Then the fire cut off. Sweat lined Marielle’s face, but she straightened.
A cheer went up from the Amenkor guardsmen as they realized the barrier had held, and Marielle smiled.
In the marketplace, the Chorl Servant stepped forward, shoving warriors aside, her eyes enraged. She raised her hands to try again, and I felt Marielle brace for the impact, steadier this time, more confident.
“Take the Chorl Servant out as quickly as you can,” Catrell said to the men at his side, issuing orders even as the second blast of fire struck Marielle’s wall and I lifted free from the Fire at Marielle’s center.
The second barricade seemed to be holding, the palace Servants holding off the Chorl’s Servants all along its length. I slid from Fire to Fire inside Amenkor’s Servants, helping some to tighten their shields or boost their confidence, others to push back and attack, but I never stayed long. The group of Chorl near the River had reached the barricade there, but had run into a different problem: Darryn and the denizens of the slums. The militia had come out in force, backed by hundreds of other residents who’d managed to survive the winter. They surged across the Dredge’s bridge into the Chorl’s flanks brandishing anything they could lay their hands on as weapons, Darryn at the forefront, screaming into the smoke and wind drifting inland from the ships burning in the harbor. What they lacked in organization, they made up for in numbers, the mob overwhelming the Chorl warriors, crushing them into the barricade where the Amenkor guardsmen were holding them off with little effort.
But the wharf and the lower city were both in shambles, entire streets on fire, smoke rising into the midmorning light in thick, black columns. The battle in the harbor was over, trading ships nothing but burning husks, a few of the sleek Chorl ships moving toward the wharf, battered but still whole.
Then I caught a flicker of Fire, nothing but a sputter, barely visible. It came from the Chorl ships already at the docks.
It came from the Ochean’s ship.
I hesitated, ready to return to the throne room, ready to warn Avrell and Eryn and the others on the walls of the palace. I’d been out too long as it was, had been using the river, had been Reaching from person to person.
But the Fire flickered again, and so I dove for it, speeding through the columns of smoke, feeling the heat from the fires below as the city burned, intending to simply check out the Fire and then leave. No lingering as I’d done with the others.
I slid down into the Ochean’s ship, slid into the Fire—
And almost screamed with the pain. An all-consuming pain, like white hot flame, seething in my arms, my legs, my back, my chest. It felt like a thousand needles being shoved into my skin simultaneously, digging deeper and deeper with each breath, piercing all the way down to the bone. Each breath, each pulse of blood, sent the pain shooting through my body again, and again, and again, until the pain began to grow numbing, until I felt my heart ready to burst.
Until I remembered that this wasn’t my body.
With effort, I forced the excruciating pain to recede, to fade into the background. But I couldn’t force it to stop. It throbbed with the beat of a heart, ever present, ceaseless and unending. But it receded enough that I could focus on the body I inhabited, enough that I could recognize the man writhing beneath the pain.
Erick.
I almost screamed again, almost unconsciously jerked Erick’s body, a movement that might have killed him. Shock overcame me, utter and complete shock. Followed by a horrible, tortuous, unbelievable joy.
And then, instantly crushing the joy, a terrible, choking grief. That I’d thought he’d died, that unknowingly I’d left him, abandoned him . . . to this.
I wanted to sob, felt the pressure building up inside me, inside Erick, knew that if I let it out it could kill him. He was almost dead, his body tortured, bruised, and crushed. I tasted blood on his lips, felt hundreds of small cuts on his arms, on his legs, his back and shoulders and abdomen. Hundreds of pinprick burn marks. Something inside was broken, a rib, each breath sending sheets of pain into his right side, and the cut he’d received during the battle on the ship hadn’t completely healed yet, seethed with its own fire. His throat was raw and torn, to the point that I knew he couldn’t scream even if he wanted to. And the muscles in his neck . . .
He must have screamed, I realized. Even when he could no longer make a sound. He must have screamed and screamed, for the muscles in his neck were strained to the breaking point.
Shifting carefully, I tried to open his eyes. Only one of them complied, the other swollen shut and caked with blood. Even that small movement increased the pace of his breath, to the point where he was panting, his breath hissing in and out through a clenched jaw, blood, spit, and snot blowing in strands from his lips.
He lay on the floor in the corner of a lavishly decorated room, bolts of blue-and-green cloth draped from the ceiling, covering the outlines of a bed, hiding the rough wood of the ceiling and the walls. They drifted as the boat rocked, undulating in the waves. Pillows littered the floor, strewn in all directions, most blue and green as well, but a few a vibrant yellow or red.
The pillows closest to Erick were splattered with blood.
I heard a footfall, saw two sandaled feet move into view, the edge of a yellow robe.
One of the Chorl crouched down next to Erick, his tattooed face impassive. “Awake?” he said, the word awkward in his mouth, harsh, with a strange clicking sound at the end. He grinned, the expression sending a shudder through me. “Amenkor burning.”
Erick didn’t react. He had retreated deep inside himself. I could sense him huddling in a far, far corner, locked away from the pain.
But rage flooded through me. I couldn’t suppress it, could feel Erick’s breath quicken, his heart beating faster.
The Chorl must have seen my rage in Erick’s eyes, for he shifted closer, eyebrows raised. He grunted, the twisted grin returning.
With careful, practiced ease, I felt him reach out on the river, felt it . . . churn. I couldn’t see what he was doing, could only sense it.
But I felt the consequences instantly. Every prickling needle on Erick’s skin erupted in white-hot fire.
Erick screamed, back arching, his heart shuddering, faltering, dying—
And then the sensation ended. It had only held for a moment, a single breath.
But it had brought Erick to the brink of death. His heart thudded once, hard, then relaxed back into a faint weakened beat. Erick’s body relaxed as well, slumping to the floor, trembling.
The Chorl leaned back, considered Erick for a long moment, then snorted in contempt and stood, moving out of view.
I wanted to lash out, to seize the river and hurt the Chorl bastard. Hurt him as the Ochean had hurt Erick, torture him so that he screamed with pain without me even touching him. I wanted to kill him.
But I couldn’t. Erick’s body couldn’t take it.
So with utmost care, I slid free, felt him exhale softly, his eye closing. I watched his huddled, battered form for a moment more, wanting to touch him so badly I ached.
There was nothing more I could do here.
And I couldn’t abandon the throne room, couldn’t abandon Amenkor.
But I couldn’t leave him here. Not with the Ochean. Not now.
Who else . . . ?
I pushed up and out of the Ochean’s ship and scanned the lower city, found the Fire I was looking for and dove into Westen’s body. He was close to the second barricade, hidden in an alley, attempting to get close enough to pick off a few more of the Chorl Servants from behind. But he was almost out of crossbow bolts.
Westen, I gasped, my voice sounding more frantic than I felt. You have to get to the Ochean’s ship at the docks! I felt him frown in confusion. Erick’s alive! He’s being held on the Ochean’s ship, guarded by a Chorl dressed in yellow. Kill the guard if you have to, but get Erick
out of there! You’ll have to be careful. The guard can use the river. And Erick’s hurt. You won’t be able to move him far.
I left Westen’s body, felt his shock as my words sank in. Then he hardened, as he’d done before, grabbed his crossbow and pouch, and sprinted down the alley, back toward the wharf, without a word.
I hovered in the alley, fretting, hesitating between following Westen and heading back to the palace, but an explosion near the barricade, followed by a billowing black cloud of smoke, forced my decision.
I lurched above the buildings, saw an entire section of the marketplace barricade enveloped in flame, spent a moment worrying about Marielle, then fled toward the palace and the throne room.
“Keven!” I barked as soon as I’d settled into my body. Weakness rippled through my arms and I gasped, but it hadn’t sunk in deep yet, only made my hands tremble a little. I gripped the edges of the throne hard to stop them. Guardsmen and page boys were running in and out of the chamber, lining up to give reports. The guard surrounding me had doubled.
Keven broke away from a breathless guardsman in mid-report and vaulted up the three stone steps to the dais. “Yes, Mistress.” His face was lined with worry, with anger and frustration.
“The Chorl have breached the second barricade. They’ll be at the outer gates in moments. Close them. Now. Close them all.”
“There are still people trying to get within the safety of the walls,” he said calmly.
I grimaced. “It’s too late. Everyone will have to fend for themselves.”
He nodded, as if he’d expected the response but felt obligated to report. He turned and barked a command, one of the guardsmen surrounding the throne rushing off to the tower to sound the appropriate warning bells.
Then he turned back to me expectantly. “The harbor? The lower city?”
I sighed. “The battle in the harbor is over. And the Chorl brought in another wave of ships in addition to the first. I didn’t count them. There were too many. The Ochean came with them. They overran the barricade on the wharf in moments, with the help of her Servants. Westen and the other Seekers managed to slow their advance, and our own Servants halted them at the second barricade for a while, but as soon as they broke through that, I came here.”
Keven’s eyes emptied of all emotion, became stoic. It was obvious he’d heard some of this news before now, but not all.
I watched him, considered not telling him the other news, but then decided he—of anyone in this room or on the palace walls—deserved to know.
I leaned forward. “Keven.”
He glanced toward me, his expression still blank.
“Erick’s alive.”
For a moment, the words didn’t seem to register. But then something deep inside stirred. His shoulders straightened and he drew in a long, slow, full breath . . . and held it. “Erick’s alive?”
I nodded. “He’s being held on the Ochean’s ship.”
His jaw clenched, unclenched, then clenched again. The spark in his eye hardened, began to seethe with fury. His brow creased and in a rough voice, his eyes meeting mine with raw intensity, he said, “We have to save him.”
I held his gaze, let him see my own rage. “I’ve already sent Westen to get him.”
Keven drew in another breath, as if to protest, as if to say that wasn’t enough.
But then he nodded.
Satisfied, I leaned back, broke eye contact. I gazed down into the throne room, surveyed the long walkway between the four stone pillars on each side, the scattering of statues and tapestries and candelabra in the recessed areas behind the pillars. I scanned the guardsmen surrounding the throne, the page boys, some servants from the palace ready with paper and ink, or a few trays of food or drink.
I frowned.
“Keven.”
He turned back.
“Keep everyone off the promenade,” I said. “And keep everyone away from the central corridor in the palace to the throne room as well. Remove the guardsmen at the doors to the inner sanctum and leave those doors open. I want a clear passage from the inner gates, up the promenade, to the throne room.”
When his eyes flared, I shook my head and smiled. “If the Ochean and the Chorl breach the inner gate, I want no resistance.”
His brow creased with disagreement. “What about you? What about here, in the throne room?”
My smile faded, and I glared out at the open doors of the throne room, out into the corridor beyond, thought about Erick on the Ochean’s ship, thought about the intensity in the Ochean’s eyes when she’d recognized the Fire at Erick’s core on The Maiden. There was no reason for her to have kept Erick alive. Unless . . .
“I don’t think she’s come for Amenkor,” I said. “I think she’s come for the Skewed Throne. Let her try to take it.”
Keven hesitated, uncertain, ready to argue, but in the end he complied. Stepping down from the dais, he motioned a group of guardsmen near, began issuing orders, more forcefully, more vehemently, than necessary. But he issued the orders.
I drew myself away from the throne room, pushed myself up to the tower, concentrated on the three walls below me, on the gates. Fire flared at the inner gate and the middle gate—Eryn and Avrell, respectively.
I dove down to Avrell, and said, They’re coming, then settled back to wait.
Like the others, he shuddered as I spoke, then regrouped and moved up to the edge of the wall above the gates, motioning to a captain of the guard beside him. “Get ready. The Mistress says they’re coming.”
The captain turned and passed the word down the wall. Avrell glanced toward the gate in the outer wall—closed, so that he couldn’t see what was happening beyond. As he watched, the guardsmen on that wall suddenly broke into activity, archers leaning out through the crenellations, firing at the Chorl on the far side. Men began tipping boiling oil over the wall, or chucked stones onto the attackers below.
And then suddenly the gate exploded.
Chunks of wood and stone blasted into the air, arching up and over the outer ward, shattering into buildings, caving in rooftops.
“Mistress’ tits!” the guardsman to Avrell’s left whispered in shock.
Avrell shot him a disapproving glare, then turned back to the dust cloud caused by the explosion. The men on the wall were scrambling away from the gate entrance, fleeing along the parapet. Another explosion followed, more debris raining up and out through the air, landing with distance-muffled thuds. A building near the gate collapsed with a slow grinding crunch.
Then, through the dust and debris, Chorl poured into the streets.
Avrell straightened as everyone on the walls tensed.
“What in hells was that?” The captain of the guard had reappeared, his eyes wide.
“I don’t know,” Avrell said. “Are the gates sealed?”
“For all the good it’s going to do us.”
Avrell grunted.
The Chorl headed straight for the second gate, a massive wave of blues and reds and purples and browns, the greens of a few Servants scattered among them. Tension along the wall mounted as they approached, men shifting from foot to foot, armor scraping against stone.
“Ready!” the captain called when they were two blocks away, but still out of sight. Their piercing war cries could be heard, growing louder and louder, echoing off the buildings into the afternoon sky.
Shouts of “Ready!” echoed down the wall, men stepping forward, craning to see.
Then the Chorl appeared on the street below, a mob of blue skin and raised swords, the blades curved strangely, their war cries suddenly roaring. It crashed into the gates and wall like an ocean wave, increasing as more and more of the Chorl appeared, surging forward like a tide.
They struck the gates, then split and piled outward. The captain roared, “Now!” but his voice was drowned out in the cacophony of noise.
His sword arm slashed downward and all along the wall Amenkor guardsmen responded, arrows flying, stone arching outward, falling indiscriminately among the screaming mass of blue-skinned men. To Avrell’s left, two burly men hoisted a vat of bubbling oil up into the crenellation and tilted it over the edge. Fresh screams arose, the Chorl below retreating from the scalding oil. Someone else chucked a flaming brand down after the oil and fire seared the wall. Black smoke, reeking of charred flesh, billowed up into Avrell’s face.
He pulled back from the wall coughing, face twisted in distaste.
Before he could recover completely, the roar of the Chorl died down abruptly.
Avrell staggered back to the wall, forearm lifted to cover his mouth and nose, still coughing. Through tear-blurred eyes, he glared down at the space below the gate.
Then his eyes widened.
The Chorl were falling back, leaving the square and street open. Guardsmen still heaved things over the walls to either side, but all fighting in the immediate area had halted, men crowding back to the edge of the wall, perplexed.
In the square below, the edge of the Chorl force parted and the Ochean stepped forward.
Tense mutters passed among the guardsmen as she moved forward, halting just out of reach of the archers. Her black hair shifted in the gusting breeze from the harbor, and the folds of her iridescent blue dress trailed on the ground behind her. Shell necklaces hung down from her neck, and strings of shells had been plaited through her hair.
She surveyed her forces, the gates, the walls, her face unreadable, her pale blue skin flawless.
Then her gaze fell on the top of the gates, on Avrell’s position.
Her expression hardened, grew taut, and she raised her arms, blue cloth arching from her wrists to her waist as she held her hands outward, palms facing the wall.
I felt the force gathering on the river, reached out to Avrell to warn him, but he’d already seen the danger.
Eyes widening in fear, he lurched back and to one side and bellowed, “Run!”
He’d taken two steps, the guardsmen to either side turning to frown at him in confusion, when the pressure on the river released.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 68
