by Kat Ross
Daníel shouted commands and his riders formed up. They sped forward and Nazafareen spotted a line of dark specks on the horizon, sitting motionless over the plain. Power gathered as the Valkirins and their Danai passengers raced ahead. Brynjar lowered her head and screeched, wings beating hard. They closed the distance. She could see the ships clearly now, each tethered to a black air sack blazoned with a dancing red flame.
Nazafareen reached for her breaking power in case they tried to use magic, but came up empty. She was still too deep in the Umbra.
A league, then half a league. The abbadax flew in a tight cluster, aiming for the wide gap between the ships and the ground. Two hundred paces. A hundred. Still the ships made no move to intercept. Perhaps they were placed there to scout for the Danai and report back.
She gripped the reins with sweaty fingers. Wind gusted in her ears. Exhaustion fell away and everything snapped into sharp focus—the upward-curving prows of glossy dark wood with lit braziers hanging below the air sacks. The pilots, wearing tunics with loose, billowing sleeves and flat caps, peering intently at the oncoming abbadax.
At fifty paces, she saw movement on the decks of the nearest ships. Canvas coverings were flung aside and men in the breastplates and crested horsehair helmets of the Shields of Apollo rose up. An instant later, the arms of concealed catapults swung back and a hail of rocks hurtled toward the abbadax. Several struck home, causing the mounts to spiral away, screaming.
“Tricky bastards,” Darius swore.
The hair on Nazafareen’s arms lifted as he sought the Nexus and drew deeply on earth. Fear gripped her. If the ships unleashed fire, she couldn’t sever him. He’d reach for it and—
Elemental power burst from the vanguard of Daníel’s abbadax, whipping curtains of loose dirt up from the plain and engulfing the ships in a yellow cloud. Brynjar flew straight into it. Nazafareen blinked against the grit. The mounts were trained for war. Brynjar didn’t need her guidance.
Nazafareen dropped the reins and drew Nemesis from the baldric on her right shoulder.
No battle’s won in bed.
Her lips parted in a wolfish smile.
“For Ygraine Grimsdottir!” she cried, leaning forward.
A ship loomed ahead. Brynjar dove at the air sack, talons extended. They were only a few paces away when the abbadax slammed into an invisible barrier. They plunged toward the earth, harnesses yanking tight, but then with an angry screech, Brynjar righted herself, climbing steeply.
Nazafareen thought they’d been hit by the backwash of power unleashed by Daníel’s Valkirins until she noticed that a bubble of clear air enveloped the ship below. She scanned the men crowded on deck. Nearly hidden amid the soldiers were two bearded men in the long white robes of philosophers. During her time as a servant at the Great Library, Nazafareen would often see the philosophers walking to and from their Guild. Javid had said some of them were sympathizers of the Pythia.
She peered at the pair, both frail and stooped. Their eyes were closed and their lips moved. One of them raised a hand and tossed something into the air. Even at a distance, she saw it glitter.
Nazafareen twisted in the saddle to look at Darius.
“They’re using spell dust!”
He raised an eyebrow, assessing the chaos erupting around them with his usual calm.
“Some kind of shields,” he said. “But earth is stronger than air. I think I can….”
He winced in pain as three boulders from the catapults reversed course in midair and hurtled back toward the ship. They struck with catastrophic force, smashing through the hull. In an instant, Darius snapped the ropes tethering the ship to its sack. The soldiers screamed as it plummeted to the ground.
“That’s one down,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his side.
Brynjar dove back into the dust cloud. Nazafareen heard the creak of ropes, the harsh cries of the abbadax and bellowed commands. Suddenly, the outlines of another ship appeared in the murk just ahead. Nazafareen locked eyes with a philosopher, whose own widened in surprise. He opened his mouth, lips forming the words to cast a protective spell. Before he could complete it, she leaned from the saddle and plunged the blade into his chest. Brynjar’s long tail lashed across the deck, sweeping a dozen soldiers over the edge. An instant later, her talons ripped a gash in the sack. The ship fell.
They used this sneak attack twice more with success, darting in and out of the dust cloud. Brynjar was cunning, navigating by sound and using her sharp feathers like daggers. Nazafareen hunched over the mount’s neck, her gut tightening every time she heard one of Darius’s bones crack. He was drawing too much earth, but it would be useless to order him to stop. She struck out with Nemesis whenever they neared a ship, slashing at the ropes and the sacks—and the men when she could reach them.
Confusion reigned, the battle glimpsed only in flashes, but she got the sense they were winning. The dust had begun to settle and only half the ships remained. Nazafareen saw with relief that the Maenads and most of the daēvas, including Daníel and Katrin, were still airborne, though a few of his riders seemed to be missing.
Then the philosophers tried something new.
From one moment to the next, the horizon vanished. There was no sky or ground. In every direction, up and down, left and right, forward and back, she saw only the line of wind ships, identical in every respect. It was like standing in a box of mirrors. Vertigo made her stomach lurch.
“What the bloody hell?” Darius growled.
Brynjar gave a low moan, eyes rolling in distress. Nazafareen sheathed her sword and laid her hand on the abbadax’s neck, stroking the softer feathers around the ear. She’d seen Daníel soothe his own mount that way.
“It’s an illusion,” she said. “But a convincing one.”
Darius leaned over and spat to the side.
“That’s still down,” he said. “They can’t alter the natural laws. We just have to—”
A jarring collision snapped her head back. They’d hit another abbadax. Both mounts plunged toward the earth, though it looked like they were rushing toward the wind ships.
“Brynjar!” she screamed, grabbing the reins. “Pull up! Fluga!”
Bone thrust through the mount’s crumpled left wing. The right flapped frantically, but it wasn’t enough to arrest their fall. The illusion concealed the ground, but she knew it must be close. Panic welled in her chest. Then a blade slashed through her harness and strong arms threw her free of the saddle. Nazafareen landed hard, biting her tongue, and Brynjar slammed down next to her a moment later.
Darius was already on his feet, running to the abbadax they’d collided with. The illusion was gone, the world righting itself again. Katrin groaned in the dirt, her nose bloodied. She looked more angry than anything else. Her abbadax hissed at Darius, its neck feathers rising.
“Peace, Berglaug,” Katrin muttered, sitting up.
Nazafareen turned at a terrible cry. Brynjar lay on her side, flanks heaving. Spatters of blue blood covered the ground.
“Help her!” Nazafareen cried. “She’s badly hurt.”
Katrin ignored Darius’s outstretched hand and pushed to her feet. She limped over and examined the abbadax, her face grim.
“She has to be put down,” Katrin said softly.
Tears sprang to Nazafareen’s eyes. She scrubbed them away. “We can set the bone. We can—”
“It’s not just her wing. She’s broken inside. It would be a mercy.” Katrin drew her sword.
“No.” Nazafareen pulled Nemesis from its baldric. “She was my mount. I’ll do it.”
“Just below the beak. A swift upward stroke. It’s the quickest way.”
Nazafareen pressed her forehead to Brynjar’s bloody beak. The abbadax blinked.
“You fought bravely,” she whispered, placing the blade where Katrin had directed. “Be at peace.”
Brynjar gave a single convulsive jerk. Her yellow eyes dimmed.
Nazafareen knelt, sword in her hand, and wept si
lently. Katrin’s footsteps receded. A hand touched her shoulder.
“We must see to the others,” Darius said quietly.
She wiped her eyes and stood. Eight of the twelve abbadax lay broken and scattered across the plain. Katrin and Daníel had already reached the nearest riders, who slumped in their harnesses. All the Valkirins were volunteers. Daníel had asked the soldiers of Val Tourmaline who among them was willing to fight the Pythia and five had stepped forward. They’d agreed to ride with the Danai who had occupied Val Moraine. Good men and women, the bravest and least bigoted of their holdfasts.
She and Darius hurried over, offering help where they could. All the abbadax were dead or so badly hurt they had to be put down like Brynjar. It was grim work and her heart lifted when she saw the three Maenads and Herodotus approach, all appearing unharmed. The wind ships had been hovering over the plain, watching them. Now the fleet sped away to the west.
“Why didn’t they try to finish us?” Megaera wondered.
“It was a delaying tactic,” Darius replied, cold fury on his face. “Those ships weren’t for the Danai. They were for us.”
“Give me a mount,” Nazafareen said. “I’m going after them.”
He shook his head. “It’s too late.”
“It’s not! Give me the globe.”
Wearily, he took it from his pocket and handed it to her. Nazafareen activated the runes. Since the exchange with Nicodemus, she’d learned how to make the device convey sound as well as sight.
“Show me the Danai,” she whispered, dread filling her heart.
And there they were at the far western edge of the Umbra, near the Cimmerian Sea. She could hear the low moan of the wind as it swept across the plain. The walls of Delphi and the white pillars of the Acropolis loomed in the distance.
Sunlight gleamed on the quivers of arrows they wore on their backs. Delilah walked next to Tethys, though neither woman spoke.
Their gazes were fixed on the army waiting ahead.
14
The Battle of Delphi
Nicodemus pushed the flaps of his tent aside and strode through the camp, searching for the Archon Basileus. Armored infantrymen carrying spears and shields stood in a phalanx facing the Umbra. The light cavalry occupied the western side of the camp, bristling with javelins and bows. There was none of the usual joking and boasting of men on the eve of a battle. Their faces were grim. They expected to die today.
None of them knew they were just for show.
A dust plume hovered on the eastern horizon. He wondered if it was the Danai, though it seemed too large and high. The sight made him uneasy.
He scanned the camp and caught a flash of red cloak beyond the edge of the infantry. The Archon stood alone, peering at the same disturbance.
“What is it?” Nico asked.
“I don’t know, my lord.”
“Could the Breaker have brought her own army from the darklands?”
Basileus glanced around. No one else was within hearing. “The Pyth— Domitia deployed wind ships in that direction several hours ago.”
“What for?”
“She didn’t say, though I imagine she wished to scout the position of the Danai.”
Nicodemus cursed under his breath. She’d told him nothing since they marched for the Umbra the day before. And he was starting to realize this plan of hers had more holes than the infamous Sinking Sands of the Kiln. Even if Nazafareen could be induced to break Galen’s ward, could the collar even control that much power? And what if she broke the ward and the collar at the same time? Of course she would.
He thought of the wave Meb had summoned and imagined a similar catastrophe unfolding, but this time with earth. Or the ground might just swallow them. There were any number of unpleasant possibilities.
That’s if the Breaker didn’t just kill everyone first.
“What about Thena?” he asked. “What have you learned?”
They both glanced at the acolyte, who stood with Galen inside a semicircle of Shields, the bracelet on her wrist.
“She’s nineteen and comes from a farm outside Delphi. She’s served the temple for six years. She has four sisters, all older. I was unable to make extensive inquiries for lack of time, but by all accounts she hasn’t seen them since she entered service to the god. The cook reported that she heard the call at a young age after hearing the legend of the three moon goddesses—”
“Skip to the dirt, Basileus,” Nico growled.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, there are a few things. She’s a sullen girl. I had to threaten her with dire punishment, but she finally admitted that she freed one of the wit— collared daēvas. One of the Shields told me the story, but I wished to hear it from her own lips.”
Nico arched an eyebrow. “She freed a daēva?”
“Galen’s half-brother, in fact,” the Archon replied dryly. “She wasn’t very coherent about what happened. Stammered some nonsense about Apollo’s will. But she seems obsessed with getting him back.”
Nico frowned. “Domitia said the daēva escaped.”
“Escape is impossible,” Basileus said flatly. “No, she unlocked his collar herself. Rumor has it Domitia burned her for her transgression and she still has the scars on her legs.”
“So the girl betrayed her once before,” Nico mused. “I’m surprised Domitia gave her a second chance. That’s…unusual.”
To say the least.
“Well, she redeemed herself with Galen. Now she seems to believe that if she pleases the Pythia, she’ll be permitted to take a contingent of Shields and hunt this daēva down. I got the impression she blames him for her own weakness of character.”
Thena glanced over at them, her face expressionless. She was pretty, but her features had a wooden, immobile quality, as if her mind were far away. A strange woman, Nico thought.
“Does she hold a grudge for her punishment?” Nico asked.
“She denies it, but I think so, yes.” Basileus stiffened, his thin lips pursing. “Movement on the plain,” he said hoarsely.
Nico turned from his scrutiny of Thena and gazed into the twilight. Something was stirring there. Hints of green and brown against the grey landscape.
The camp roiled like a kicked anthill. Orders were shouted and the infantry’s shields locked together to form a defensive wall. The cavalry wheeled around and took the left flank on the banks of the river. A runner disappeared into Domitia’s tent. Moments later she emerged, her long white gown whipping in the wind. As always, the serpent brooch adorned one pale shoulder. She had no shoes.
In the Kiln, Domitia wore thick-soled boots that laced to above the knee. She rarely took them off and taught Nico to do the same. If you had to run, the difference between boots and barefoot could decide whether you lived or died. The only time he’d seen her feet was that day she saved him from the crab. She told him later she’d been wading in the sea when she heard him scream.
Somehow, seeing her feet now felt bizarrely intimate. They were small and delicate, with high arches. She saw him staring and her lips twisted in a smile. A flush crept up his neck.
Of all the fucking things to be thinking about, he thought savagely.
Domitia ambled over to Nico and Basileus. Her gaze swept across the Danai.
“Look at them,” she said mildly. “So full of piss and vinegar.”
Nico could see the host clearly now, at least five hundred daēvas. They jogged toward the camp in a loose formation, bows at the ready, though when the attack came it would be with the power. Nico sensed their alert readiness. The dust beneath his feet seemed to shiver with anticipation.
“I hope you explain matters before things get out of hand,” he said.
Domitia’s eyes glittered. “Oh, I will.” She turned to Basileus. “Are you ready for them, Archon?”
The Archon shifted nervously. He was resplendent in his crimson cloak and gold chain of office, but his eyes had the look of a deer who’s just caught the scent of a predator. Whether it was directe
d at the Danai horde, Domitia herself or both, Nico couldn’t tell.
“The Shields of Apollo await your orders, Oracle,” he said. “May the gods watch over us.”
Fifty paces away, the daēvas stopped. They wore coats and trousers that would blend perfectly into the forest but looked out of place on the barren plain. Seven in the front—all women—conferred briefly and then walked forward.
Domitia snapped her fingers at Thena, who hurried to her side, Galen trailing her like a whipped dog. A leather gag covered his mouth and shackles bound his feet, with just enough length between them to take short steps. He cast desperate glances at the Danai.
The women halted a short distance away, ignoring the legion of Greek soldiers as if they were rocks in the landscape. Their attention focused on Domitia, who strode forward to meet them until the two sides stood a mere twenty paces apart. Brittle silence descended, broken only by the restless movement of the horses.
“Oracle of Delphi,” the tallest called out, her voice ringing across the plain. It was deep for a woman and resonant with authority. “You stand guilty of kidnapping and murder. You have shattered the peace between mortals and daēvas.”
“Shattered the peace? That’s a curious expression.” Domitia inclined her head. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”
“My name is Tethys Dessarian,” she said with contempt.
“Raisa Baradel,” said a stout woman to her left.
“Jann Fiala,” shouted one with a thick streak of white in her hair.
“Sorcha Martinec.” Hawk-nosed and fierce.
“Rhedyn Kaland.” Her round, motherly face stood in sharp contrast to the acid tone.
“And I am Sauvanne Suchy,” said the last, a willowy woman with cords of slender muscle on her bare arms and eagle feathers dangling from pierced lobes. “We are the Danai Matrium and your reign of terror is over.” She surveyed the soldiers, who watched the exchange with palpable tension. “Surrender your prisoners and throw down your arms, and we will give you a life of exile.”
