"And if the priests come out to put a stop to the fun?"
"Then I will fill their backs with shadowy daggers."
"The soldiers we capture," Blays said. "Is the plan to dispose of them?"
"That'd be easier." Dante rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. "But if we've got prisoners, we can use them as a bargaining chip. Maybe not with Gladdic. But after we've gotten rid of him, the Colleners can show King Charles how reasonable they've been toward their prisoners. And how they'd be happy to return the captured soldiers to Mallon if only the king would agree to a truce."
"And another liability becomes an asset," Naran said. "You would make a fine quartermaster."
"I'll hold you to that. If our involvement here turns Mallon against Narashtovik, the wrath of my council will be so intense I'll have to take to a life at sea."
Wanting to wait at least two hours until they moved on the camp, Dante led the boat to an exposed shelf of mud. There, using a stiff reed, he traced a map of the work site, showing them the island, the short causeway, and the location of the soldiers and the shack. They ran through the plan several more times, exploring contingencies.
Once the stars indicated it was roughly eleven o'clock, they began to pole the boat closer to the Mallish encampment. With the canal so low, this was actually slower than walking; the path forward had to be felt out yard by yard. Twice, they had to get out and push the hull over ridges of silt. It was a full hour before they came around the bend in the canal and saw the camp's lanterns flickering a few hundred feet ahead.
"Cord, Naran," Dante whispered. "Once we've removed the sentries, we'll step in front of that lantern twice. That'll be the sign it's safe to proceed to the island."
Everyone but the Keeper climbed up the side of the bank, disturbing the smell of clams and fresh mud. Naran and Cord hunkered down under the cover of thorny trees awash in sickly-sweet pollen. Dante and Blays advanced along the bank, careful not to let themselves get snagged on the branches. On the causeway, three men sat around the tripod of poles their lantern was hung from, playing cards spread on a blanket. Good. So close to the light, their night vision would be compromised.
Dante and Blays stopped two hundred feet away, exchanging a series of gestures. Blays nodded, took a step toward the sentries, and vanished. Dante tracked his progress toward them. Once Blays was fifty feet from the Mallish, Dante nicked his arm with the point of his knife. At thirty feet, Dante called on the nether. At twenty feet, he unleashed it.
Two black bolts soared silently forward. As they neared the card-players, the bolts diverged. A silhouette appeared behind one of the men. Steel flashed. Before the man's partners could even turn their heads, the nethereal spears plowed through their skulls. All three men fell without a word.
The main camp consisted of a score of tents, each one large enough for four soldiers. At the moment, the tents were dead silent except for a few snores. It was temping to reave into them like the proverbial wolf among lambs. But Dante couldn't kill them all at once—or get rid of them all before the priests interrupted him.
Dante held his knife to the moonlight and flashed it at Blays. On the causeway, Blays performed what might have been a dance, stepping in front of the lantern, stepping back, then blocking the light a second time. Behind Dante, Naran and Cord made their way along the trees lining the canal.
Dante circled around the glob of tents. Back at the causeway, Blays was going through the pockets of the dead. Dante came to the shack, which was windowless, and pressed his ear to the only door. Hearing nothing within, he pressed his back to the side of the entrance and waited.
There was just enough light cast on the causeway to make out Cord moving among the prisoners and shaking them awake. Blays passed a small object to Naran—keys—and returned to the land bridge to loot the sentries' weapons.
Naran moved toward the first batch of slaves and kneeled to see to the shackles around each of their ankles. After, he went to the padlock that secured them to a spike driven into the ground. Iron clanked faintly. Finished waking those on the island, Cord took position in the middle of the causeway, holding her wheel vertically beside her body.
After a minute of maneuvering, five prisoners stepped away from Naran and advanced toward Cord. They were no longer bound by the long chain that had locked them together, but their shuffling steps made it clear that the key wasn't the right fit for their ankle bracelets. Holding a bundle of swords and knives, Blays led the five captives away from the camp and along the trees toward the spot in the canal where they'd left the Keeper in the boat.
Blays saw the prisoners to the canal, then turned back to the camp. Faint white light flashed from the trees, lighting the undersides of their leaves. The Keeper, taking care of the shackles. Blays made his way to one of the weapon racks set between the tents. On the island, Naran had freed another group of captives and sent them toward the Keeper. On their way, they passed the initial group, which was now armed and returning to the causeway to join Cord.
The tents were still quiet. So was the shack. Blays made another delivery of weapons to the causeway. The second batch of slaves had been de-shackled by the Keeper and was on the way back toward the island. A third group departed the island, edging around Cord and the armed Colleners who now accompanied her.
As the new group squeezed past, one of them tripped, reeling to the side. The man tried to throw his feet wide to catch his balance, but before he could plant his feet, the chain around his ankles hit its limit, pulling tight. He toppled sideways. And skidded down the edge of the bridge. Locked in chains, dropping headfirst toward the water, he screamed.
Dante sucked air through his teeth. At the causeway, the island, and the trees along the canal, everyone froze. The man landed with a sploosh, cutting off his scream.
Within the tents, a soldier coughed. Another muttered.
"Never mind the screechin'!" Blays called out in his thickest portside Bressel accent; he stood in the middle of the tents, a bundle of swords held in his arms. "Thought I felt a snake in my blanket, that's all."
For a moment, the night was silent. Down in the moat ringing the island, the fallen prisoner breached the surface and thrashed his limbs, fighting not to drown.
Men yelled back and forth. Boots thumped. Soldiers popped from their tents. Other than Blays, none of the escapees had made a peep. But the lantern on the causeway glittered in the eyes—and on the blades—of the slaves assembled there.
"Escape!" a man roared. "To arms!"
Troops boiled outside and took up their swords. On the causeway, Cord took two long strides, as if to make a break for it, then glanced over her shoulder at the dozens of prisoners who remained trapped on the island.
With a growl, she planted her feet and swept her wheel before her. "Come and let me deliver you to your gods!"
The four Colleners who stood with her brandished their stolen swords. Mallish soldiers swarmed about the camp. A group of a dozen assembled and charged the causeway. Cord spun her wheel, the counterweighted spear blurring. She clubbed down the first three soldiers that stepped foot on the bridge. Losing the momentum of her weapon, she danced back to join ranks with the four prisoners. The Mallish charged into them. Swords clashed in the night. Two prisoners and four soldiers fell to the ground. A second wave of Mallish rushed to reinforce their compatriots.
Naran sprinted across the island to stand beside Cord, bearing his saber in one hand and a dirk in the other. He weaved in and out of the Mallish, his strikes as controlled and elegant as his speech. Another prisoner fell, leaving just Cord, Naran, and a lone captive. Facing twenty soldiers, the three of them dropped back a step, then two more.
A figure materialized at the back of the Mallish lines. With a sword in each hand, Blays carved into the unwitting enemy, felling half a dozen men in a matter of seconds. Cord laughed and stalked forward, wheel whirling. The Mallish soldiers hadn't had time to don armor. The metal ball at the end of Cord's wheel snapped their bones like dry branches
.
An officer yelled orders. The soldiers fell back to regroup with an incoming batch of reinforcements. In the confusion, the second group of Collenese captives, armed and unfettered, rushed to the causeway. The defenders now numbered nine in total. They were outnumbered nearly ten to one by the Mallish, but the enemy wasn't wholly assembled yet, and with the fighting confined to the narrow strip of earth connecting the island to the shore, it might be enough.
Naran darted forward, snatching up the swords dropped by the dead. Two prisoners joined him. They grabbed whatever steel they could see and rushed back to the line of defense. Arrows thudded into the ground they'd just vacated.
Beside the shack, Dante craned his neck. Heart racing, he spotted four men crouched to the left of the causeway. A line of infantry protected them from any sallies attempted by the Colleners. Nether shot from Dante's hands, wending over the tents, but the archers were already nocking another volley. They loosed on the defenders.
"Naran!" Blays vaulted toward the captain, who had his back turned to the incoming arrows. Blays rammed into Naran's side and bounced him to the ground. As the arrows slashed toward Blays, he blinked from existence.
As the archers readied another shot, Dante's black bolts struck three of them in the back. Two flopped without a sound. The other writhed on the ground. The fourth jumped back in panic, dropping his arrow. But another six archers were already running into position to fire on the causeway. They dropped to a knee and took aim.
Dante wreathed his hands in shadows. As he prepared to sling them across the camp, the door of the shack clapped open. A priest dashed outside, spheres of light whirling between his palms. Reflexively, Dante slammed every drop of nether he had into the man's side. The priest flew sideways, spinning head over heels.
At the causeway, people yelled in pain. Dante turned back, heartsick at what he was about to see.
Silver lightning flared from the bank of the canal and sizzled into the archers. Their screams were the high-pitched keens of those who burned. The glare was so bright Dante had to shield his eyes, but there was no mistaking the work of the Keeper.
The light faded. Cord led a charge from the causeway, scooping up the old woman while the others grabbed more weapons from those who'd died. Mallish soldiers tried to pursue, but were driven back by another flash of lightning.
"Stuart?" a man called from inside the shack. His words carried the accent of Windwill University, which graduated most of Bressel's priests. "Stuart, are you all right?"
Light winked from the island, much dimmer than the ethereal lightning. The Keeper was striking off more shackles. Twenty of the Mallish had been injured or killed. Several Colleners had fallen, but their numbers on the island now equaled their enemy. Most of the prisoners were fettered and unarmed, but the Keeper was working to undo the former condition—and with every soldier they killed, those on the causeway undid the latter. The next few minutes were going to be grim and bloody, but between the Keeper, Blays, Cord, and Naran, they looked like they'd carry the day.
An iridescent lance shot from the shack door, whisking toward the forces on the bridge. A second followed right behind it. Anticipating it, Dante whacked at it with a lobe of darkness, but he was too slow. Both lances of ether flew through the darkness like shooting stars. They arced over the Mallish lines and hurtled into the Colleners, drawing panicked yelps.
In an open field, Dante expected he could take down both priests after a brief struggle. But rushing through an open door into a tight space he couldn't see inside sounded like a good way to stop being a human and start being a puddle of red goo.
Two more white bolts flicked out the doorway. Again, Dante was too slow to bat them down. Another minute of this, and the priests might weaken the causeway's defenders to the point where the soldiers could break through. Dante tensed his legs, ready to roll around the doorway and fling himself inside.
As he pivoted, the dirt ground beneath his boot. He dropped his weight, stopping himself. Heart racing, he plunged his mind ten feet into the ground, then twenty. It was solid basalt, but at his command, the rock flowed away like muddy water. He moved upward in a rough circle twenty feet across. More and more rock fell away, forming a yawning, unseen chasm. Dante crept away from the shack and drew away the last of the basalt.
But a layer of compressed vegetation remained beneath the structure, holding it upright—all that was left of the Collen that had once flowered and bloomed before the cataclysm that had turned it to desert.
Another pair of bolts streaked from the shack, painting the dirt white as they traced toward the prisoners.
The vegetation wasn't the only thing holding the shack up. A thick layer of dust rested between the building and the mat of dried-out branches. Dante yanked this layer away. The shack dropped two inches, smacking into the wafer of compressed branches and leaves. Ancient and brittle, dozens of cracks sounded at once. The building bobbed as if floating on the surface of a lake. As the branches continued to break, the shack dropped from sight.
Three seconds later, it landed with a smash of boards. Dante poured cool liquid rock over the rubble, then swayed backward, dizzy from the massive expenditure of shadows.
Across the camp, soldiers had whirled to stare at the racket of the shattered building. Several were dumbstruck by the complete disappearance of the shack. Before they could regain their composure, Dante outlined his hands with flecks of ether and brought flocks of shadows to swarm around his head.
"I have sent your priests tumbling to hell!" His announcement drew the attention of every soldier who wasn't actively engaged in combat. He made the light on his hands pulse, the shadows above his head dispersing and contracting like a flock of bats. "Fight on, and I'll do the same to you. Or surrender now, and be returned to Bressel."
The soldiers shot looks at each other. Some turned to regard the causeway, which had grown littered with Mallish corpses and armed Collenese prisoners. Others glanced about the camp, absorbing the fact that a quarter of their people were already dead.
A man slung down his sword and lifted his hands over his head. "I surrender!"
He edged sideways from his fellow soldiers. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then three more soldiers tossed aside their weapons and moved to join the first man.
That was the breaking of the dam. Within another minute, every Mallisher followed suit, though a few looked disgusted with themselves for having done so.
The Keeper and Naran moved to release the last of the slaves, who grabbed up the weapons dropped by the Mallish. Dante crossed the camp to the foot of the causeway, which the Colleners had seized.
"That didn't get off to such a great start," Blays said, wiping down his swords. "You dropped the shack down a hole, eh? Why didn't you think to do that from the start?"
"Funny how inventive the mind becomes when it's about to cease to exist. Anyway, if I'd tried to use that much nether when the priests weren't distracted by fighting, they'd have felt it even in their sleep." Dante motioned to Blays. After the fighting, Blays was spattered with blood from head to toe. Most of it appeared to be from unfortunate Mallish soldiers, but his ribs and thigh were damp with his own blood. "You all right?"
"Don't heal these. They need to become scars. Reminders to Naran that, when you're being shot at with arrows, it's generally a good policy to get out of their way."
Naran scowled. "I was distracted by the prisoners. I've already thanked you for interposing yourself between them and me."
"You're both lucky the Keeper can shoot lightning out of her fingers." Dante motioned to the gathering of disarmed soldiers near the riverbank and the unhappy-looking, well-armed ex-slaves beginning to hem them in. "Think we should do something about that?"
Blays nodded. "My nose for atrocity is picking up a strong whiff of vigilante beatings. Let's step in before—"
The front line of Collenese laborers bowed forward, then broke toward the Mallish. The Mallish fled to the banks of the dark river.
&nbs
p; "We surrender!" A lone man in blue walked toward the Colleners, hands raised above his head. "Don't hurt these men. You don't know what they've done to help your people.
"Help," a man said, voice drenched with loathing. "Our people?"
A sword flashed. The soldier screamed and fell.
Dante broke into a run. The lines of Colleners roared and ran, too. The bluecoats—most of whom were presently dressed in their underwear rather than the blue of their uniforms—shielded their heads with their hands. Blades hacked into their bare forearms.
"Stop!" Dante yelled. "I promised them we'd spare their lives!"
The former slaves fell upon the Mallish, slashing and stabbing. Cord moved among them, grinning widely as she jabbed the point of her wheel into any man with dark hair. The Keeper stood twenty feet back from the massacre. She watched, but did nothing to intervene.
By the time Dante and Blays reached the Colleners, every Mallish soldier had been knocked to the ground. The riverbank stank of spilled intestines. Prisoners stalked among the bodies, jabbing at anything that moved. Cord kneeled among the carnage, gripping the shaft of her wheel, its weighted base resting in the dirt. Her eyes were closed and her face was streaked with blood.
Dante strode up to her. "What the hell was that?"
She didn't open her eyes. "Have you never seen victory before?"
"Have you? What kind of 'victory' involves slaughtering dozens of unarmed men?"
"Cry for them. Cry for these men who worked to turn the entire basin to dust and bones. They're demons, Dante. Would you give mercy to the Andrac?"
"I promised them sanctuary," Dante said. "This wasn't your call."
Cord pulled herself to her feet and gazed down at him. "Did you take this land when we weren't looking? Are we supposed to take orders from Narashtovik now?"
"You're supposed to obey the codes of war. Do you want them to respond in kind? To massacre your people like rats in a barn?"
She spat on the body of a man whose broken back was bent at a right angle. "They've always done that, frostlander. Where do you think we learned to do the same?"
The Cycle of Galand Box Set Page 81
