begins with both opponents walking the circle. As they trace each other's steps, they look for the opportunity to attack. Errera Bottio says that no matter how good an actor he might be, every fencer reveals his weaknesses in those first sluggish movements. He wrote: Find your enemy's fears - seek out his hesitations as he walks and there you will uncover the means to defeat him.

Ethalia, the God and I all moved around the circle in agonisingly slow steps, like dancers waiting for the music to start, but I was fairly sure that my opponent wasn't going to be revealing any weaknesses to me.

'I suppose it is fitting to end it like this,' the Blacksmith said, standing a few feet away from the circle. 'When I first heard about you and your penchant for duelling, I thought, "Here is a man with only one tool in his belt, one weapon he uses for every purpose." It led me to make a bit of a study of the subject, a way to better anticipate your actions.'

'I'm flattered,' I said, keeping my eyes on my opponent and making sure not to bump into Ethalia. Once the pacing has begun, either opponent can enter the circle and the other must meet them there within the beat or forfeit the duel. The idea is to wait until your opponent is slightly off-balance, or a little distracted, and then you begin the fight with the advantage.

'I found it quite fascinating, all those sanguinists and avertieres, persegueres and ludators it made me curious. A man of your profession must spend a lifetime mastering just one style knowing that for every strength it holds a weakness, however did you decide which one to choose?'

For a moment I almost laughed; only a real amateur would ask that question. I gave it the answer it deserved. 'That's simple. I mastered them all.'

With that, Ethalia and I stepped into the circle and claimed the centre ground. As she set the Awe of her Sainthood against the God's will, I met him, steel for steel.

The moment our weapons touched, I knew I couldn't beat him.

CHAPTER SEVENTY.

The Duel

As that first clang of clashing weapons shook the air, I found myself crouched in a field of tall stalks of corn. I felt small, skinny, and there was a chain around my ankle. I'm a slave, I realised. The God was my owner, screaming at me in a language I couldn't understand as he whipped me over and over, on my face, my chest, my back, with a thick loop of rope. I tried to grab the rope away from him, but before I could- -I sat across the table from the Blacksmith. Between us was a board with strangely coloured pieces of all different shapes and sizes. He picked up a boar, but when he set it down it became a Knight on a massive charger.

'Your turn,' he said.

I looked down at my pieces, now tiny, pale bits of bone carved to look like emaciated, terrified men and women cowering before an endless shadow. 'I don't know the rules.'

The Blacksmith smiled. 'Of course you don't. That's the point.'

I reached down, picking up one of the pieces at random, hoping it would counter his Knight, only to find- -that I was no longer one man, but many, a dozen no, a hundred. We hunched over small fires on a cold night, rough wooden clubs at our sides, praying the night would pass quietly, but suddenly horses came at us from all sides, men in armour riding them with swords held high. With a roar, we grabbed our clubs and turned to face them, knowing the fight was already- -lost, I thought, finding myself back in the duelling circle. My arm hung heavy at my side, the point of the warsword trailing on the ground. Ethalia was trying to keep me standing, even though her own legs could barely hold her upright. The God didn't look as if he'd even moved.

'I'm disappointed,' the Blacksmith said. 'I wouldn't have expected a master duellist and a Saint to tire so quickly.'

How long had we been fighting? Time moves unnaturally in the duelling circle, sometimes racing by, other times grinding to a halt as an enemy's blade comes for your belly. Five minutes, I guessed, maybe seven?

'Just give me a second to catch my breath,' I said. 'I'll be happy to beat your God senseless in a moment.'

'Catch your breath?' the Blacksmith chuckled. 'Falcio, the fight just began. You only parried one blow.'

Hells. This isn't going to work. I looked at Ethalia, wondering if there was some way I could distract the God long enough for her to flee the others could protect her while she gathered her strength or found a way to help them escape. She caught my eyes. 'Stick to the plan,' she said, her voice haggard, her breathing laboured.

'Sure,' I said. 'How about a kiss for luck.'

It was a stupid thing to say, the kind of glib remark that comes out of your mouth when you're desperate to hide the fact that you're terrified.

'I would,' she replied with a weak smile, 'but of late neither your kisses nor mine have been particularly lucky, have they?'

Before I could respond she drew her shoulders back and once again turned her Awe against the God. I saw shining, shimmering images of a man crawling across dry sand, his lips so parched and cracked they glared an angry red, only to have a young girl, the daughter of the enemy who sent him there to die, give him water.

The God's eyes wept, just for a moment, and the head of his axe dropped, and immediately I leaped at him, swinging my warsword around in a horizontal arc as if felling a tree. He batted it aside easily, the force of his parry sending me stumbling backwards to the edge of the circle.

He started coming for me, but Ethalia bound him with the vision of two miners climbing down a deep shaft to save a dog that had fallen in and broken its leg. The dog whined, but its tail wagged as one miner held it close to his chest and the other helped pull them back up.

I needed to separate the God from his weapon. I flipped my sword around and holding it by the blade, I smashed the pommel like a hammer against his hand, all the while wondering if Gods had bones that could be broken. It turned out the answer was no, and an instant later I watched the blade of his axe sweep up from the ground, aiming for my throat. He missed, though, stumbling forward as Ethalia drove him off-balance with another vision.

This one I recognised: a broad-chested man with big, merciless hands and a jaw that could bite through bone stares down at the prisoner he's been ordered to torture endlessly this is his job; this is what he knows and what he does. But this time he hesitates. He looks down on the foolish prisoner, who is singing in a broken voice of the Laws of a long-dead King. And the torturer leans down and lifts his victim in his big arms, carrying him down the hall and up the stairs to freedom: an act he knows will cost him his own life. A foolish act. An act of Mercy.

I never thought I'd say this, but I really miss you, Ugh, or whatever your real name was.

'Falcio . . .' Ethalia said.

I thought we might be winning, but then I saw how pale she was, the way her mouth was hanging open as if she no longer had the strength to keep it shut.

The God gave a roar that banished her visions and shook the ground beneath us. 'No. More. Mercy.'

Ethalia fell against me and I tried to hold up my blade, but it felt so heavy that I couldn't get the point into guard.

The God walked towards us, the wood of the dais bending under the weight of his steps.

There was an expression of pity on the Blacksmith's weathered face. 'I warned you, Falcio. I begged you not to begin this fight.' He signalled to the God and as the full force of his will struck us, the images he'd been holding back the true blade that would cleave our souls overwhelmed us.

'No . . .' I said, as I saw the vision sweep over me. Something tugged at my wrists and I saw that my arms were tied high above my head, against twin posts. My muscles screamed as dozens of needles were stuck in, all the way to the bone. There was something holding my mouth open, and a slight, strong man dressed in dark blue slid a small knife inside and tore strips from my tongue. I tried to remember the words of my oath, but they were drowned out by another voice. 'Shall we begin?' Heryn asked, over and over again.

I heard a scream sounding over my own: Ethalia was caught in the vision with me.

'Do you know how Gods execute mortals for their crimes, Falcio?' the Blacksmith asked as his creation knocked my blade aside. 'It's . . . Well, let's just say it's very different from any punishment you or I could ever render. There is no release when a God traps your soul. It becomes a plaything, a toy that can be shaped, a box that holds you inside, for ever. The box my God has made for you and your woman is the Lament: over and over, Falcio, repetition without end. This is the death you've brought her to. This will be her eternity, and yours.'

'No,' I said, my voice pleading as every inch of my body started shaking. I couldn't even try to imagine myself somewhere else now. 'Please, no- I'm sorry, I'm-'

'Do not ask for mercy, Falcio. There is none left for you. I gave you a chance to flee, to let me complete this great work to restore this broken country, and instead you came at me with your tricks and your clever insults and your childish Laws.' For the first time I saw the cold, empty hate behind his eyes as he turned his gaze to Ethalia. 'I warned you, my Lady: it takes more than a Saint's power and a kind heart to challenge a God.'

Ethalia's hair was falling across her face as she raised her head slowly and said, 'And I told you, Blacksmith, that I brought all the spirit with me that I need.'

There was no fear in her voice, unlike mine, and I looked at her to see what was happening. Everything about Ethalia is in the eyes, and that's why I finally understood what she had done, and how she planned to fight back. Her words outside the cathedral echoed in my mind: I hear her when she talks to you, Falcio. Sometimes she speaks to me too.

Ethalia looked at me. 'I've been carrying her for a long time, I think,' she said in that last moment before the pale blue ocean of her irises gave way to the dark brown of fresh-turned earth. 'No one else could love you the way she does.'

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE.

The Spirit

Time moves in strange ways inside the duelling circle. Sometimes it's too fast, sometimes impossibly slow. Errera Bottio calls the latter 'the grace before the blade'.

The God walked towards us, coming to rip apart our souls, and yet nothing seemed to move. I stood there holding onto a woman whose eyes belonged to another.

'Well, husband,' Aline said, her voice coming from Ethalia's lips. 'You appear to be losing quite badly again.'

'It's been a rough couple of months,' I replied.

'Poor darling. It will all be over soon.'