The Killing Light

by Myke Cole

  “Barnard, Xilyka, come on.” Heloise cut Onas off and turned, driving the machine toward the head of the Red Lords’ column. She heard the footsteps and hoofbeats as her chosen guard moved to comply. She could hear Onas cursing under his breath as he turned his horse. That was good. She could deal with his anger later. For now, at least, he was obeying. It would take time for the army to get used to Heloise’s expectation of unity, but they would get used to it. Everyone was constantly saying how they followed her and would work her will. Well, this was her will.

  There was no tent this time. Sir Steven and his captains had formed the same circle around the same fire-grate, with the same board of food, but now it was open to the sky, with the relentless wind carrying the thin flames crackling across the pitted metal to threaten their ankles.

  Wolfun was riding just behind her, and Heloise could see Mother Leahlabel picking her way through the packed snow toward them, her red cloak whipping around her.

  The Sindi Mother came into the circle, panting from the exertion of forging through the snow. “Heloise, thank you for calling on me. What’s the matter?”

  “My outriders van have found the Imperial army,” Sir Steven said. “They have cut the road north.”

  “So soon?” Heloise asked. “I thought if we kept up the pace…”

  “If you had wanted to keep pace, then perhaps you should not have gone running off into the woods…”

  “Do you mean”—Leahlabel’s voice was calm—“to tell us that the Imperial army has outpaced us because Heloise took less than a quarter-candle to tend to her grief?”

  The juxtaposition of Sir Steven’s strong voice with his worried expression frightened Heloise. “I had hoped the pace of march would be enough, but I misjudged. Perhaps they had pigeons, or relay-riders stationed on the road. There’s no way to know. But if my outriders have made contact, then there’s nothing to be done.”

  “But … but you said … if we fought them in a field battle, we would lose.”

  Sir Steven raised a hand, looked over his shoulders. “Mind your tongue! Talk like that can be the death of an army. This isn’t what I wanted, but neither will I beat my breast and rend my garments. We will give battle, and see if…”

  “Give battle?” Heloise asked. “Why can’t we retreat? Why are we fighting them in the field if you said they will … if you said you didn’t like our chances?”

  Sir Steven winced at the words, sucked in his cheeks. “This is my punishment for taking council of war with a girl. We cannot retreat once we have made contact, Heloise. An army in retreat is at its most vulnerable. If we’d had better warning, we might have been able to withdraw, but we are too close now. If we retreat, they will follow, and they will fall on us from our rear, which will make matters even worse than they are already. And where would you have us retreat to? Lyse is an indefensible ruin. The road is wide and open all the way back. There is no ground we could take and hold to make good our defense. No. Our best hope is to stand here, while our people are fresh, and make the best fight we can.”

  “And how good is our best hope?” Leahlabel asked.

  Sir Steven did not answer, and he did not meet her eyes.

  Heloise thought of the Pilgrims and knights charging her across the field left open by the collapse of Lyse’s wall. She had been so brave then, so resigned. She turned inward, tried to find that same strength, but it eluded her.

  “I will have need of your strength now, Heloise,” Sir Steven finally said, “and whether you call it a debt or no, you cannot deny that the Free Peoples have been friends to you, though we had no reason to be. I hope you keep this in mind when you hear what you must do.”

  Her heart pounded, her breath coming fast. What of parley? What of Father? “What is it?”

  Sir Steven reached out a hand. One of his captains placed a slim stick in it, capped in red-enameled iron. The First Sword leaned forward and began drawing in the snow. “They’ve cut the road straight across, and dug in. Trained bands, well-formed, all with pikes. It’ll be hell’s work fighting through them. There’s forest on their wings, screening their cavalry. If we’ve any hope to stop their charge, and we must stop their charge if we’re to have any chance at winning this, we have to hold those woods. Fighting horsemen in a thicket is a far easier fight than out on the plain.”

  “They won’t just let us do that,” Heloise said.

  “Unless I miss my guess,” Sir Steven said, nodding, “they’ve put their Black-and-Grays there, waiting for us to try to take them. What we need is a skirmish line to pepper their ranks. Soften them up. And we need people as skilled at moving through rough terrain in loose order as the Black-and-Grays.”

  “You need Traveling People,” Leahlabel said. “Knife-casters to weaken the enemy line, and dancers in the woods.”

  Sir Steven nodded. “Not just you, Mother. We need the villagers, too. Heloise, your people have hunted with slings and bows in these woods for generations. The Free Peoples are fisher folk, for the most part. My archers are good massed, but not at skirmishing. And we’ve precious little light foot. My infantry are trained to fight in armor in the field, not for running battles around trees. This is your terrain, and you are best suited to take and hold it.” The First Sword clenched his fist as he spoke, his voice pitched to a low growl that she knew was intended to inspire her. “I can have my armorers distribute…”

  Heloise raised her knife-hand. “What about my father?”

  Sir Steven blinked. “What about him?”

  “The enemy army has him.”

  “Heloise, we do not know that for certain. It’s just a theory from one of your villager boys.”

  “I grew up with Guntar. He’s not stupid. Unlike you, he saw my father taken. He saw which way the riders took him.”

  “That means nothing. Heloise, the enemy is not sending heralds. They do not fly the flag of parley. We have no Imperial prisoners to exchange. This is foolish.”

  “You want my help? You negotiate for my father.”

  She could feel her advisers stiffening beside her, but she ignored them.

  “Heloise, I know you love him and are grieved by his loss, but he is just one man, and your army must do their part.”

  “‘Our part.’ You mean ‘go first.’ The Traveling People and the villagers, while the Red Lords hang back.”

  “We will only hang back until you have done enough damage to give us the advantage. Then, we will break them.”

  “And how many of us will die, I wonder, before you decide to come and break them? We aren’t ‘light troops.’ We are villagers. We have almost no soldiers among us. We will fight, but we will do it beside you, not before you.”

  Sir Steven’s cheeks colored. “Heloise, you are not a commander…”

  “I am also not a fool.”

  Sir Steven turned to Barnard. “You’re a veteran. Surely you can speak some sense to her.”

  “Why are you talking to him?” Heloise could feel the anger rising. “I speak for my army. You’re saying that you want the villagers and the Traveling People to fight and die, and then the Red Lords will come once the enemy is weakened. Like you did at Lyse.”

  Sir Steven looked to Mother Leahlabel, his jaw clenched.

  “That is also what I hear.” Mother Leahlabel crossed her arms. “The Traveling People will not be fodder for crows. Our people will advance with yours or not at all.”

  “And we won’t fight at all unless you send someone to talk to them, to try to get my father back,” Heloise added.

  Sir Steven looked to his captains, then back at Heloise. “This is madness. I only present sound strategy … If you had any knowledge of war at all you would … You must trust me!”

  “The last man I trusted,” Heloise said, “let my mother die before he put a knife in my chest.”

  Sir Steven’s face went from red to white. “Now, you listen to me—”

  A scream sounded from the woods, loud and long, rising until it was suddenly cut off
with a wet ripping sound. The entire column turned, and Heloise heard shouting as several of the Red Lords’ infantry raced into the tree line. She heard a booming, the splintering of branches.

  “What in the Peoples’ name is going on?” Sir Steven began walking toward the tree line. “Color Serjeant! Plant a banner and muster the vanguard on it. Get me a report!”

  Heloise’s mouth went dry. She heard the dull crunch of a heavy tread crushing down on snow, watched the swaying, splintering treetops. She could feel the sick glow far behind them, hovering on the horizon over the ruins of Lyse.

  She knew what was coming.

  Her anger, her bravery fled her, drained away as if a plug had been opened in her heart. Suddenly she was a little girl again, cowering inside the Tinkers’ vault as the roof came crashing down on her.

  “No,” she called after the First Sword, “we need to run.”

  She took a step back. She wasn’t ready to see this.

  There was a sound of crunching metal and two of the Red Lords’ infantrymen came flying out of the tree line, thrown as easily as child’s toys. They rolled end-over-end in the snow, shedding bits of armor as they tumbled, leaving long red streaks behind them.

  Sir Steven drew his sword, knelt over the fallen men, reaching out to touch one of their bruised faces. “What the…”

  “Run!” Heloise’s paralysis broke, and she found her voice. “First Sword, you have to run!”

  Sir Steven looked up at her. “What are you—”

  “Devil!” Heloise screamed, as the tree trunks shuddered and the thing she had named stepped out into view.

  5

  RENT

  Hell’s hands are they, knowing no master and no law, as wicked as the forked lightning, as strong as the mountaintop in winter, as numerous as the stars in the summer sky.

  —Sermon given in the Imperial Shrine on the centennial of the Fehta

  The devil that burst through the trees could have been the twin of the one she had killed. It stood taller than the giant machine, at least twice the height of the tallest man, covered in spade-shaped scales the unhealthy purple of a fresh bruise. Black horns corkscrewed above the clustered white stalks of its eyes, its mismatched nostrils, its slim black cut of a mouth.

  It spread its six arms, hooked claws still dripping the blood of the men it had killed, and screamed. Heloise had forgotten how piercing the eagle shriek could be, how painful.

  The color serjeant had been mustering infantry around a plain red banner. He clapped his hands to his ears now. The few men he’d managed to muster stumbled back, dropping their swords or spears.

  The devil took a single step toward them, huge clawed foot crunching down in the snow. Where it touched, the fluffy white turned to sick black, melting and steaming. Runnels of black-gray shot out from around the footprints, misting the cold air.

  The trees shivered and another devil appeared. Then another. The canopy was still shivering behind them, resounding with the crackling of splintering branches. There are more. The thought tore through Heloise’s mind. There are more in the woods.

  The infantry abandoned their weapons wholesale now, throwing them down in their haste to flee. The color serjeant did his best to stop them, but after the second man struck him he gave up and turned to face the devils, his long halberd looking ridiculous in the face of the giants. The devils made a low clicking sound, advanced slowly, calling to one another, clearly enjoying the terror of the fleeing troops.

  Heloise wanted nothing more than to join them, to give the tinker-engine rein and let it carry her as far and as fast from this place as it could. She had been so brave for so long that now, looking at the devils, she had no courage left to her.

  But there was Sir Steven, alone, his men melting away behind him. For all his faults, a man, alone, in the shadow of devils.

  She remembered Basina’s flashing smile as they’d rode in Poch’s cart to the Knitting of Hammersdown. Father says being brave isn’t not being frightened, it’s doing a thing even though you are.

  Heloise had no courage left, but the machine was just a thing of metal and leather. It felt neither fear nor bravery. So she moved it, let it carry her back to Sir Steven, putting it between the First Sword and the devils. “Get back,” she said.

  “I have an army to fight them!” Sir Steven began bellowing at the fleeing infantry.

  “Heloise!” Wolfun had reached her, was pulling on the edge of her shield. “Come away, you can’t fight them all yourself!”

  She jerked the shield free of his grip. “I am the only one who can.”

  A company of archers raced along the tree line, then froze, gaping up at the devils. The color serjeant ran toward them, waving his halberd. “Don’t just stand there, you great pills! Loose! Loose!”

  A few of the archers ignored him, struck dumb, but the rest began nocking arrows to their bows, drawing and loosing in no particular order. The arrows found the leftmost of the devils, plinking off its purple scales, spinning harmlessly into the snow. It turned with a sudden speed that shocked Heloise, one moment moving toward her, and the next spinning into the archers. It swept its long arms through them, snatching one up to thrust into its tiny mouth, stretched suddenly wide enough to swallow the man to his hips. With another hand it grasped a second archer by his head and flailed him against the ground. With its remaining arms it scooped archers up or batted them aside, sending the men flying through the air like the remains of a puddle where a boot has stamped down.

  The other devils shrieked at the sight of the slaughter and lurched into a run, angling straight toward the column’s head. The color serjeant moved aside, deftly avoiding being flattened by the devil’s foot, swinging his halberd at its knee. The blade struck the target squarely, sparking off the scales before turning flat, and the devil reached down with its two closest arms, grabbing the serjeant by his neck and leg. Heloise could see the color serjeant’s free leg kicking madly before the devil tugged the man into two pieces, his leg ripping away, blood fountaining from his trunk, then hurled the pieces at her.

  She raised her shield, felt the meaty thump of flesh striking it hard enough to send her back a step. Sir Steven moved clear of her, ludicrously tiny, his flimsy weapon even smaller than the serjeant’s halberd. Barnard was at her side a moment later, carrying his two-handed forge hammer, and Wolfun with one of the Lysian levy spears. They tried to move out in front of her, and she shepherded them back with her shield. “No!”

  Xilyka sprinted past them all, racing toward the devils, the first of her flat-bladed knives flying. Two more followed it, so fast that Heloise couldn’t even follow the girl’s arm. All three slammed into the devil’s knee where it had turned the serjeant’s halberd. The first two drew sparks, spinning off, but the third found a gap between the scales and stuck fast, quivering. A trickle of black blood leaked down the creature’s shin and it screamed again, stumbling. She let another knife fly, just wide of the devil’s stalked eyes, thudding against the monster’s cheek. The devil winced, jerking its head back.

  Heloise saw her moment, rushed in to meet it.

  The devil only had time to raise two of its arms before Heloise dropped the machine’s shoulder, hooked its elbow up, and sent the knife-hand bursting through its chin. The blow lifted the monster off the ground, arms pinwheeling. It went sprawling on its back, leaving a slick black track through the snow.

  A cheer went up from the troops behind her, and Heloise felt herself smile through the terror. The devils were strong, huge. But they bled like men, and that meant they could die like men. She had seen it before, and now the Red Lords had seen it too. Hopefully, they would believe it.

  And then the second devil was upon her.

  She barely had time to get the shield up before the creature slammed into it, throwing its full weight against the machine. It snaked one of its arms behind the machine’s helmet and yanked forward, slamming the visor into the shield’s edge hard enough to rattle Heloise’s head against the leat
her padding. Her vision went black, filled with stars. She shook her head, her sight coming back into focus just as the devil took a step back and wrenched the machine forward. Heloise watched the purple scales rush past her as the machine toppled face-first. The fouled snow rushed up, glistening at first, going flat black as the machine fell against it.

  With it came the fetid stink of the devils—the rot smell of swamp muck, of twisting roots and river slime, of wet places that never saw the sun. Heloise felt the machine shudder as the devil fell across it, heard the scrabbling in the snow as it dug with its claws, trying to reach down and around the metal frame. It wouldn’t take it long to find a gap and reach inside.

  She pushed off with her shield and knife-hand both, heard the engine roar, the frame groaning as it struggled against the devil’s weight. The frame lifted, handspan by handspan, moving faster as the engine built momentum. Light crept in, the stink lessening as she pushed herself up from the rancid snow. At last, the machine shot upright, and Heloise gave a shout of triumph.

  It turned to a scream of frustration as the devil held on to her, tipping the balance backward, and the sky replaced the snow in her field of vision. Heloise threw her weight forward, but it was too little and much too late. The machine overbalanced and fell again, this time on its back, pinning the devil beneath. She twisted, slammed her elbows behind her, but it was no use. The devil held on, its six arms wrapped around the machine’s torso. It squeezed with all its strength, and Heloise felt the metal frame shudder.

  She could hear more eagle screams, shouts of pain and alarm from the army behind her. More devils, raising havoc among the ranks. “Xilyka!” she shouted. “Barnard!”

  And then the sky vanished behind a huge bulk covered in sharp purple scales. A devil leapt onto the machine, pinning its shield arm to the ground. Heloise strained to lift it, but the devil had three arms on it, holding it by the wrist, elbow, and shoulder. It reached up with one of the remaining fists and punched the machine hard in the metal visor.