Einin asked, “Where is Tyrus?”
“The big one? He went into the fortress. I’m not sure where.”
“Good. I’ll find him and bring him to the upper levels. Meet us there.”
“What is the rush? What’s going on?”
Einin wanted to run while everyone was distracted, and she twisted the truth into a beautiful lie. “We have to get out before the Sarbor bring their fight to us.”
II
Azmon lurched to his throne, cradling his stomach. His runes had stopped the bleeding, but walking tore the wound. He grunted and shuffled toward his chair, unable to make a regular stride. Collapsing into the chair, he propped himself on one elbow and found a measure of comfort. He had twisted himself into a strange posture that eased the pressure around his navel. The room was empty. He struggled to control his breathing. Soft breaths eased his pain but not enough to make the wound pleasant. He was ready for the nobles.
“Guards!”
Armored men came running.
“Summon the lords—now. And find my heralds. What happened to them?”
“Excellency, one is dead.”
“How?”
“The large guest did not like him.”
Azmon grimaced. Of course Mulciber would waste a servant. Azmon waved a hand, and the guards went about their errands. He was alone again, trying to compose himself. Sweat dripped down the middle of his back.
The nobles trickled back into the throne room, and Azmon performed the role of the all-powerful sorcerer. He saw doubt on their faces. Their eyes measured his face against the blood on his front, and they knew that he had angered one of the shedim. This was a dangerous time, and Azmon must not lose their respect. The seeds of another civil war—fear of the shedim, a weak emperor, and defeat in Paltiel—must not take root.
The danger helped him focus. He sat a little straighter and met those questioning stares with a stern resolve. His stomach burned and reminded him of all the times Tyrus had been injured and Azmon nursed him through the pain. He had told Tyrus that the mind was stronger than the body, but now that he had a serious wound, he saw how empty the words were. His advice became a joke. He must endure, he told himself—all emperors endure setbacks.
The throng of bone lords had diminished. Azmon realized he waited on reports for the losses in Paltiel. So few had survived, even fewer with real talent. He waited for more, but if this was all that was left, so be it.
“Launch the flyers, all that remain. We send the raids before dark.”
They were reluctant. Azmon contained his anger. Push them too far, and they’d rebel. They questioned him with squints and raised eyebrows and shaking heads before the chorus of doubts began.
“Excellency, after the woods—”
“And the elves have blocked off the city. They dig trenches.”
“We cannot risk any more nobles. Who will be left to control the beasts?”
Azmon let them complain. Venting their frustrations deflated the room, to a point, as long as he avoided arguing with them. They weren’t openly angry with him yet, only defeated and scared. He must not lose face.
One of the loudest nobles was Lord Olwen of House Karnaim, an old and powerful family in Rosh. If Azmon died, House Karnaim would fight House Hadoram for the throne. He appeared regal, a tall and muscular man who wore the black robes well but would be at home in a suit of armor as a general on a white horse. Azmon could not afford to anger him or his allies. Dozens of heads bobbed at the man’s words. He noted the dangerous faction, exposed, and made a mental note to deal with it another day.
Another lord spoke, a nobody whom Azmon couldn’t name. He was the perfect one to hurt. If Azmon didn’t know of him, then he couldn’t be strong enough to worry about.
Azmon reached within himself for power, but instead felt the chill and tug of the otherworld. He shrugged it off and went from clear sight to tunnel vision. His eyes became white on white with tiny pinpricks for pupils. A thought, a word of power, and an invisible force threw the young lord into the far wall. The impact had a sickening crunch of bones, and the body stuck to the wall for a moment before plopping to the floor. Except for a few pieces of cracked stone clattering to the floor, the room silenced.
“We strike now,” Azmon spoke in a civil tone, relaxed, making eye contact with the leaders before continuing. “While the enemy is still distracted by the Sarbor. My agent will kill the Red Sorceress, and their armies will fall apart.”
“Your Excellency—”
“This is not a debate.”
Bone lords bowed their heads, but the minor houses waited on the major houses to bow first. He skirted close to the brink. Their distrust of each other kept him on the throne, but later he must exploit their rivalries. He must play the major houses off each other and keep Rassan from joining Olwen. He missed Tyrus. If the Damned stood beside him, no one would think to attack. Together, they had been invincible.
“You know your duties and are dismissed.”
The nobles filed out. Rassan stayed behind. He stood in the center of the room, scratching at his chin, and Azmon wondered whether that was a real tic or a young man trying to act like an intellectual. He wanted Rassan to leave. If Azmon were alone, he would crawl onto the cool marble tile and lie down. His core felt like a blistered sunburn, and trying to control the pain made one of his heels vibrate.
“You were dismissed, Rassan.”
“Excellency, how can so few lords control all the beasts and flyers?”
“We don’t need to control them, idiot.” Azmon ground his teeth. “Keep them from hurting the flyers, keep them calm, and when they land, they can rampage in the city.”
“A good plan.” Rassan spoke with a dry voice, begging a question.
“Out with it.”
“We send everything as a distraction. What if the elves attack?”
“I am sure even the Imperial Guard can hold Jethlah’s Walls.”
“The elves have sorcerers.”
“I am staying behind. Dura is the power in Argoria, and she is in Ironwall. She will die when the attack begins. Don’t worry about the elves.”
“As you wish, Excellency.”
“Can you control the smaller beasts from a long distance?”
“I can keep them from attacking the flyers, but to do more, I need to be closer.”
“Your new beasts, will they rampage without orders?”
“They are more aggressive than the wall breakers.”
“Good. Now go away.”
Rassan bowed and left.
Azmon ordered the room sealed. He climbed down the dais, trying to avoid falling on his face. The tile was cool, as he hoped, and he struggled for comfort. Twisting his stomach produced moans. He should send for Elmar and have his staff carry him to a room, but he needed a moment of rest. He must lend his control to the beasts as they flew toward their targets. Without him, the monsters would shred the flyers.
The chaos of the raids would give Lilith the distraction she needed to strike and provide a flyer to carry her home with his daughter. He felt her through their shared bond and poured emotions into it, trying to communicate caution and patience.
He whispered, “Help is on the way.”
III
Klay stood beside Lord Nemuel, watching Shinar. He reflected on the dullness of sieges, months of soldiers watching each other from a safe distance, wondering which camp ate better or slept in drier beds. Beside him stood Chobar, who still pouted about being left behind during the tunnel attack. The bear found little ways to taunt Klay, tripping him, snarfing food Klay was about to eat, or the bear’s favorite, standing when Klay was in the saddle.
Chobar leaned into him, forcing a stumble.
“Knock it off.”
Chobar snorted, and Lord Nemuel glanced sideways at Klay. The bear made him look stupid in front of the elves, and Chobar knew what he was doin
g. If Klay didn’t know Lord Nemuel better, he’d have sworn the elf put Chobar up to it.
Klay asked, “Any changes?”
Lord Nemuel shook his head once.
Klay was more concerned about the gates opening and hundreds of bone beasts pouring out. “Think they will sortie?”
“Sorcery or beasts or both. We are spread too thin to cover all the gates, but I’ve kept our strength here until the Gadarans arrive.”
“Think King Samos will ride with his army?”
“I don’t care.”
Klay could never tell if he tested Lord Nemuel’s patience. The elf had few facial expressions and seldom made eye contact. The gray skin created an impression of coldness, which Nemuel cultivated. He stood apart, an other, but Klay had known him a long time and enjoyed talking to him even if he got crisp answers.
Rangers reported to Klay, an unofficial elevation in his rank. He was still young but had earned respect from the elders. They liked the way he had handled Tyrus, Dura, and the battles in Paltiel. He had impressed the right people, others deferred to him, and the idea of letting everyone down terrified him.
Nemuel pointed at Shinar. “Flyers.”
Klay cursed, caught woolgathering. He had been looking right at the city and missed the movement. The alarm sounded. Archers and sorcerers prepared to attack, but the beasts climbed higher, circling Shinar, never venturing past the walls until they were beyond threat of attack. Dozens of them flew in no recognizable pattern. Strange that geese were more organized than sorcerers. The flyers looked bulky and flapped their wings more than Klay thought was normal, struggling with the weight. Klay saw it then—they carried beasts.
Klay said, “That’s not enough to attack an army.”
“It’s a diversion or a raid.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
Once they were high enough, the flyers headed toward Paltiel. Two groups formed; one headed toward Telessar and the other toward Ironwall.
Klay said, “They’re attacking the cities.”
“They are.”
“We should send Telessar help. Ironwall is too far away, but a regiment or two might make it to Telessar before the beasts do too much damage.”
“We hold, here.”
Klay half heard him as he watched a wall breaker being carried through the air. He struggled to believe that a creature so big could be lifted into the air. As the flyers passed overhead, their shadows flittered over Klay. They soared like manta rays, lazy, almost comical but carrying monstrous cargo.
“We cannot hold here,” Klay said. “They’ll fly over the walls.”
“Telessar is fine. A few flyers won’t threaten the mountain.”
“You said this was all of your strength.”
“It is all the strength of my people.”
“The seraphim guard the mountain?”
“Oh no.” Nemuel seemed amused. “To fight seraphim, Azmon must pass the Gate Keeper.”
Klay didn’t like the sound of that. Nemuel seldom showed so much satisfaction at an enemy’s misstep, and Klay’s anxiety didn’t lessen as he watched the beasts fly to the Forbidden City. He wanted to fight back. Azmon cheated, he realized, flying his army over theirs. It wasn’t right.
“What about Ironwall?”
“That is Dura’s problem.”
As the flyers approached Paltiel, Klay waited for the angels to return. He imagined the white wings lancing through the air with their spears, shredding the flyers and leaving their cargo to tumble through the air. But they never came. He wondered at that as the flyers grew more distant.
IV
In Ironwall, Tyrus stood on one of the taller ramparts facing Mount Teles. He scanned the scrublands for bears and green cloaks, but they were empty. He hoped Klay had survived the tunnels and that he would return to Ironwall. A guilty feeling wouldn’t go away, as though Tyrus had sacrificed Klay for Ishma. In many ways he had; he knew it, and admitting it hurt. Every victory required sacrifice, but Klay deserved a better death. Tyrus’s attention lingered on the rolling brown hills as he hoped for news of his friend. No word came, but no one had reported back yet. The elves had a city to siege, and the Gadarans marched to war.
Movement drew his attention: a flock of birds, dark shadows, above Paltiel. He had no way to gauge the distance or their size, but the first inkling of alarm crept over him. He leaned into the rampart, squinting at the shapes. They grew closer and larger, and the wingspans were too wide to be shedim. As they got larger, he saw the telltale sign of long tails and necks.
The watchmen must have had multiple runes enhancing their vision as well because they pointed and shouted. Archers and spearmen gathered on dozens of walls. When the flyers passed over Paltiel, entered the scrublands, and did not change course, the alarm bells clanged. Shouting on the walls spread to the streets, and the city panicked.
The flyers were not the right shape—too heavy in the hindquarters, and their wings flapped more than normal. Each carried a heavy load, and when Tyrus spotted multiple red eyes, he unslung his sword. In a moment of clarity, Tyrus remembered a conversation he’d had with Azmon after Shinar fell, when Azmon said the age of castles was over. The beasts would not run through the walls; they’d drop over them. He struggled to articulate the knowledge.
“Pull back into the streets.” He called to the guards. “Defend the people.”
“We can’t abandon our post.”
“This isn’t the target.”
“I’m not taking a lashing for you.”
“You defend what the enemy attacks.” Tyrus wanted his command back. “You don’t tell the enemy what to attack.”
He leaned against a rampart. The wind sickened him, but he spared a glance before backing away from the drop. The Gadarans prepared archers and ballistae, strung bows, and cranked the wheels of the siege equipment. They readied the defense of the walls, but the beasts would drop behind them. Tyrus ran along the wall, watching all the Gadarans doing the same thing.
“Find your officer,” Tyrus told a guard. “Tell him the beasts attack the fortress.”
“They have to get past us.”
“They already have. Watch.”
Flyers swept in, above the range of the archers. Their shadows passed over the lower walls one by one. The men on those walls shouted the alarm, but they were hundreds of yards down the side of the mountain, and in seconds the flyers had bypassed most of the Gadaran strength.
An enormous flyer with thirty-foot wings flew straight at Tyrus. The wings snapped and swooshed as they cut the air while its claws carried two bone beasts, ten-footers, not wall breakers but big enough to wreak havoc on infantry. The bone lord at the reins held an orb of crackling fire. He threw it at the archers as he flew lower, and a streak of gray smoke followed it to the wall before it exploded. The blaze consumed two archers as the flyer flung the beasts. They flew overhead and crashed into buildings near the fortress.
The roof of a house became a gaping hole of splintered wood and shattered clay tiles. The other demolished a stable filled with screaming horses. A dozen flyers launched similar attacks, hellfire paving the way for beasts. Tyrus saw two flyers with empty claws but carrying a half dozen of the smaller beasts on their backs. The flyers circled the keep’s roof, and the others leapt off.
He didn’t understand. A dozen lords couldn’t possibly control their flyers and all the beasts. Then he realized they didn’t have to control them—only set them free to rampage through the streets.
“A diversion,” he said.
The beasts ran amok in the streets, hellfire exploded on rooftops, and Tyrus was frozen from shock. He struggled to see their real target. Maybe King Samos? He wondered what Azmon could want. The realization took longer than it should have as he surveyed the attack and his eyes lingered on the top of the mountain, where the Red Tower stood exposed. Azmon’s wife and daughter wer
e easy targets. He blinked away disbelief. Shock gave way to clarity, and that freed his limbs.
His body lurched into life.
He jumped down from the wall and ran for the keep, the fastest route to the Red Tower. He pushed past screaming crowds and ignored a roaring beast. In the distance, alarm bells clanged. From the air, bone lords launched fire orbs. In the streets, the city became a panicked, burning mess, and too many guards stood on the walls. No one stopped the beasts from tearing apart everything in their path. Tyrus ducked into a servants’ passageway and climbed stairs. He would let Ironwall burn before he lost Ishma again.
V
Lilith sampled all the foods in Dura’s pantry, but none of them satisfied. The taste was wrong, off-putting, not soured but not right either. She ravaged a leg of lamb and had dim memories of eating it before. Other than the need to eat, a primal urge to chew, the food did not satisfy. The cook watched her with a puzzled expression, and she wondered what he might taste like—pumping blood and dripping meat, raw and slimy—the idea made her drool. She sought a substitute. Breads were like chalk. Honey had lost its sugar. Roots left a film on her teeth. Her attention came back to him, and she struggled with the need to maintain her disguise.
“Miss, I will prepare a plate as the Lady Einin asked, but I must insist that you leave the stores alone.”
Lilith caught most of it: Nuna, a language for pompous little fools. She snarled at the man, wanting to maul his jugular.
“I am the Empress of Rosh.”
“Apologies.”
“Get out.”
“Now see here, this is my kitchen. My family has worked for mistress Dura for three generations.”
“Out.” She dragged him to and flung him through the door.
“Empress or not, Dura will hear of this.”
Alone, Lilith ate more slowly. She had given up on finding food that tasted as good as her memories—she remembered feasts and banquets, the best food from all over Sornum, prepared by artists—and while she blamed Gadaran cooking, she knew the truth. Her hungers had changed.
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