It seemed pathetically thin.
Sceptrine heavy infantry stood ready along the foremost line, their armor, slanted caps, and oddly curved shields all dulled to look like stone. Panisian shock-lancers, in mirror-shined plate, were spaced between every fifth man to better spread out the potential impact of their magically forged weapons. Behind them were three more rows holding pikes, like a strip of bristling needles almost twice the length of a man. Soldiers with crossbows, mauls, maces, and two-handed axes came next: specialty troops to counter the enemy heavies. Phelupari skirmishers, with spear and buckler, acted as a screen for the missile troops, which had only one wrath-bowman for every ten mundane archers. And bringing up the rear were the milling, disorganized reserves: surviving soldiers from Corbrithe and Kavenmoor, Panisian regulars, and a militia made from anyone willing to hold a weapon in defense of those who could not.
Half a million troops in all.
Jasside didn’t know if it would be enough.
Panisahldron had no formal defensive wall, so they’d built their barricades here, along the front edge of the outer city, not a tower in sight. A thousand paces of open ground, much of it cleared quite recently, spread outward from their position. A killing field more than twice as wide as necessary—for a normal enemy, that is. Against the ruvak, she wasn’t sure it was wide enough.
“Drinn, Tarlene,” Jasside said, pivoting in the small space her platform allowed. A boy and a girl, twelve and thirteen respectively, sat strapped in seats along the miniature vessel’s back edge. “Get a ready check from every commander. Based on the activity up top, we should expect contact soon.”
“Aye,” Drinn said.
“As you wish,” added Tarlene.
Jasside frowned as the two escaped into commune, wondering—and not for the first time—if it was a mistake to include them. Drinn, a daeloth, and Tarlene, a daughter of House Faer, had been the best of the candidates she’d interviewed. They both understood orders without the need to repeat them, operated quickly within commune, and handled pressure well for their age. But age, itself, was the problem.
God forgive me for allowing children to go to war.
Though she didn’t plan on entering the fray herself, her mere proximity to the action put them in harm’s way. It couldn’t be helped, though. Every able adult caster had more important, more dangerous tasks to fulfill this day. It was a weak argument, she knew, and did nothing to lessen her hatred of the ruvak for putting them in this position.
But war is war, and we can worry about right and wrong when and if we survive.
“All commanders report ready, Lady Anglasco,” Tarlene said.
“Same here,” Drinn said.
Jasside nodded. “Thank you.”
One ranking daeloth and a Panisian sorcerer-commander were embedded in every company, each overseeing their dreadfully small cadre of casters. King Chase, much to the chagrin of the city generals, had been placed in command of the troops, while Jasside had charge of the sorcerers. She’d need constant manipulation of her magical assets to keep them both from being overrun.
She turned around, facing northeast once more. Less than a mark later, the edge of the surrounding jungle trembled, and ruvak infantry glided out from under the canopy, as far to each side as she could see. Rank after rank after rank after rank . . .
. . . her breath froze in her throat as she tried to make count of them.
Jasside closed her eyes, filling her lungs to bursting, then let it out over the span of ten beats. An exercise in patience, calming her.
“I hope you’re ready,” she said, as much to herself as to the two youths behind her, and was glad to hear no tremor in her voice. “We have a city to save.”
“Your Majesty, please! I beg you to reconsider.”
Arivana turned her head slowly, glancing over at the only other occupant on the slowly descending lift. “I’ve made up my mind, Claris. Do not try to dissuade me.”
“But this is madness! You’ll be in danger every step of the way—and for no reason!”
“I have a very good reason. I’ll also have you at my side. You were the Minister of Dance once, at the supposed pinnacle of your trade. Did the deep cells cause your skills to atrophy so far that you now doubt your ability to protect me?”
The lift came to a stop and the door rotated open. Arivana stepped out, eyes forward, missing whatever reaction might have shown on the woman’s face at the remark. She heard only silence, not even a breath. The fury was implied.
The long receiving chamber passed by in a blur, the expensive decorations seeming even more gaudy now, considering what was going on outside. Their footsteps echoed off the empty walls, a sound as lonely as death.
“Look,” Claris said, her voice under strained control. “Let me send a message, and I’ll have a skimmer here in a mark or two. It can get you to your royal skyship quickly, and safely. There’s no need to take such risk.”
Arivana stopped, gathering her breath and her thoughts. Claris nearly bumped into the back of her. “How many times have I told you that I intend—no, that I am the queen. And as queen, I will be not only what my people expect of me, but also what they need of me. This, Claris, right now, whether you see it or not, is nothing more than that. It must be done. It will.”
The woman, at last, bowed her head, having at least enough respect to conceal her sigh. “Very well, Your Majesty. Please forgive my impertinence.”
“Given. Now, are you going to be willing participant, or must I swing you by the ankles?”
Claris twitched. It had been something she’d done to Arivana—against her will, though playfully—when she’d been just a little girl.
“No need for that, I assure you,” Claris said. “However—if you’ll allow me—I could better protect you if I took the lead.”
Arivana acquiesced, gesturing forward and flashing a grateful smile.
They continued down the vast receiving chamber. Nearing its end, they stepped around the throne platform and came in sight of the massive double doors that marked the official entrance for royal guests. Four men snapped to attention, drawing her to a halt.
“Guards?” Arivana said, glaring at Claris. “I ordered the tower empty a toll ago. Why are they still here?”
“If it pleases you, Your Majesty,” said one of them, “we volunteered to stay behind.”
“And why would you do that?”
A confused expression painted across his hard, young features. “Because you were still here, Your Majesty. No way this side of the abyss we were going to leave the ground-level doors unguarded. Not while you remained.”
Arivana nodded slowly, touched by the gesture. She’d been told, of course, that she was popular with the people, but only by those who sought her favor. To see evidence, firsthand, of such loyalty threatened to bring tears to her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said at last. “There are other entrances. How many more of you are there?”
“Twelve, Your Majesty.”
“Gather them up, if you would. I’m . . . going for a walk. I do believe I’ll be needing an escort.”
The guardsman gestured to his three compatriots, who took off in different directions at a run. It wasn’t long before they returned with the full dozen as promised.
“What is your name?” Arivana asked the one who’d spoken to her.
“Richlen, Your Majesty. My friends call me Rich.”
“That you are, in manner and wisdom, if not in material possession. Though I don’t think many will be able to claim the latter in the coming days.”
“Right you are, Your Majesty. And . . . thank you for saying so.”
She smiled at him. “Now . . . Rich . . . please open the doors.”
Without a word, the guards snapped into a square formation, four on a side, around her and Claris. One pulled a lever, and the way outside revealed itself in a split ten men high. They marched forward as one.
Claris bent close as they descended the great steps leadi
ng up to her tower. “You were right, of course. This is exactly what the people need. I never should have doubted your judgment.”
Arivana nodded, swelling with pride inside, yet forcing the reaction to keep clear of her face. “We can pat each other’s back once we get out of this. But . . . thank you. Despite everything, your opinion still matters a great deal to me.”
Two guards rushed ahead to open the mostly ornamental gate. Once through, only a few short steps separated them from frantic press of the street.
The crowds stopped, staring with wonder at her arrival.
Arivana held her breath.
From somewhere across the broad avenue, a voice called out, “The queen walks with us!”
The words were repeated, just a murmur at first, yet it quickly surged into a cry, then a cheer, then a chant that seemed to rock the very foundations of the towers around them.
“The queen walks with us!
“The queen walks with us!”
She pointed westward, waving with her other hand. “To the shipyards,” she said. Rich led his men onwards, their backs, perhaps, a little straighter than before.
I walk among my people in their toll of need . . . and they rejoice at my coming.
Arivana allowed herself, now, to shed a single, grateful tear.
Vashodia’s heart pumped black blood through her veins, with an urgency she’d not felt in years, as she watched the last enemy ship this wave turn into a tumbling, molten slag.
“I’d forgotten how exhilarating this could be!” she said. “I really must remember to do it more often.”
Gilshamed dropped his arms to his sides, exhaling in relief. “We could . . . certainly use you.”
Vashodia giggled. “That must have taken a lot out of you to admit. Tell me, how much of your soul withered away just now?”
“None,” he said, oddly granting her a grin. “You said yourself we should put old grievances aside. I like our chances better with you taking a more active role.”
“Have no fear about my level of contribution, dear Gilshamed. Just don’t expect it to always take the shape you crave.”
“With you, Vashodia, I expect nothing.”
“Then we’ve reached consensus at last!”
At this, he only shook his head, a motion that froze midswing as his eyes locked on something in the distance. “Another wave is approaching,” he said. “One far larger than the last.”
Vashodia took her own gander, assessing the incoming ruvaki over the span of two beats. “I’d say they’re four—no, five times as numerous as what we’ve seen thus far, and almost entirely composed of smaller ships. A full quarter of their entire remaining force.”
“You can count them? With accuracy?”
She shrugged. “It’s really only a matter of peering past the point of focus. Seeing without looking. It was a beguiling thing to unravel, but in the end, just a simple trick. Sorcery that can play with an observer’s expectations—quite the novelty, wouldn’t you say?”
“A novelty. Sure.” He raised his arms once more. “We had best get ready.”
“Oh, of course. But, do you think we could switch roles for a bit? I fear the thrill of holding the enemy while you get to melt them will soon start to wane.”
He glanced behind her, raising a golden eyebrow at the relatively small grouping of mierothi. The new version of them, anyway.
“Yes,” she said to his unasked question. “I have enough power for the task. More than enough.”
“Very well,” he said. “I will do my best to keep them attuned as long as possible.”
Vashodia smiled. “Just try not to make me wait.”
She turned to face the enemy as they came, like a vindictive hive of wasps, through the protective shroud.
At her side, Gilshamed lashed out, blindly firing rays by their thousands. Some, inevitably, latched on to ruvaki vessels, attuning them to light. Making them vulnerable.
Sucking in power through the mierothi, Vashodia struck.
Tight, black beams shot out, aimed for nothing so large as a ship, but for the source of chaotic power resting near each of their centers. Quick, precise, efficient—Vashodia aimed for the heart.
Fifteen enemy vessels tumbled down towards an empty section of the city, mostly intact, ensuring Feralt would have plenty of opportunities later to fulfill her most sensible request.
Gilshamed lashed another group, and Vashodia repeated her surgical excision with the kind of glee most adults had forgotten. Not that she was mad at the ruvak. Not really.
She’d practically invited them here, after all.
Another group, and another, and another. Vashodia destroyed them faster than Gilshamed could latch on, long before most were even able to get off a single volley of chaos. She ignored what few projectiles of theirs did make it to the air. The domicile shook constantly from impact, but only to minor effect. Most expended their energy shredding empty buildings below.
She couldn’t care less about those.
Her next breath began with all the joy she’d been aching to find . . . but ended buried beneath something she did not expect. Something she thought she’d rid herself of centuries ago.
Dread.
The remains of the wave, the latter half they had yet to destroy, morphed before her eyes, in a manner the ruvak had yet to show. A trick so simple, yet so devious, it had gotten past even her attention.
Each ship split in three.
“Shade of Elos, did you see that?” Gilshamed asked.
Vashodia shrugged to mask the shudder threatening to expose her. “It’s no illusion. The extra ships were dormant, unpowered, connected by purely mechanical means to their host. Can you divide your rays any smaller?”
Eyes wide and jaw tight, Gilshamed began flexing his fingers. “I will certainly try.”
Jasside braced herself as the first rank of heavy ruvaki infantry crashed into the Sceptrine shield wall. Fifty thousand within the span of a beat. The concussive blast, splitting the air like thunder, nearly knocked her off balance. The thin, human line took one step back.
Then another . . .
Then held.
Swords and pikes and cones of lightning thrust out from her side, while enemy soldiers chopped with blades attached to their outer forearms, so wide they could double as shields. Her allies gave far better than they got, adding more ruvaki bodies to a field already littered with them. Wrath-bows, war engine support, and direct magical attacks had turned the thousand-pace gap to the jungle into a wasteland of blood and death, every bit of it pocked and pitted by sorcerous impact, and filled with as many enemy corpses as there were living allies.
Yet the ruvak still outnumbered them more than two to one.
They reeled back, their nose well-bloodied, then charged forward again. Only this time a rank of lighter skirmishers leapt over the backs of their front line, swinging hooked blades attached to the end of chains. This time the pikemen were ready for the unorthodox maneuver, and caught most of them on their long points. Even so, the mere weight of so many writhing bodies and sharp-edged hands caused havoc among the lines, and Jasside saw multiple places along the shield wall buckle. Enemy heavies poured through the gaps, shrieking wildly as they hacked away at the less protected troops behind.
Jasside held her breath, thumbing the pouch at her belt.
She was proud to see the line didn’t panic. Instead, at each breach, the pikemen parted to make way for the planned response. Crossbows snapped, thinning the intruders, and the specialty troops surged to meet them, crushing armor and flesh alike with massive, two-handed weapons. Able soldiers then stepped to the fore, picking up the shields of the fallen, and the wall was made whole once more. Less than a mark after they first appeared, the last breach was sealed.
She exhaled, then turned to Tarlene. “Half your casters, break rank and attend to the wounded.”
The girl dipped her head, already entering commune.
Jasside thanked Chase in her mind for his foreth
ought. His strategic ability approached the level of genius, seemingly having found a counter to anything the enemy might throw at them. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from worrying. Of the three types of enemy ground troops that they knew about, thus far today they’d only seen two.
A glimpse across the killing field, however, changed that fact.
Out of the jungle they came, a single, widely spaced line. They bore no visible weapons, wore no armor of any kind she’d ever seen. Instead, metallic strips coiled about their bodies like swarms of misshapen snakes, covering them from neck to wrist and ankle.
A thousand of them began glowing, a sickly green hue surrounded by whorls of every color and none, all of which straddled the line between darkness and light. They were, in essence, the embodiment of chaos.
They took a step, then another, each time covering forty or fifty paces. Never in a straight line, they jumped in jagged, jerky fits, sometimes appearing to move sideways or even backwards one step to the next. But always, inexorably, closer.
“All casters, double shields,” Jasside said. “Now!”
Her messengers relayed the order behind her, and Jasside counted off the beats until it was obeyed, each abstract tick accentuated by the enemy casters’ advance and her own quickening dread. She’d never faced them this close before, always striking from afar at larger targets. She did not know what to expect.
There was some debate among those she’d talked to, about whether these troops were casters themselves, or if their strange suits provided their power, like a wrath-bow worn. Either way, they’d proven savagely efficient at dealing death.
Scanning up and down the formation, she saw shields finally begin to spring up, layered spans of light and dark, spun like gossamer across the front of each company.
But not quickly enough.
The third enemy type—conduits of chaos, she named them—finally made their presence felt.
With choreographed precision, gaps opened in the ruvaki horde through which the conduits launched spinning orbs of chaotic energy. Most of the companies had their protection in place, and the orbs crashed against the shields, releasing a noxious, guttural wave that scraped raw every sense. The rest were . . . not so fortunate.
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