by Erin Evans
Farideh looked to Dahl. “She says we need a magic circle.”
And enough silver to drown a werebear, the ghost added.
Dahl reached into the bag he was carrying, withdrawing a smaller leather sack about the size of his two fists together, and dropped it onto the table beside the scroll. Farideh loosened the neck of it. “I went and got a new ritual book. I made a point of getting a shield and a magic circle,” Dahl said. Farideh got the bag opened and looked inside to see more powdered silver than she’d ever imagined in one place. Enough to drown two werebears, she thought, a little giddy.
“I have your back,” he said.
Farideh came to her feet and kissed him on the mouth, not caring who saw. “Thank you.”
Well done, Bryseis Kakistos said. Now all you need is a place to cast this that will catch all their notices.
“It’s a pyramid,” Havilar said. “We’ve always had that.”
26
THE FAINT GLIMMERINGS OF DAWN JUST LIT THE EDGE OF THE HORIZON. From so high up, the sun seemed imminent, but Churirajachi Kerashna, daughter of Versengethor, of the line of Abinirash, knew better. Another hour, maybe an hour and a half, before the sun broke. That didn’t seem to stop the army trudging on toward Djerad Thymar in the dark.
“The demons are all at the front!” the man clinging to her waist shouted over the wind. “They see in the darkness!” Amurri, she thought, trying to make the lonely name stop feeling overly familiar. Just Amurri.
“Do you think he knows they can’t be replaced?” she asked, pulling the reins so that her bat, Ishaniki, wheeled westward, coming around to pass the army again.
“I can’t say! I’m not an expert on demons! We don’t usually get them in the other world!” He resettled his grip. “Do you fly on these a lot?”
“Every day!” she said, chuckling. “Not usually scouting an army.”
“Do you think they’ll let some of us join you?” he asked. “I would like this, I think!”
Kerashna laughed. “So long as you earn it. Which way’s the wind blowing on that? You think we’re getting a new clan?”
“I want it,” Amurri shouted over the wind. “I think a lot of people do. It’s hard to read the sikati, but she wants safety for us, and she’s … I don’t know the word.”
“Honorable?” Kerashna suggested. Namshita had the sort of presence that made you want to stand a little straighter, answer a little quicker. An elder already, she thought. “Gotta choose a name,” she called. “Maybe you’ll get one out of this battle.”
They came up on the western flank of the army. She urged Ishaniki down for a closer look. Torches punctuated the dark shapes of troops marching in formation.
“How important is the jewelry do you think?” Amurri asked.
“Pretty important,” Kerashna agreed. “That way everyone knows at a glance you’re Thymari. But there’s not much to pierce on your faces is there? It’s all smooth. So I don’t know.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts,” she replied. “You’re getting holes stabbed in your face. But I’d say it’s worth … Karshoj!”
Ahead of the demons, they drove a line of chained Vayemniri.
A lance of yellow energy shot past them, singeing the giant bat’s left wing. They dropped sharply, plunging a handful of feet, and Kerashna reached back to be sure Amurri didn’t leave the saddle, even as she yanked Ishaniki’s reins hard.
“The Son of Victory!” Amurri shouted. “He’s seen us.”
“Up, up!” she shouted. “Kick her in the ribs!”
The bat screeched, a needling sound that made Kerashna’s ears itch even when it had passed. If Gilgeam had seen them, his winged demons wouldn’t be far behind. There was no chance for a single scout to rescue those captives, she told herself. Another bolt of yellow light blazed past as the bat climbed and climbed into the cold air. “Hold on very tight!” she told Amurri. There was no time to lose.
• • •
WAR DRUMS BEAT a furious pulse for Djerad Thymar. Even in the heart of the Verthisathurgiesh enclave, Mehen fought back the building anticipation and anxiety the sound stirred in him, despite the years. He pushed into the guest room with his uninjured shoulder, with a treat for the boy who was and wasn’t his grandson in his other hand. The hellhound by the foot of the bed leaped to her feet.
“Lie down, Zoonie,” he said irritably. The dog sat but laid her enormous head—once more muzzled—on the quilt that covered Remzi’s lap as he sat against the headboard. “Well, Dahl managed to make a sending to your parents.”
“Are they all right?” Remzi asked.
“Better now they know you’re fine. Here,” Mehen said, handing Remzi the handled bowl. “It’s called indhumicha. It’s hot, it’s sweet, it will help you sleep.” Particularly, Mehen thought, with the few drops of chmertehoschta he’d stirred into it. The boy had been up all night long, and the racket of a battle wasn’t going to help things.
“It looks like porridge,” Remzi said skeptically.
Mehen shrugged. “A little. It’s got corn flour, honey, anise, and … you don’t have it in Aglarond, but it’s called fahel. Put it in pies and things.”
Remzi took a cautious slurp. “It’s good,” he said, sounding relieved. Then, “Did Havilar drink this? When she was little?”
“On special occasions,” Mehen said. “We lived up in the mountains, so some things were a luxury.”
“Is she going to fight in the war?” He looked Mehen over, wide-eyed. “Are you?”
Mehen tapped his injured arm. Better suited, this time around, he thought bitterly, to caring for babes and staying out of the way. Karshoji Vozhin. Karshoji Lorcan. Kallan up on the wall. Uadjit leading a cohort. His girls standing atop the pyramid, racing the demons. And Mehen couldn’t move his sword arm. “Priest’s busy,” he said. “I’ll find something to do.”
“You have a really big sword,” Remzi pointed out. “Maybe you should use a smaller one, while your arm’s hurt?”
“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Drink your indhumicha.”
Remzi gave the drink another cautious slurp. “Do the drums mean that they’re attacking already?”
“No,” Mehen said. “When they drum like that”—he clapped his hands, matching the beat—“it means attackers are in sight, and everyone needs to make ready.”
“And I have to go to bed.”
“You’re seven,” Mehen reminded him. “And you have no weapons.”
Remzi frowned. “I have a sling to scare off wolves. I mean, at home I do.”
Mehen smiled—he sounded so much like Havilar. “In the morning, if you’re needed, I will find you a sling. Provided you go to sleep.”
“Maybe a sword?”
“Maybe a sword,” Mehen said. At seven, a child should have a sword, even if he’s only a cowherd. “Are you excited to go home?”
Remzi shrugged. “Yes, but I’m liking my adventure. The parts without the ghost, I mean. It’s going to be boring when I go home.”
“Boring isn’t bad,” Mehen said. “Boring lets you get your feet under you.”
“My feet are under me.”
“You’re seven,” Mehen reminded him. “You’ve got a lot of adventures ahead of you.” He nodded at the bowl. “You finished?”
Remzi drank the last of the indhumicha and the rest of the sedative, handing the bowl over to Mehen. “If the city gets taken while I’m asleep,” he said, snuggling down under the covers, “what do I do?”
“If that happens, I still have one good arm to carry you off with. Stay with Zoonie until someone comes for you.”
“Thank you for … the porridge thing,” Remzi said.
“You’re welcome. Get some sleep.”
Mehen closed the door and went back out into the sitting room, just as Farideh and Dumuzi came back in, that horrible ruby rod in her left hand. Between Mehen and them, Lorcan waited on one of the low couches, tense and twitchy—that, more than anything, made
Mehen nervous.
“What’s the word?” Mehen asked his daughter.
“They’re moving Nanna-Sin,” Farideh said. “Everything should be set in maybe an hour.” She blew out a nervous breath. “And I have to talk to Sairché for some reason. How are you?”
“I will be better when all this is passed,” Mehen said. One more act, one more ritual and they’d be through with all this nonsense about gods. Farideh hugged him, and he flinched as she jostled his arm.
Farideh pursed her mouth. “Will you just let Tam heal it?”
“You’ve got Tam up to his elbows in gods,” Mehen said. “Besides, there’ll be plenty of folks needing his healing spells more than I do.”
“You can’t wield your sword, though,” Dumuzi said.
“Happens when you get old,” Mehen said. He nudged Farideh toward the cambion’s door. “Go have your chat.”
Farideh and Lorcan exchanged a look as she passed him. Her step slowed, just for a moment. “She said alone,” Farideh told Lorcan.
“Not surprising,” he said, a touch gruffly.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “After.”
Lorcan looked away. “Of course. I’ll be waiting.”
Mehen snapped his teeth. Another thing they might be all through with after this, and it was only a very small part of him that regretted the loss of Lorcan.
“Have you seen healers?” Dumuzi asked.
“No, I’ve just been wandering around with a useless arm,” Mehen retorted. “Of course I’ve seen healers. They got the joint reset, but there’s damage inside. They say it’s going to take a long time to heal and it’ll fall out again. Probably through with the falchion.”
Dumuzi’s teeth parted, anxious, and Mehen sighed. “Don’t. Don’t feel bad. I’ve done this enough times I’ve had it coming.” He looked at the door Farideh had disappeared through. “I do wish I could do something to protect them, though. Much as I’d like to trust the lot of you, you’ve hardly shaken the eggshells off your heels.”
“You can be healed by divine magic, though,” Dumuzi said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t always work with old injuries or old bodies.”
“You aren’t that old,” Dumuzi said, and he sounded so much like Uadjit that Mehen chuckled. Dumuzi only grew more solemn. “Do you accept Enlil as an ally?” he demanded.
Mehen snorted. No—every part of him wanted to say no. Every instinct, every lesson he’d learned—you didn’t yoke yourself to a tyrant. You didn’t tie yourself to a god. But he hesitated. He thought of the vision of the black-scaled Vayemniri, his hand on Dumuzi’s shoulder. He thought of the way Dumuzi had described the god—He sees himself as a father. A parent and a soldier. And so are you. That balance, Mehen thought, between protecting and smothering. Between trusting and neglecting.
“Yes,” Mehen said. “An ally and a comrade.”
Dumuzi nodded. “Then I think this might work.”
He clapped his hand to Mehen’s injured shoulder, harder than Mehen would have expected the boy to manage. A jolt went through him, the feeling of the lightning biting back, followed by the strange ringing voices he’d heard when the god had first appeared in the Vanquisher’s Hall. For a moment he was aware of every bone in his skeleton, and then the smell of fahel and fennel burned his nostrils. His ears thrummed with a beat that his heart fought to match.
Be well, a voice said. We need your sword.
The next moment, Mehen stood in the sitting room, sling loose around his neck with his arm out as though he’d shoved Dumuzi off. The boy only regarded him with a satisfied smile as Mehen rotated his shoulder tentatively.
“Well,” Lorcan said dryly. “You’ve gained a bit of skill while we were gone, haven’t you?”
“Thank you,” Mehen said, his ears still pulsing. But Dumuzi wasn’t listening.
“The drums,” he said. Mehen listened—the beat wasn’t in his ears. The drummers had changed the rhythm—faster, more urgent. A message to all parts of the city to take their stations.
“He’s here,” Dumuzi said.
• • •
YOUR ARMY IS HERE. Havilar scowled back at the ghost of Bryseis Kakistos, washed out by the growing sunlight. Alyona still held tight to her arm, but they didn’t struggle as they looked over the side of the pyramid.
Havilar cursed. Of course they were—and she was still stuck up here, waiting for everything to begin.
“You’re supposed to be checking his work,” she said to the ghost. “Not watching the battle.”
Down on the stones of the pyramid, Dahl paused in his construction of the magic circle meant to protect them, but he held his tongue. Pity, Havilar thought. She could use a fight.
He’s fine, Bryseis Kakistos said dismissively. The circle’s simple. The shield trickier. What you’re doing is the complex part.
Havilar moved nearer to where the ghosts hung. Down below, the battling fiends and humans and Vayemniri were too small to even gain a sense of who was winning or losing. She tapped the black axe on her belt and thought about her glaive, down in the Adjudicator’s enclave with the rest of her armor.
We talked, Bryseis Kakistos said offhandedly. Alyona and I.
“Is that why you’re being so helpful?”
One of the reasons, the ghost said, but she didn’t elaborate. Alyona smiled at Havilar.
She’s keeping her promise, Alyona said. Then, But I’m keeping mine too, to you.
That was probably for the best. For all Havilar wanted to see parallels between Alyona and her twin and Havilar and Farideh, none of Fari’s crimes could hold a candle to Bryseis Kakistos’s.
She didn’t think, anyway.
Havilar turned back to Dahl. “Are you done yet? I want to get a chance to fight some demons.”
“Well, if it were up to me, you could be down there,” he said, eyes still on his runes. “And I could be down in the enclave with your sister, instead of Lorcan. But it’s not up to me.”
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Havilar said. “She likes you better. She told you that. She told me that.”
Dahl looked up at that. “What did she tell you?”
Havilar grinned at him. “Sister secrets. But, come on. You’re supposed to be smart. She kissed you in front of people. In front of Lorcan. She’s private. For Farideh, that’s basically the same as … as me ripping Brin’s breeches off in the middle of a crowd. She likes you. Stop fussing.”
Dahl regarded her warily a moment, a smile spreading on his face. “Well. Fair then. Are you scared?” he asked.
“Probably,” she said. “Farideh warned me.” She looked back at the ghosts. “I should be more scared. But I’m so tired of all this that I’m starting to get numb to it. But … I keep thinking about Remzi and about the ancestor stories they have about the Wailing Years, and I really don’t want him to have to grow up fighting monsters and devils and things because he has to, because Azuth and Asmodeus melt into one thing or explode or whatever.” She scowled down at the runes. “I don’t understand gods. Seems like we’re always getting the worst of their messes.”
Dahl sat back on his heels and looked up at her. “It does,” he agreed. “Sometimes they’re very helpful, and sometimes you’re just wishing they would stop giving you notice. But that’s the way it is.”
“That’s a horseshit answer, Dahl.”
He smiled. “That’s not up to me either.”
The air snapped, and a board, covered with a sheet and holding a body that seemed improbably long, appeared in the center of the circle. Ilstan, Brin, Tam, and Mira stood at the corners.
“Watch the circle!” Dahl shouted as Mira stepped back from the body.
“Is that him?” Havilar asked, a queer feeling curling in her stomach. She lifted the corner of the sheet, and that was answer enough. At least he looked peaceful.
Brin moved to stand beside her, tucking an arm around her waist.
“The circle’s ready,” Dahl said. He looked out toward the army, to whe
re the air was growing thick with the dark shapes of flying demons. “Time for the shield.”
• • •
“THEY’RE FAST,” FENKENKABRADON Dokaan said to the Vanquisher and the sikati as they stood on the glass-smooth top of Shestandeliath’s wall, looking down at the army advancing swiftly toward Djerad Thymar’s northern side. “You have to give them that.”
“The Son of Victory knows his time is borrowed,” Namshita said. “The victory at Shyr was stolen. He needs to prove his deal with the Dark Prince was worth it.”
“You think it’s going to be worth it?” Kallan asked.
Namshita’s mouth tightened. “A great many people are going to die today. So I would say no.”
On either side of Kallan, rows of archers held their arrows nocked and ready. At either gate, a ballista waited to be rolled out. A far cry, he thought, from being a sellsword. He’d told Dokaan and Namshita not to leave his side. If he couldn’t turn into a decent general overnight, then he’d make do with two ready-made ones by him.
“Not as big as I was expecting,” Kallan said. “We ready for a siege?”
“So long as we hold the river,” Dokaan said. “We can keep getting supplies from Arush Ashuak.” He shifted his crutch to spare his injured leg. “It’s the demons I’d worry—chaubask vur kepeshk karshoji!”
The front lines of the army of Unther were solely of the Abyss. Hulking monsters with bull’s horns and fists like tree stumps. Slippery shadow-creatures. Squat spiky beasts like brutal toads. Winged women and men who perched atop the bull-demons or flew above their fellows.
Or goaded the line of chained dragonborn that ran ahead of the army, now visible in the growing light. Kallan’s heart squeezed. Only a dozen or so, but still—a dozen or so! Their snouts had been wrapped in leather, their hands chained behind them. Too far to pick out clan piercings, but that didn’t matter.
“Send a cohort out to retrieve them,” Dokaan said. “Cavalry, they’re far enough ahead, we can make a run while the archers cover—”
“No,” Namshita said. “Those ones”—she pointed at the shadowy demons—“they are fast. They’ll cut your cavalry out before it ever reaches them. If I were you, Vanquisher?”
