Of Killers and Kings

by Will Wight

  “It’s hard to say precisely, since your body rids itself of potions more quickly under extreme stress, but my professional opinion is six to seven minutes.”

  A clock began to tick away in Shera’s head.

  “Have you activated your people?” Shera asked.

  “Furman will have done so already. I’m not sure if you know, because I was quite discreet, but I had a plan for just this eventuality. My alchemists and mercenaries have been equipped specifically to distract, delay, disturb, and otherwise sideline the Champions.”

  “I knew.”

  She had been delivered a comprehensive report the night before on the alchemists’ equipment. It was the opinion of the Architects that they had chosen their alchemy specifically to restrain or immobilize powerful opponents, which suggested that they intended to prevent the Champions from engaging.

  That was encouraging. Without Estyr and her Vessels, the Champions entering the fight meant an instant defeat.

  Without waiting for a response from Bareius, Shera stepped from the building. She landed three stories below, an inch away from Meia, who had been standing in that exact spot waiting for her.

  Meia’s eyes were Kameira orange, flitting this way and that as they caught movement, her arms clawed and flexing with inhuman anxiety. “Orders?”

  “Retrieve Estyr’s Vessels.”

  “I’ll lead.”

  They shot off together. For the first time, Shera could keep up with Meia’s pace.

  Inside her mind, the imaginary clock ticked away.

  The two Consultants flowed through the ordinary Guild members like shadows, and the only one to react was a single Champion.

  He had been half-sealed in a gummy pink adhesive sprayed from a pack by an alchemist so that only the Champion’s head and one arm were free. He tracked Shera and Meia with his eyes, swinging a sword the size of Shera’s torso.

  If he had been able to put more of his body into the motion, he might have gotten her, but the adhesive restricted his motion. She ducked, slipping under the awkward blow, and Meia slashed her claws at the man’s eyes in passing.

  He dipped his head backwards and roared a challenge at them, but they had already reached the Rose Tower.

  Meia made a flat-footed jump that cleared ten feet, landing with claws sunk into the plaster on the side of the arrow-slit. She peered inside.

  After only a second, she pulled a hand out of the wall and signaled to Shera. Enemy.

  Only a blink later, she dropped down to the street as a pair of musket-shots hammered the wall where she had been hanging.

  “Kern,” Meia reported grimly. She and Shera took shelter behind a nearby pair of Luminian knights, who raised shields to cover them.

  A massive crash sounded from inside the first floor of the tower, followed by a roar that sounded like it was from a massive Kameira. Maybe the Stonefang.

  “If he gets his Vessel, he’ll return straight to the fight,” Shera said. The Miners had assured her that Baldezar Kern’s Soulbound power was the ability to enter a berserk state in which he was almost unstoppable. He would seek fight after fight until he ran out of enemies.

  Paired with his Awakened maces, which caused fiery explosions on impact, it was no wonder he had sunk the entire fleet of the South Sea Rebellion.

  But in his madness, he would become predictable. He wouldn’t stand guard over the other Vessels. She could wait until she saw evidence that he had returned to the battle against Estyr, then slip in and crush open the boxes in his wake.

  Though every second they spent waiting would cost her more. She had to succeed before her potion ran out.

  Fortunately, they very quickly gained confirmation that Baldezar Kern had returned to the battle. In the form of Estyr Six crashing through the northern wall of the top floor and a helmeted Kern leaping after her, a mace in each hand, laughing like an Elder set free.

  Estyr’s clothes were torn and she was trailing blood, and a second later Teach leaped after them, Tyrfang bare in her hands. It blazed with black power streaked with blood, and the sense of corruption it brought twisted Shera’s stomach.

  The battle was headed away from them, so she could stand it…and she had a mission.

  She matched Meia’s earlier jump, landing with her fingers in the arrow-slit and pulling herself up to peer in.

  In the days when this tower might have to be defended, there would have been a platform beneath the tiny window where an archer would stand. In the days of peace, the platform was removed, and the arrow-slit was used only to let in light.

  The platform was gone now, which Shera thought must have been an oversight. Someone hadn’t expected to need archery cover of the streets from this angle, despite the Imperial Guards and soldiers positioned higher in the tower and in the surrounding buildings.

  Perhaps they had thought they wouldn’t need the platform because of all the redundant cover. Either way, she thanked them mentally, because she had an unobstructed view of the room.

  The Stonefang, contrary to her expectations, was still alive. As were the Magister and both sets of Witnesses.

  The blindfolded Champion, by contrast, lay crumpled against the far wall. Her chest and stomach were covered in so much blood that Shera could see little of the actual wound, and more blood sprayed the wall behind her.

  She had her sword clutched in her fist and she was still talking with a wry smile on her lips, which told Shera everything she needed to know about the resilience of true Champions, but she didn’t look capable of standing. Even in that state, she might be dangerous.

  Shera and Meia had to drop in, fight their way past the Kameira and Magister and wounded Champion, then break open the box containing Estyr’s Vessels.

  That was the mission, and Shera was prepared for it.

  But she hesitated before slipping inside. The clock ticked away in her mind, the power of the potion draining away with every second, but she was thinking like a Gardener.

  She needed to think like a Guild Head.

  The battle inside would take at least a handful of seconds, and depending on how capable the Champion was, might stretch on for even longer. She and Meia could achieve their objective, but it might cost them too much time or even their lives.

  There was another way.

  Focusing on the cold in order to ignore the urgency of the ticking clock, Shera gestured at Meia to follow.

  Then she scaled the Rose Tower.

  Bullets, arrows, or debris thudded into the tower next to her, but she climbed so quickly that most did not touch her. A few stung her skin, leaving only shallow wounds.

  She launched herself through the hole that Estyr’s body had left, Meia following her only a half-second later. Her flesh shone luminous pink where it was healing a bullet hole, but Meia expressed no discomfort.

  The room looked like it had endured a fight between an earthquake and a hurricane. There were holes in all the walls, the floor had almost entirely crumbled away, and most of the ceiling had collapsed. What little surface remained at their feet was covered by rocks, plaster, and debris.

  On a tiny island of stone, Azea and Calazan Farstrider remained. They peered at the stairs, whispering to one another, clearly debating whether to cross. The floor between them and the stairs was suspect, and the stairs themselves were mostly blocked by chunks of masonry.

  As Shera had suspected, the Guild Heads had stayed to witness the fight, only attempting to make an exit after the battling Champions had left. She considered herself fortunate that they had survived…though depending on who killed them, it could have been an asset for their side.

  If they had obviously been slain by Tyrfang’s dark Intent, for instance, the other Witnesses would report that the Imperialists had killed the Heads of a neutral Guild. That could be enough to end the conflict on its own.

  But they had survived, and Shera could use that.

  She didn’t, however, have time to explain herself.

  Shera jumped across the room
in one bound, landing on the sill of the western window. The Farstrider sisters looked to her in alarm, but she scooped them up one under each arm.

  Meia had already landed on the stairs, and heaved a chunk of brick and plaster bigger than her torso aside, clearing the way.

  One of the sisters squirmed in Shera’s grip, holding up a chalkboard only the size of a hand. It already had writing on it: “Imperial Guard?”

  “If these stairs are still guarded,” Shera said aloud, “they won’t be for long.”

  Meia pulled her shears as she ran down the stairs first.

  Shera didn’t see any guards, Imperial or otherwise, as they ran down the stairs. She did see some bloodstains and a few places where it looked as though a large man had been thrown through the outer wall.

  Fortunately, the staircase spiraling the interior of the tower remained intact. Stairs, Shera had been taught, retained Intent far better than most any other part of a building. People concentrated on stairs, used them consciously for a purpose, unlike walls or ceilings.

  As they reached the bottom floor, Shera spoke again to the Farstrider sisters. “Tell them to release our Vessels.”

  The Magister stood facing them, the blue crystals of her staff shining and razor-sharp discs of stone hanging in the air behind her. Even the Silent Ones had drawn weapons upon seeing Shera carrying their Guild Heads, and the Stonefang prowled protectively in front of its boxes. The Champion grunted, forcing herself to one knee, and raised her sword.

  Shera didn’t think much of Magister combat ability, but she was starting to feel dizzy. The Farstriders felt a fraction heavier than they had at the top of the tower. She might not have the full seven minutes Bareius had estimated.

  “We will lose if Estyr can’t fight at full power,” Shera said, keeping her eyes on the weapons arrayed in front of her. “And you heard what she said about Kelarac.”

  The twins glanced at one another. Shera released them.

  Together, they both clapped their hands and swept them out in an obvious signal.

  The Silent Ones bowed and holstered their weapons. The Stonefang whined and backed down. The Champion gave a heavy sigh, collapsing back against the wall.

  The Magister looked uneasily at Shera and didn’t let her stones drop, but took a few steps back from the boxes.

  Meia dashed forward.

  “The big one,” Shera called, and Meia turned to shatter it with a kick.

  The Stonefang whimpered.

  The skulls shot out from the box in a blur of motion. They crashed through the already-crumbling wall, zipping off to find their master.

  “Yours?” Meia asked, but Shera had already walked over to the head-sized box containing Bastion. The lid slid off under the Magister’s command.

  Inside, singing to her in its calming voice, was her sheathed Vessel.

  She hurriedly tore the knife from its sheath, letting its blue-white radiance calm her, the billowing clouds inside its blade soothing her thoughts.

  Only when Meia touched her arm, worried, did she come back to herself and strap her belt around her waist. The job wasn’t done.

  “Shepherds!” She called. Two black-clad Consultants slid in from the street outside, both bearing wounds from the fighting.

  “Everyone in this room is one of us. Have we started evacuating?”

  “We’re trying, Guild Head,” one of the Shepherds responded. “It has become difficult to disengage.”

  “I’ll take care of that. In the meantime, get all these people to an exit.” She gazed at the Magister from beneath her gray hood. “Would you rather be treated like a guest or a prisoner?”

  The woman spoke carefully. “I’ve sworn to take no side in any conflict between Guilds.”

  Shera reversed her grip on her shear.

  “Guest!” the woman shouted.

  “Good.” Shera turned back to the Shepherds. “And bring a stretcher for the Champion.”

  Meia fell in beside her as she walked out of the Rose Tower. She stumbled at the doorway, but Meia caught her elbow and supported her so subtly that she didn’t think anyone else noticed.

  “Wearing off?” Meia asked quietly.

  “I’ll be surprised if it lasts another two minutes.”

  “Too bad. It was fun having someone around who could keep up.” Meia’s orange eyes sparkled with humor for a moment. Until she had to hurl a spade at an approaching Guard.

  Shera and Meia dove into the battle.

  They fought for…it was hard to say how long. Ordinarily Shera could estimate the passage of time fairly well, but her enhanced senses made her feel like each second was stretched.

  But they fought for several long, drawn-out moments, her potion gradually losing effectiveness, until the battle cooled around them.

  Not that it was peaceful. Tension hung thick in the air, and bullets still occasionally whizzed by. But both sides had retreated to relatively fortified positions, so a fragile and uneasy truce reigned.

  Most of the Independents seemed to have hidden behind a huge wall that someone had shaped the paving-stones into. A group of Luminians, Greenwardens, alchemists, and ordinary-looking civilians—her Masons—clustered behind the barrier, weapons at the ready.

  She spotted other clusters of Consultants or other allies behind windows or hiding in doorways. The rest now made up a latticework of bodies that soaked the streets of the Imperial Palace red.

  A few Independents had no doubt escaped into the tunnels already. That was where the bulk of her Consultants were, she was sure. The rest couldn’t cross the open ground to get there.

  An explosion at the end of the street reminded her of the one part of the battle that had never stopped.

  General Teach had been slammed by an invisible force into the ground so hard that the stones cracked. She coughed blood, Tyrfang falling from her hand. Its noxious Intent corrupted even the street, stone peeling away from its blade.

  Baldezar Kern fell like a meteor, driving a furrow in the stone until he came to a halt. Blood leaked from his battered armor and his left arm hung at an odd angle, but he still held a mace in each hand. He growled up, pushing back against the force that held him down even as the earth crumbled beneath it.

  Estyr Six rose above them all. Her coat was shredded, her hair missing chunks. She was stained all over by stone and plaster dust, and blood caked one side of her face.

  But she drifted into the air, looking down like a Great Elder over the masses of humanity. A musket cracked, and it was only the enhancement of the Champion potion that allowed Shera to spot the musket-ball freezing a foot from Estyr’s head and then shooting back in the direction from whence it came.

  Estyr’s voice boomed out over the entire Palace. “Citizens, lay down your weapons. This battle is over.”

  Shera’s icy focus relaxed, the peace of Bastion’s Veil taking over her soul. They had won the day. She had succeeded.

  There were still months of work ahead of her, but at least they could begin on the right foot.

  Light and life, I made it. The dizziness of the potion had returned, and her eyesight was becoming less sharp, retreating to human levels.

  “Calder Marten,” Estyr called. “Come out.”

  Shera looked forward to this. Not to seeing Calder punished, though that would be satisfying in its own way, but to Estyr determining the truth.

  He walked out from a group of Imperialists crouching in the shadow of a nearby building, his formerly white shirt soot-stained and bloody. He stood beneath Estyr Six and his crown gleamed as he looked up at the Regent of the North.

  Dimly, Shera heard a distant shout. “No!”

  She turned to see the disguised Jorin pulling open his cello case, blindfold turned up to Estyr, an expression of naked horror on his face. Within the case, his sword was wrapped in bandages as always.

  Her focus sharpened, and she whipped back toward Calder Marten, tapping into Bastion’s power.

  “Estyr,” the Emperor said. “Stop.” />
  Shera shook. Her hand on the shear loosened. The power she’d drawn from Bastion leaked away.

  Teach sat up with a gasp and Kern stumbled forward a step as the force that held them to the ground suddenly vanished. Estyr looked shocked, staring at Calder until she started scanning the street as though looking for someone.

  It wasn’t the Emperor who had spoken. It was just Calder. His voice sounded nothing like the Emperor’s.

  But for a second…it had felt like him, even to Shera.

  How much worse would it be for a Reader? Estyr would know it wasn’t him, but her sixth sense would tell her otherwise.

  It had distracted her for only a moment.

  But that was enough for the Head of the Champion’s Guild.

  Kern launched into the air in a blur, his mace connecting with the airborne Regent like a cannonball. A bubble of force stopped the weapon an inch from her body.

  It didn’t stop the thundering explosion of red flame that followed. The entire street shook at the strike of the Awakened weapon, the surfaces of nearby homes blackening, paint peeling away, glass shattering.

  Estyr shot backwards. Her body tore through the front of a building at the end of the street.

  Either the explosion took a toll on Kern, or Estyr had landed a counterstroke of her own, because he flew in the other direction. He hit the ground like a rag doll, his all-too-human form tumbling end over end until he eventually rolled to a halt.

  Teach lay sprawled on the ground without even the strength to sheathe Tyrfang. Kern was down, at least for the moment.

  What was Shera’s priority?

  Should she try and kill the downed enemies, look to find Estyr, or ensure the evacuation of the remaining Independents?

  Before she had even finished her thought, Jorin took the decision from her hands.

  Screaming, he brought his sword down.

  His blade was darker and more corrupted than Tyrfang. It was the original, into which he had fed curses and centuries of malicious Intent. A weapon of pure destruction.

  The rotten blade swept a wave of dark power that tore through the gore-littered streets, disintegrating bodies and devouring blood. That black energy consumed everything.