Shield and Crocus

by Michael R. Underwood

  Screams for help echoed from within.

  Sapphire cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hold on! I’m coming!”

  The alley was barely five feet wide, designed for Ikanollo and the smaller races, not the statuesque Freithin. She turned to shuffle sideways, tearing up roots and breaking branches. Don’t bring the building down on yourself, Rova. Be careful. wildlife she couldn’t name scrambled and flapped through the sliver of misplaced jungle. She breathed shallowly, trying to weave through the thick stalks and broad leaves.

  She found a wounded Pronai clutching his arm beneath a huge fly-trap plant. The man scrambled on his back, trying to push through the thick brush to escape the carnivorous plant. Its spine-bristled mouth gnashed hungrily, stretching toward Sapphire’s hands.

  “Stay down,” she said, stepping over the Pronai to bat the mouth aside. When it snapped back at her, she slammed it into the side wall. The crushing vegetation made a satisfying crunch. She reached around to the stem and pulled, tearing it off at the head. Sounds just like the one serving of vegetables we got back in Omez’s pens. We only had to be healthy enough for labor, not healthy enough to keep our teeth. The sound was just as rewarding now as it was then.

  Sapphire tore off one of the broad leaves and used it to make a tourniquet, then carried the man out of the alley and left him on a stoop. All the while, more pained voices called to her from the alley.

  She snapped a sapling in half and ripped it from its cobblestone roots to clear her way. Sunlight from the far street started to break through the dense cover as she cut through the alley. Sapphire picked out two more people from the alley jungle: a young Qava girl who she found huddled in a ball inside the trunk of a tree and an Ikanollo man who was being pecked at by a swarm by brightly-feathered birds that were no larger than his thumb.

  After dressing the Ikanollo’s wounds and making sure the others were stable, Sapphire pushed back into the alley, crashing through small trees and knocking another barbed fly-trap from its stem with an uppercut. After working her way through the entire alley, Sapphire leapt out of the brush into the far street. Like the others, it was littered with debris, organic and artificial. The air popped with a dazzling array of colors. But still no girl.

  A half-dozen citizens on the street stopped to watch Sapphire. The Spark hadn’t seemed to touch anyone on this side of the street, and no one looked injured. Most of the locals were doubtless huddled inside their homes, hoping that the buildings would shield them.

  They’d go back to their routines and live on a street where the cobblestones were purple, the sidewalks a swamp, and their buildings made of chitin. Over the years, many neighborhoods had been abandoned after Spark-storms, but some continued on, residents adapting to their new environs.

  It’s amazing what people can get used to in fifty years.

  Sapphire pulled a dying ten-foot-long cockroach out of the street, legs still twitching despite a missing head. She shook her head in befuddlement, and then saw a flash of movement at the edge of her vision.

  Sapphire narrowed her eyes and followed the motion— a cloaked figure hauling something behind it. She lumbered up to a run as the cloaked figure disappeared behind a lamp and several wrecked motor trikes. The cloak looked familiar, but just as out of place as the cockroach. Is that a warlock? Here?

  Sapphire bounded over the trikes and cut off the cloaked figure. It was a warlock Guard —one of Magister Yema’s bound slaves. The warlock Guard came from all of the city’s races, but they dressed in the same ragged brown robes and hoods. This warlock was far outside his master’s domain—there had to be a reason for his presence. Something to bring to the group. Maybe First Sentinel will have an idea.

  The warlock dragged a child behind him, thick red curls bouncing along as she strained to keep up. Her dress was actually a green shirt that fell below her knees. It probably belongs to her father, or older brother. She thought of her own brother, and wished a quick prayer for his safety to the City Mother.

  Sapphire drew up to her full height and filled the street with her booming voice. “Let her go!”

  Instead, he ran. Really?, she wondered, overtaking the warlock after three quick strides. She grabbed his arm, breaking the warlock’s grip on the girl. Sapphire closed her fist and felt the cracking of bones. The warlock cried out in wordless pain.

  The girl dropped to the street and then scurried away with a whimper. The warlock produced a wand from his cloak and spat a curse at her. A blast of force from the wand hit her full in the chest. She staggered back a step, but only just. A shot like that would crack an Ikanollo’s ribs, but to her it was no worse than a stiff punch.

  Sapphire lifted the warlock over her head with both arms. His fingers danced in arcane patterns, but she interrupted his spell by slamming him into the loose rocks of the street. He raised the wand once again, so she snapped it in half between her fingers.

  “None of that,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Instead, the warlock foamed at the mouth. Damn. The warlock grew hot to the touch, and she kicked him across the street. The warlock’s skin bubbled under the cloak, and she watched as the suicide spell Magister Yema put on each warlock dissolved the man into a boiling puddle.

  Sapphire shuddered, looking away. Medai Omez had been a cruel master, but he’d never had that much control over the Freithin. Praise be to the City Mother.

  She scanned over the bodies, looked for movement or scraps of the dress. A moment later, she saw the girl hiding behind a fresh-baked bread cart that had doubtless been made of wood before the storm. The girl’s eyes were covered by wild hair, the kind that took hours of brushing to tame. Sapphire’s hair had been that long once, when she lived in the pens and had made a brush out of loose bits of wire and a broken broom shaft.

  Sapphire approached and held out a hand the size of the girl’s head. “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you, honey. You’re safe.” The girl didn’t take much comfort from Sapphire’s approach. Understandable. She didn’t see a caring hero, just a huge muscled woman five times her size. I’d be scared of me, too. instead of reaching out to take Sapphire’s hand, the girl sobbed.

  Kneeling, Sapphire tried to catch the girl’s gaze. “Please, don’t be afraid.” She was unresponsive, curled up into herself, crying.

  The Shield took a step back, let the girl be by herself for a moment. Yema’s territory ended miles to the southeast, and the Smiling King had never been known to allow the servants of other tyrants into his territory without some ridiculous and specific price: a perfectly round pebble, the three smallest toes off of a foot, and so on.

  The other tyrants were more consistent with their rules. Nevri just charged a toll, as did Medai Omez. COBALT-3 kept her domain under a strict curfew, visitors and residents both. When relations between the oligarchs were better, travel was easier. But tensions were high, the tyrants wary of one another even as rumors of a summit made the rounds.

  So why her? Sapphire wondered. Looking closer at the girl, she saw the furry ears, the hair. At first, she took the girl to be a Spark-touched, fresh-changed.

  But no, she was Millrej—a vulpine-kin. All Millrej were born with features of their family’s animal, a cold nose for the canines, fluffy tail for the felines, tiny scales for reptiles, and so on. Only a tiny percentage manifested as Full-bloods, taking on the features of their animal patrons over the course of adolescence. Full-bloods were rare, but they made powerful warriors.

  Red Vixen, one of the Shields who’d freed Sapphire from the slave pens, had been a Full-blood vulpine-kin, and she’d been nearly as fast as a Pronai and twice as ferocious. But this child was years from manifesting. Perhaps Yema was planning ahead, kidnapping Millrej children and hoping to bind an army of Full-bloods to his service before they matured.

  There were others to be saved, but Sapphire looked at the girl again and saw in her the fear she’d seen in her people all those years ago, when Wonlar and the Shields freed the Freithin from Medai Ome
z. Fear mixed with desperation, fledgling hope looking for purchase.

  She’d stay.

  Sapphire used her calmest tone of voice, the one she learned after being freed. She’d once gotten fifty lashes when she halted the working line to help her brother after he’d collapsed due to malnourishment. She still bore the scars from the warden’s blows. “My name is Sapphire. Can you tell me your name?”

  The girl’s voice was as light as a ghost. “Fahra.”

  Sapphire smiled. Thank you, City Mother. “Hello, Fahra. We should get you home. Where do you live?”

  Fahra looked around, up and down the transformed street with its speckled colors, transmuted cobblestone street, and Spark-touched. “Not here.”

  “What neighborhood, Fahra?” Sapphire asked.

  “High Thigh.”

  Sapphire nodded, standing. She extended her hand again. “Let’s get you home, all right?”

  “They’re dead.” Fahra pointed at the unconscious warlock. “He did it.”

  Her heart sank. “Your family?”

  She nodded.

  “Where do you want to go, Fahra? Is there anyone who can look after you?” Please let there be someone left, City Mother. Audec-Hal has too many orphans already.

  The girl stood and clamped herself around Sapphire’s muscled leg. Fahra’s hands barely touched around the Shield’s thigh. Sapphire chuckled nervously. Better than being terrified by me.

  The Shields’ nearest safehouse was the coffeeshop basement in Viscera city. At least they could feed her well there.

  “Fahra, would you like to go with me? We can visit some friends of mine, they’re very nice. And we can have cookies.” another squeeze. Everyone loved cookies. The first time Rova had eaten a cookie, she’d nearly died of amazement. After gruel and one handful of rotten vegetables a week, anything would have been heaven, but ever since, the big Shield had a soft spot for sweets.

  “It’ll be okay, Fahra. You’re safe with me.”

  The girl nuzzled Sapphire’s leg, holding tight. The Shield cradled the girl in one arm as she made her way through the uncanny street and out of the storm.

  CHAPTER THREE

  First Sentinel

  After the storm had passed, First Sentinel and Blurred Fists spent two hours clearing rubble, performing first aid, calming panicked Spark-touched, and returning children from the school to their families. Several locals had opened up their homes to make an impromptu hospital, since the nearest real hospital was half a district away and was not worth the gamble. Per the Smiling King’s orders, his Spark-touched guard dismembered every tenth patient at random.

  Stopping every half-block to respond to another plea for help, it took First Sentinel most of an hour to make it to the nearest safehouse. By his orders, the Shields gathered after every Spark-storm to compare notes, gather the injured, and learn everything they could to fight smarter the next time.

  From the outside, Douk’s daily was a friendly neighborhood coffeeshop, well-placed on a corner in a decent part of Viscera city, in COBALT-3’s domain, surrounded by shops and offices. It was owned by Douk Tager and his wife Xera, pillars of the underground resistance arts community. The Tagers gathered dissident artists in secret meetings at night, where they shared paintings, poems, whatever forbidden art they could find from the handful of people willful enough to resist the tyrant-corrupted threads of the City Mother.

  Xera was nearly a magician with her baking and song, bringing in musicians from around the city; Douk had contacts from the docks to Heartstown and a ready smile for everyone. They were also old friends of Wonlar’s and long-time Shield-bearers. The Shields’ supporters came and went over the years; some burned out, some went bankrupt, some were taken by the tyrant’s guards. Without people like Douk and Xera, we’d have lost the war decades ago, First Sentinel thought to himself.

  First Sentinel swung past the front entrance and dropped onto the roof, watching to make sure no one had him in their sights. This neighborhood was fairly pro-Shield, which meant that people didn’t go running for guards when they saw one of the group. But it only took one informant to compromise a safehouse. First Sentinel opened the hatch on the roof and climbed down three flights of stairs to a basement hall that joined up with the loading cellar.

  He rapped on the door in the Shield’s code: three short knocks, two long, and then five syncopated with both hands. A moment later, the door clicked and opened.

  “Hello, old friend.” Douk’s well-trimmed beard outlined his chin like an exaggerated smile. First Sentinel had known Douk since he was a fresh-faced dissident, still in university and looking for a way to fight back against the tyrants’ regime.

  There aren’t many whose passion was strong enough to overcome the City Mother’s controls. Anyone with the will to join the Shields’ fight was a hero in their own right, and Douk had shown his devotion a hundred times over.

  The basement was laid out for storage more than service. Douk offered up his cellar to the Shields as a bolt-hole and staging ground, mixing in weapons and supplies with his dry goods. The Shields did their best to stay out of the way of his business, but over the years Douk’s daily had developed an underground reputation as a haven for Shield sympathizers.

  Several lamps stood at the edges of shelves and at the walls, filling the room with a cross-hatching of shadows and light. The décor was a mix of storage basement, war room, and chic hangout. Douk had done his best to make it comfortable without giving the cellar away as anything more than a storage room with extra tables, should the wrong person find their way down the stairs and past the locks. The room was a perfect reflection of Douk’s contradictions—he insisted that they be comfortable, but also tried to protect them through stealth. Douk was a good man, but he lacked the makings of a spy.

  Wenlizerachi reclined on a couch, his Blurred Fists raiment discarded in a heap at his feet. He had three plates of food balanced on his lap, chest, and legs, and his hands flickered from plate to plate to mouth and back.

  Bira Qano and Sarii Gebb were sitting at one of the old glass-top tables, a game board set up between them.

  Bira was still wearing her Ghost Hands raiment, mahogany robes that flowed and billowed when her powers were unleashed. Ghost Hands’ legs were crossed, hovering several inches off of her seat. Ghost Hands was First Sentinel’s oldest friend and steadfast ally. They’d joined the Shields on the same day, when the first Aegis had found them during a Spark-storm.

  Like all Qava, she had no eyes, nose, or mouth, no orifices or features. Many found it unnerving, but after five decades of friendship, First Sentinel had long gotten used to it, and learned to read her small movements. She had the strongest talents in telekinesis and telepathy that First Sentinel had ever seen in a Qava.

  Bira had confided to First Sentinel years ago that she wondered if her power was Spark-touched, but the Smiling King had never reached out to enthrall her, and her abilities had grown gradually over the years. Like Wenlizerachi or Sarii, she was a natural talent honed by years of pushing herself harder and harder.

  In contrast to her wife Bira, Sarii wore her emotions carved into her slate-grey face. In her Shield guise, she was Sabreslate, mistress of stone. She balanced Ghost Hands’ reasonable optimism with staunch skepticism, questioning every plan as a matter of course. But even though she tried his patience, First Sentinel knew that their plans were always better because of her. Sabreslate sipped dounmo tea from a thrown clay mug almost the same grey as her skin. She wore her raiment of woven stone, the hood pulled back from her face.

  Several steps into the room, Douk set a hand on First Sentinel’s shoulder. “Can I get you something to eat, a drink? Maybe send down a musician? They can be trusted.”

  First Sentinel restrained a sigh. What would they play? A rousing dirge for our pyrrhic victory against the insanity of the Spark? “no, Douk. Thank you again.”

  He wasn’t in the mood. Dozens dead, hundreds more homeless, and the only real relief would come from the
few neighbors whose compassion outweighed their fear. The Shields would help where they could, but with the summit coming up, it would not be much.

  Blurred Fists raised a glass in salute as First Sentinel walked over to the group—a warrior’s salute, not that of a celebrant.

  The mood was somber, despite Douk’s eternal cheeriness. They had few things to celebrate most days, and this was no exception. The storms had been getting more and more common, but why?

  First Sentinel took a seat with Ghost Hands and Sabreslate, lowering himself gingerly onto a crate filled with coffee beans. First Sentinel managed a small smile of greeting while the images of the monstrous school and the Spark-blasted streets hovered in his mind.

  Ghost Hands floated the teapot and a mug from atop another crate. The cup settled into his cupped hand and the teapot tipped in the air, pouring him a drink. The teapot returned to its perch, and he lifted the cup to Ghost Hands in thanks. She nodded her featureless head.

  Ghost Hands spoke directly to First Sentinel’s mind, reaching out with her birthright. Her voice echoed as if through a cave, distant but clear.

  [You should take it easy, Wonlar. You’ll run yourself ragged.]

  Sabreslate jumped in as well. “We have bigger matters to attend to,” referring to the summit. “When is the meeting?” Sabreslate, bastion of empathy.

  “It was an emergency. We were needed. The day we ignore the people’s troubles is the day we become just like the tyrants,” First Sentinel said, not meaning the words to sound as preachy as they came out.

  Even if we can’t help them all. First Sentinel wondered if anyone had died in the flight from the storm.

  “Bad day, eh?” Sabreslate asked. Her carved features had gotten harder along the years—the chipping around her eyes showed her age.

  We’re all getting old, the first of us Shields who remain. How many generations will it take? Will Aegis’ grandchildren fight for the city’s freedom during the one hundredth year of the oligarchs’ reign?