Colonel Alya sat beside him, left arm pressed hard against the flat panel in front of her, the other jammed between her seat and the door, holding as tightly as she could.
Arrow had a sudden, insane thought – that putting in straps to hold people tight to the seats would be a brillinant invention. Another: I should sell that idea.
Then he spun the wheel quickly to the side, narrowly avoiding bouncing right off the road.
Alya had spoken at the beginning of their insane flight through Strength, but was silent after that. After seeing the battered, tortured doll on the wall of the Strongholds, Arrow had run to the air-car as fast as he could. Alya barely managed to throw herself in the passenger before he pulled away in a cloud of dirt and dust.
She looked at him. "What's happening?" She held herself rigid in the seat.
Arrow spoke through clenched teeth. "There's an attack coming. Perhaps several." And he told her. Not everything. Not of the coup, the change in the Silver Seat. But of Marionette, and of the armored man who had flown into the middle of the castle, leveled part of the Imperial Palace, and crippled Malal.
Perhaps killed him. I don't even know if he's alive.
She knew some of it – of course. She was an Army officer, and the Army had suffered an attack against its own Ears. But much of it left her stunned.
Arrow told her of Phoenix. He made it sound as though the once-Chancellor had tried to corrupt Malal, rather than actually succeeding. And that, once his evil was discovered, he had been dispatched by one of the Blessed Ones, who still stood ready to assist the Emperor in any and all tasks for the good of the Empire.
Then he added that, even though he had been impaled by Sword, thrown off the side of Fear and into the clouds below, then impaled again on the spears outside the palace – he had apparently returned.
The armored man and his two accomplices.
Phoenix.
Marionette.
Gods. What else is coming?
Alya went a shade whiter with each passing part of his terse story. At one point, when he was talking about the relationship between Malal and Phoenix, she looked over at him. A sharp glance that he saw only out of the corner of his eye as he pushed the auto-car to its limits.
What does she suspect?
What does she know?
"Are they connected?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Phoenix and the armored man and this little girl. Marionette."
Arrow frowned. But he already knew. Intersections and angles. People flew like bullets, courses straight until they hit something – and then they buried themselves in what they struck, or bounced away at an angle and continued on, depending on how hard they struck, and whether what they hit was harder or softer than they.
He was suddenly acutely aware how far from Sword he was. He had flown beside her long enough that this time apart made him ache.
He loved her.
The realization surprised him anew, each and every time. Not because she was unworthy – she was – or because they hadn't spent enough time together – they had, and the time spent was during crises that brought out a person's true self. That showed who she was, and what she was worth.
She was worth his love. She was Sword, and there was no one – never would be anyone – like her.
The startling thing – at least, this time – was that this realization came as he hurtled down a dark road, the first fingers of dawn clawing their way over the horizon. That it came in the midst of blood, and death – and worse than death.
Love had come to him. And the understanding of it, the knowing of it, refused to acknowledge the darkness around. The sun rose, and the light tore through the night. Love came, and ripped away terror and pain.
Love cannot exist in its fullest when fear is present. And if the love is great enough, fear flees before it.
At least for a moment.
The road curved, and Arrow came back to himself. The love was still there – maybe it had always been there – but his mind was now back in the moment.
Another fact of love. Infatuation leads to madness, to rash choices and a lack of commitment and focus. It is a thing of the now, with no future possible and no past that matters.
Love leads to good decisions, to hard work, to an appreciation of the present, an understanding of the past – and an eye to the future. Because love yearns for always. Not a thing of the now, but a presence of the eternities.
He loved Sword.
He wanted to be with her forever.
He focused on the now. He looked to the future.
Intersections. Angles. Flights.
"Yes," he said, suddenly seeing things clearer than ever before. "They are connected. Phoenix and Marionette are working together – there's no question of that. She's like a pet of his, and loves the captivity because Phoenix turns her loose to kill at every opportunity. As for the man in the armor, and those who came with him…." He frowned. "They're connected, too. But not directly."
"How do you know?"
Arrow's frown deepened. He knew in his gut the reason, but articulating it was hard. "Because the man in the armor has… honor. There is a nobility to his path."
Alya gaped. "He attacked the palace. He poisoned Malal. How can that be 'noble'?"
Arrow nodded, then shook his head. Then shrugged.
The auto-car took a turn so fast that lifted it onto two wheels for a second, then slammed back down with bone-jarring force and a slide that nearly took them off the road before Arrow managed to correct it.
"What he's doing isn't noble," said Arrow. "His path is. It may not be the right path, but he travels it with integrity. With purpose." He thought to how the man had hailed Malal. Had called him out, and then had spoken to Sword before fighting. Not like an assassin – not like Phoenix would have done.
Like a soldier. A warrior. A man, in the best sense of the word.
Arrow shook his head, his resolve firming. "The man isn't with Phoenix."
"But you said they were connected."
Arrow chewed his lip. This was even harder. His Gift saw the connections, but his mind still struggled to sort them out. "They are. The armored man isn't fighting with Phoenix, but he might be fighting for him – though I would bet my best guns and my good right hand that he doesn't know that."
Alya fell silent, and remained that way. She didn't ask where they were going. They both knew.
They were going to the palace. Almost all that remained of the entire Imperial Army had been wiped out by Marionette. Phoenix was somewhere close behind, planning Gods-only-knew what.
Arrow had to warn the palace. Had to muster whatever remained of the Army. Rally his own people of the Southern Grasslands if he could, to add their number to the conflict he knew was coming.
Light continued creeping over the horizon, dawn forcing the night to recede. Arrow blinked, and realized with a start that he was about to drive off the road. He corrected as quickly as he could – faster than anyone else could do, but still well slower than his norm.
A hand closed over his. Both resting on the wheel for a moment. He looked over at Alya.
"How long have you been awake?" she asked.
He shook his head. After the death of the Ears, the attacks on the palace, the race to Strength….
"I have no idea," he said.
She didn't say anything. But he felt her unspoken words. They were both soldiers, of a sort, and knew what had to be done.
He nodded gratefully, no time for pride. He pulled the auto-car to the side of the road, and they both leaped out. Arrow ran around the front, Alya around the back, switching places with an ease and economy that seemed almost practiced.
She is a good soldier.
"Why aren't you more than a colonel?" asked Arrow as soon as they were on their way.
"I haven't been promoted," said Alya.
"You know what I mean. You're capable. You're strong. You're smart. Why haven't you been promoted?"
Alya handled
the auto-car nearly as well as Arrow could. Better, given how tired he was. She grimaced as she whipped around a bend in the road, then grimaced again in response to his question.
"Plenty of reasons," she said. "I'm difficult at times, and though I try to be respectful to my superiors, I also have trouble not telling them when I think they're acting stupidly. Which is surprisingly often."
Arrow nodded. He felt sleep coming over him, and knew he should take advantage of this time to rest. But he wanted her to know: "I have some influence," he began. Alya chuckled, and he laughed as well – anyone with an Imperial letter giving him unfettered power directly from the Silver Seat obviously had influence. Then he grew serious. "I'm going to see you move forward. As you deserve."
"Assuming we survive."
She wasn't attempting humor. A soldier – a true soldier – knew when death knocked at the door. She recognized the immense danger that had come to them – and all the Empire.
"Assuming we survive," he agreed.
As though the Gods had waited for their cue, Alya started to scream. She let go of the steering wheel and clapped her hands to her head and Arrow had a moment to wonder what was happening.
Then he knew.
A terrible pain ripped through his skull. It felt like someone was cleaving his brain in pieces, hacking the centers of his very self to quivering, painful bits. He, too slapped his hands against his temples.
A tiny part of him – rapidly receding before the pain – realized what this was. Or at least what it had already done.
This is what happened to the Ears.
He saw blood spurt from Alya's nose, her ears, and her eyes. Felt similar warmth on his own skin.
Then the auto-car – careening along a road at full speed with a driver who no longer held the wheel – veered sideways. They were passing through a lightly-forested area, and the auto-car drove off the road and into the trees.
Paths. Intersections. Angles.
Even through his pain, Arrow saw what was about to happen. His body reacted instinctively, tossing itself sideways. Numb fingers clasped the door handle, miraculously managed to yank it. The door opened and Arrow rolled off the seat, tumbling through the dirt between the trees, and through the waves of pain that still crashed over him in pulses so powerful he could no longer even scream.
He rolled once. Twice.
Then the auto-car slammed into the tree his Gift had known was its final destination.
He kept rolling. But did not turn fast enough to avoid seeing Alya crash through the windshield, slamming headfirst into the tree that had stopped the auto-car. She dropped to the crumpled hood of the auto-car like a limp cloth, a huge smear of blood on the tree where she had hit it.
Arrow was still spinning through dirt and leaves. Facedown in the dirt, then face up again. Spinning and spinning, the pain in his mind so great he barely felt it.
He came to rest, staring up through the leaves at a sky that seemed far too blue for such horror. The pain pressed out everything else.
Then there was a roar. Even through the pain, he heard it. Even through the pain, he trembled. He had never heard anything its match. It was almost like the sound of the flames that had held the armored man aloft, but a thousand times louder and a million times more powerful.
The blue sky broke. Something appeared. Gray metal hanging directly overhead him, a craft so broad and fearsome that he knew what it must be – and who must have sent it.
"A dragon," he whispered. "A dragon ridden by the Gods."
And then he closed his eyes. The pain surged over him in a final wave that grabbed him, yanked him away from himself, and pulled him into the dark.
18
The fighting clarified things, and that was a strange relief.
The world was in upheaval; things were happening that Sword didn't understand. But here, now, there was only time for her to think of herself, her weapons, and whatever enemy stood directly before her. She almost rejoiced in the clarity of the moment.
She ran from place to place, raining fire upon any who stood against her – or who threatened the refugees who had run from Halaw.
It wasn't hard to dispatch the individual undead. No matter how she hacked at them, they still lived… but if she cut them into small pieces, there was nothing much those pieces could do. Without a hand, a finger was no threat. Without a hand, an arm could do little.
The problem was that there were so many of the undead soldiers. She thought at first, as she ran from place to place, dispatching the creatures as quickly as she could, that they must have snuck into the camp. But then one fell directly before her, plummeting from the sky and landing in a broken pile and then managing to rise up on shattered legs and reach for a man who was screaming nearby.
She understood: the undead in the camp were the crews from the tanks. They were being peeled out of their war-machines, tossed into nothing but air. Only Tiawan and Wahy and La'ug had no idea what was happening. Had no idea that they were essentially bombing the camp. Not with Shells, nothing so loud or so grand – just with creatures once men but now kept alive only by the evil power of a mad little girl.
But that was enough. Most of the people of the camp, confronted with the reality of a dead man or woman clutching at them, were unable to fight or even to run. They simply stood, and watched, and screamed.
Sword was all they had.
She was fast.
Not fast enough.
One by one the creatures fell before her, one by one she slashed and cut them away until they were too small to threaten anyone. But for every one she cut down, another had time to hurt or kill one of the survivors of Halaw. Their screams rose around her, surrounded her. And no matter how fast she moved, it seemed there were always more screams, always more people to save from the men and women who had already been killed.
She cut one of the soldiers away from a young man, slicing the still-moving corpse to pieces with a sword that moved too quickly for anyone but her to see. Then the sword shifted and became a rope dart: a line of fire headed by a cold blue point of hardened flame. She threw it fifty feet, the dart plunging into the head of an undead who was about to bite out the throat of an old woman. The dart caught its skull like a fish hook, and she yanked it away from its prey.
The dart disappeared, and the undead soldier stumbled. Now Sword held a meteor hammer: similar to the rope dart, but with a heavy weight at the end.
She felt a pang holding it. This was one of the weapons she had fought Phoenix with. One she thought she had used to kill him.
Then that thought was swallowed in the fight as she flung the heavy end of the weapon. It flew through the air, smashing into the soldier who still lurched toward her. It tore through its head, leaving nothing but bone fragments behind. The creature still had fight in it, though, so Sword heightened the heat of the weapon until it shone as bright as the sun. She yanked down on the rope she still held, and with a sizzle like water on a skillet, the line of flame cut the undead man in half. Right and left separated from each other, and though both halves tried to keep moving, neither was much of a risk for anyone who didn't step right into its clutches.
She moved to the next threat. And the next. And the next.
The sound of her breathing, the low purr of the flames she held in her hand – those took over her senses. They merged, for as always when she fought, she was as much the weapons themselves as she was a separate person.
Then, suddenly, all fell silent.
She felt for an instant like she was in a coccoon of some kind: somewhere soft and safe, designed to keep the world out.
A lie, of course.
In the next moment, the sounds came back. And she realized that the "silence" hadn't been a silence at all: just the absence of explosions, of the screams of those under attack by undead. No sounds of tanks plummeting to earth, or of living corpses clawing their way over rock that had darkened with blood.
There were still screams, but they were the screams of terro
r and pain that come after a battle. Screams that were very different from the type heard during a fight.
She had only a moment to enjoy the fact that the fight was over. Then one of the sounds that had fallen into her subconscious as she fought grew suddenly louder. The rushing roar of flame holding a man aloft.
The sound grew, and a moment later Tiawan dropped to the ground before her. La'ug and Wahy clung to him, both still in their alter-forms. La'ug roared, and Wahy threw back his eyeless head and shrieked before running toward Sword.
Wahy's shirt was gone, and even as she crouched and prepared to meet his attack she saw what had caused the glow she saw on him and the others.
It was a gem. Just like Arrow had described to her and the others after their first encounter with Tiawan and his family. Carved into the shape of the symbol of a Bishop of Faith, an intricate design of many facets that sparkled in the light, and with an internal yellow glow.
The gem was huge, too. More than the size of her fist, and it disappeared into the skin directly over Wahy's heart. Perhaps it went all the way to his heart.
Or replaced it.
Then she had no more time for observations, because Wahy was upon her. He roared, and his hands rained down. She batted them away with a war hammer. But though she heard bones crack with every blow, it seemed to matter nothing to the berserker. She hit his right hand, and saw it fold back completely flat against the back of his forearm. But he swung it back at her and as he did she saw the hand twist and snap back into place. He was healing as fast as she could hit him.
She ducked under a blow, rolled away… and came up holding a blade. She didn't want to kill him, but it seemed there was no other way to stop this.
Wahy reared up, his fists high overhead, ready to jump at her.
"Stop!"
Wahy paid no heed to Tiawan's shout. He loomed over Sword, who crouched…
… drew back her sword…
… thrust…
… and stopped only an inch in front of Wahy's throat.
The big man had stopped moving, completely and utterly. He stood as still as stone, not even blinking. The yellow gem in his chest glowed, a subdued flame over his heart.
Child of Sorrows Page 32
