He reached the fire escape in a single sprint. He needed speed now more than stealth. A Warden near the fire escape tried to stop him; Temoc slammed him against the brick wall. The Warden fell.
Temoc leapt to the fire escape and climbed two floors, three, taking entire flights at a jump. Ixaqualtil bared his seven hundred teeth and raked his talons along the iron railings, surged down Temoc’s spine into his limbs. So easily invoked, god of murder, hungry gnawer of hidden hearts.
The Warden with the crossbow did not notice Temoc’s climb, bent to her sights, but the guard did, and raised his club and cried a warning and crouched beside the stairs ready to strike.
Temoc did not use the last flight of stairs. He sprang, reveling in the use of speed and strength after all those quiet preaching years, after two decades’ dull opiate of joy—he sprang onto the guardrail, jumped, caught the thin iron rungs that walled the landing above, and vaulted foot-first over the rail behind the Warden who’d tried to block his path. The toes of his shoes struck the small of the Warden’s back, and the man tumbled into the stairwell. The sniper turned, bringing her crossbow to bear. Temoc broke the bow with one hand. Its Craft discharged in a fountain of sparks. Temoc’s other hand hit the Warden’s jaw, and she fell.
He climbed the last level to the roof, and gazed down on his people. They tossed like an ocean in storm, assailed from all sides and above. At the ocean’s heart, near the fountain, Couatl fought, savage and enormous, scattering defenders. He doubted most of the protesters had yet realized the nature of their enemy.
He had to help them.
He called to the gods. To Qet Sea-Lord in chains, to dead Isil. To Ili of the White Sails and Tomtilat and the Hunchback and the seven gods of the corn, to Kozil Who Slept Under Earth, to Thunder Lords and Lightning Ladies, to Temple Guardians and the Keepers of Knives. The square below surged with terror, but also with faith. And he could use that faith.
Help me, sleepers. Help me, you who have gone away. Bear me up. You have given me so much already.
As I have given you.
He jumped off the building.
* * *
“Yes!” The King in Red punched the air. “Excellent. Well done team Couatl. Look at them run. We should have done this days ago. Hells, we should have done this instead of all that prattling in the tent. I mean, of course we couldn’t have, needed the contract, but damn it feels nice to engage for once, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Chimalli said.
The room had long since soured with the smell of sweat and instant noodles. Dreamers mewled upon their tables. These were their third pair today, the first two dragged off on stretchers hours before, babbling about the black beyond the stars. Dinner had been noodles from the commissary, slurped down and bowls dumped in trash cans someone should have emptied hours ago. The King in Red tended to forget others still had biological requirements, and no Warden wanted to be the first to remind him. There would be time enough for hygiene after victory.
“I mean. Yow. I know you weren’t here in the old days, Captain, but we just don’t get to do this kind of thing anymore. Battles are so clear. Damn, I bet he’ll miss that arm. You spend so long debating strategy and ethics, whethers and wherefores. It’s like foreplay. And then you actually do something and life becomes so wonderfully transparent, at least until time comes to pick up the pieces. Tell group four to strike in five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Four. Three. Two. One. And boom. Brilliant. Tear through those cooking tents. Burn the stores. Hard to replace that stuff. And—oh, good.” The image in the pool warped, twisted. “We’ve got him! The Major’s down.” His laugh, loud, cackling. “One of the red-arms giving your guys a bit of trouble, Captain—never mind, she’s down, too. You know, I’m almost glad Elayne isn’t here. I can’t talk like this around her.”
“Of course, sir.”
The image in the well receded, stopped. Zoomed in again. The King in Red blinked. “Captain?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What in all the hells is that?”
* * *
The Couatl sprang, and Chel rolled to the side. Its snub nose splintered stone behind her. She stood, breathless, a stick figure drawn with lines of pain. She groped for a weapon. Couldn’t see the Major anymore—fallen, alive she hoped. The air was thick with screams, human and animal and bird-snake.
She squinted through smoke and stinging sweat. Sweat, and maybe blood, too. Stitches burst. But her fingers found the fallen tent spar. The Couatl reared, a corrupted emptiness where the fire wasn’t. It lunged for her and she lurched off her knees, swinging the spar two-handed into its skull.
The spar broke.
The Couatl cocked its head to one side, bemused, if a crocodile could be bemused. Smoke curled between its teeth, and down the soft tracks of its gullet. That, she could see. Bone ribbed and arched the roof of its mouth, like an Old World cathedral. Carrion wind blew through her, and she shuddered at its foul weight.
The Couatl was too near for her to dodge. Even in her prime she would not have escaped its teeth.
Time slowed. A green light enfolded her. She’d heard friends who almost died talk about lights at the ends of tunnels, and distant shining visions, but none had ever mentioned this green, calm and cool, comforting and fierce at once, as if the gods spread their arms to embrace her.
She prepared to die in that light. Good thing she was already kneeling, she thought, and smiled.
The Couatl struck.
And Temoc punched it in the face.
The Couatl’s head snapped sideways and hit the ground. The serpent’s body followed. One wing drew a broad swath through the smoke. A figure tumbled from its back: the Warden, thrown from his saddle. The Couatl lashed and hissed. The Warden, visible now, rolled through the wrecked camp’s coals.
Temoc stood three feet above the ground, shining with hard light.
When he killed the not-wolves in the alley he had been enfolded by shade and scarlight, a man made great by the gods’ blessing.
This was that, but more. Shadows darker, scars brighter, tracing geometric patterns and divine icons down his arms and back and legs and over his skull. He seemed larger than he was, and he was large.
Coiled and recoiled in fire the Couatl spread wings and launched itself at Temoc, who stepped to one side as if the empty air was a dance floor. His fist floated out; the Couatl’s jaw unhinged with a snap. The beast swiveled, impossibly fast for its bulk, slithering more than flying, and wrapped Temoc in a twisting coil, from which he freed himself with a surge of legs and arms, and climbed astride the serpent’s back, one arm crooked under its jaw and drawing up, up—
But where was the Warden?
Chel found him by the firelight reflected off his mask. The Warden knelt, a slender crossbow raised in one hand, pointing toward Temoc. Craftwork crackled around the bolt’s tip.
The Couatl strained against Temoc, losing. In seconds, its neck would break and Temoc could dive free. Too many seconds. The crossbow might not hurt Temoc, but Chel wouldn’t take that chance.
She ran. Smoke-tears wet her eyes. The Warden steadied his aim, exhaled.
No time to veer around the fire. She leapt through it, face tucked behind crossed arms. Heat pressed her, and yes there was pain too and shock, and then she tumbled out of the flames into the Warden.
The man fell.
So did the crossbow.
Chel and the Warden rolled together. She clutched him with her legs, grabbed his wrists. He bucked. She was strong, but he was stronger, enhanced by Craft, and better-trained.
She waited for the snap, for the crash of a falling titanic body that would indicate she could give up, that Temoc was safe, but it did not come. Thrashing wings and serpent-tail broke tents and scattered sparks. The Warden pressed his arms up, and though she bore down with all her weight she could not stop his hands’ progress, inch by inch, toward her throat. His eyes burned into hers’ through the apocalyptic reflection
s of his mask. Strong fingers, strangler’s fingers.
She tucked her chin, let go of his arms, and slammed her forehead into the bridge of his nose. Bone crunched beneath the mask. The Warden swore, and grabbed for her as she pulled clear. Her shirt cuff tore, which slowed her enough for his wild haymaker to hit her side. She scrambled to stand, but he was up already, on top of her. Her clutching hands found something, a grip—the crossbow.
Brought it around, between them, pointed at his chest.
Pulled the trigger.
Lightning without sound, but not lacking thunder. Her heart beat twice. Breath fled her lungs. The bolt disappeared into the center of the Warden’s chest. Sparks sped through his body, down his arms, arced between his fingers. Even then he held her, and she thought for a horrified second he might be more than human.
He slumped.
She felt something wet and cold on her cheek, wet and warm on her chest. She pushed the Warden off. He lay sprawled, bleeding. His mask flowed away like quicksilver syrup. Beneath, he was a Quechal man with big black eyes. Older than her, by a few years. Wide jaw, full lips open as if to ask a question.
Her hand rose trembling to her cheek. When she drew her fingertips away, they shone silver. The cold on her cheek had been his mask, weeping. The warmth on her chest, his blood.
Oh.
Not the first man she had killed, she told herself. Enough rocks thrown, enough weapons hurled. She had probably killed others in the escape this morning, when she kicked the broken wall down on her pursuers, when she swung her club. This was not her first, but the first where she’d felt him as she pulled the trigger. The first to die on top of her, his breath in her face and his blood on her shirt.
A scream tore from an inhuman throat, followed by an earth-shaking slam. Ash and burning splinters showered her. A cinder fell into the dead Warden’s open eye, and he did not blink it out.
She stood.
The Couatl lay, visible, in the bonfire wreckage of the broken tent: twenty meters of scale and coil and unfurled wings, its huge head limp. A forked tongue twisted between the daggers of its teeth. Temoc stood astride the dead thing, feet wide-planted, wreathed in light. He breathed. She saw no fear in him, no hesitation, no shock at the enormity of what he’d done. No. That was the wrong word. Enormousness, immensity. Enormity was sin—what she had done, and what was being done to them.
He turned to her, and saw her panting above the fallen Warden. Behind him, more explosions, more Couatl fighting. Some screamed in rage as they saw their brothers dead. Temoc raised his hand to her in salute, and she raised hers in response, or tried to. She still held the crossbow. Hadn’t let it go.
She had more bolts, one holstered to either side of the crossbow shaft. She thought she could see how to reload.
She lowered her hand.
Temoc did not break the line of their gaze. She blinked, and he was gone—swept away by the fight.
She knelt by the corpse, and with shaking hands set the next bolt into position, cocked the bow, and followed him.
* * *
Mina ran up the stairs, ignoring the sounds of battle behind. The breaking glass, that must have been her hunters passing through the hotel doors. Then another crash—a shattered vase. Sounds of flesh and metal.
She climbed the stairs two at a time, Caleb heavy in her arms, so heavy. She was strong after her long desert journeys, but not strong enough to climb stairs with him in her arms anymore, not after all she’d done tonight.
“Mom, what’s happening?”
“It’s okay.” She said, “okay,” between pants for breath.
Can’t protect him, the voice at the back of her skull jabbered. Can’t protect anyone, least of all your son. Your scarred son. The son his father tried to ruin. You failed him by choosing the father. No time for those thoughts. Keep going. Up, up. Fear propelled her.
She burst through the door onto the fourth floor, gray-blue carpet and off-white wallpaper patterned with broad vertical stripes. Sweat burned in her eyes, soaked her shirt. She could have wrung herself out like a towel. Doors in both directions. Room 404. Where am I?
The door opposite bore no number, only a pictogram indicating an ice machine. Surging left, she ran until she came to a numbered door: 433, the next 431, proceeding down on both sides until a sharp right turn out of sight. Behind her, probably, the even numbers. Of course, she’d run for the back stairs, 01 and the like would be next to the lift, but she’d have to cross the elevators again to reach 404, maybe she should turn around but she’d come too far already, almost to the turn. Take it. No time to lose. If she turned around they might beat her there anyway from the lift—if they were using the lift, not following her up the stairs, in which case if she turned around she might—
Screw it. Run. Faster.
After another turn she reached the hallway of the lifts, 411, 409, 407, the lifts dinged, up arrow ghostlit from behind. It’s them, no, might be anyone. Still, run. The doors rolled open. 405. 403. A crash from the lift, and a large form blurred out, black and tan and white resolving as the figure hit the wall with a sickening crunch: the guard from downstairs, face a mess of blood and blood on his shirt as well. His eyes rolled back as he slumped to the carpet.
401.
Within the lift as she ran past Mina heard clockwork click, gears spin and grind, flywheels whir. No time to look. “Elayne!” she shouted, a warning, a plea, too late. A metal hand grabbed her arm, but before the grip could close she tore free with a sound between scream and grunt and roar. She struck the wall, and so did Caleb, and he cried out. 402, almost there. “Elayne! Help!”
Ticking gears and winding springs behind her, rush of fabric and curl of leather. Taking their time, playing with her? No, more likely shock, fear, slowing her perception. She set Caleb down. He stared at her. Something swam through the waters behind his eyes. “Run,” she said. “Fast as you can. Run.” He took one step back. No time.
She spun, hands raised.
Two figures filled the hall behind her.
They were tall, thin, and not human save in general outline. Glassy many-lensed orbs perched in the eye sockets of elongated mock-faces like masks for an Ebon Sea tragedy, smooth as buffed and hardened leather. They wore black suits and black ties. They had long fingers and long hands: three fingers on each hand and a thumb, she noticed in one of those fits of sudden clarity that plague the terrified, and those fingers and hands transparently mechanical, no attempt made to disguise their hinged joints. Metal, and bloody.
Purple light flickered through their white shirts, beneath their thin black ties, where their hearts should have been if they were human. Which they weren’t. Mad babbling in the back of her brain.
They did not hesitate.
Nor did she.
A little table bearing a purple fern in a green pot stood beside the elevators; she grabbed that pot and threw it into the first golem’s face. At, rather—the golem raised one arm to block the pot, which shattered, but Mina had followed close behind, teeth bared, striking the damn thing in its stupid glowing chest with all her weight, and no matter how strong it was, sixty kilos to the center of mass would make it stagger.
Which it did, and growled a grinding of gears. She bounced off the chest and flailed for balance. The golem stumbled into its comrade, who arrested its fall with one arm and pointed one hand down the hall, oh, gods, at Caleb outside 404, Elayne’s room, pounding on the door and shouting “Help!” The hand stretched, fingers merged and split, thumb dislocated as metal bones realigned into a two-pronged claw pointed at the boy, a claw acid-etched with Craftwork sigils and glyphs and circles that spiraled through strange dimensions Mina could not name. Sparks and charge danced in that hollow, and she realized they had not used a weapon against her in flight, that they themselves were the weapon.
She launched herself at the golem’s arm as it fired.
Caleb turned, and raised one hand, face blank and distant as if he was still asleep, as if he’d slipped back into
the coma from which their fall from the skies of Dresediel Lex had barely roused him. His eyes closed as his hand swept up, fast and slow at once.
Lightning lanced from the weapon to Caleb.
And Caleb caught it.
The lightning struck his palm and stuck there, darting between splayed fingers. Mina hit the golem’s arm a second later and slammed it against the wall. Caleb’s eyes flew open and they burned from within, bright as an alchemist’s fire. The crackling arcs ceased to jump between his fingers, absorbed rather into them, bursting through his many wounds, uncontrollably bright, illuminating the gods and kings his father’s knife had left on his arms and chest and back and legs. And then out, again, from his hand, no building charge this time but a single line of coherent white, a rod connecting his hand to the golem’s chest.
The light died as suddenly as it had burned, leaving only a bar of purple across Mina’s vision, and a hole in the golem’s chest slightly to the left of its glowing heart.
It stumbled.
Caleb fell.
Mina ran to her son, but the golem recovered quickly, caught her, pulled her back, punched her once in the face and again in the ribs faster than she could raise her hands to block. She fell to one knee beside Caleb, only to stand again and strike the golem in the chest with both hands.
It retreated a step, and cocked its head to one side. More trickling of gears and wheels. Was it laughing? Was that a thing golems did? She’d never thought to ask.
The second golem, too, recovered. Purple light seeped through the hole in its chest, and it moved slowly, right arm limp, but it did move.
Behind her, she heard a click.
The first golem swung. She ducked under its fist, hit the thing in the side, knuckles bouncing off metal ribs beneath the suit—
And the golem came apart.
No shuddering, no intermediate stage: she struck the thing, and it burst away from itself, ten thousand shards of metal, gears and wheels and wires and springs and cams and pistons disconnected, suit shredded by the force of their explosion. But the shards did not fall, nor did they pierce the walls with shrapnel force. They simply hung in space, the golem deconstructed. The second golem, the one Caleb damaged, looked up, and in the realigning of its gears she heard, and this time there was no doubt as with the laughter—she heard it scream.
Last First Snow Page 25
