by Tammy Salyer
“I’ll hold on to that,” he said, and Eisa relinquished Yor’s Fenestros.
His brief glimpse into Balavad’s Scrylle had revealed the incantation for creating the cage and shown him what to do to prepare. Moving quickly, he now arranged the four Fenestrii around the vessel’s pedestal, understanding they would both activate the snare and serve as shackles to hold the Verity chained within its corporeal vessel.
“You two,” he turned and faced the Knights, “I want you outside the chamber. No one gets in, on your lives. If this fails to recall Vaka Aster, your duty is the same. Protect the vessel. Get it out using the tunnels if you must. Regroup with Symvalline and the rest of the Order. And, Knights, keep faith in our fight.”
“And in our Order, Stallari,” Mallich responded as he saluted Ulfric.
But Eisa wasn’t having it. “Ulfric, let us help. You know what kind of power might be channeled using a foreign Fenestros. It could kill you.”
“True. And if it does, you will still be tasked with carrying forth the Order’s charge.”
“If this Balavad sack of swill wants to fight, we’ve got to stick together,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You can’t be martyring yourself . . . especially if you lack the will to see it through.”
Her pause was uncharacteristic, even if her brashness wasn’t, and her words snatched his focus like a hawk. “Lack will? A millennium together, and you doubt me?” He stepped close to Eisa and drilled her with his heart-of-a-glacier stare. Though her forehead reached no higher than his cheeks, her bearing was no less firm. She didn’t falter, never had. He’d chosen her from among many worthy acolytes at the Conservatum for her iron core, but he’d never expected to have to oppose it. “Are you lacking faith, Knight?”
The defiance in her leaden eyes burned. “You speak of faith, Stallari, but . . .” And now she faltered, a blink giving away some inner conflict he’d never have suspected. “Is it possible that you’ve lost it? We know you and Symvalline plan to leave the Order and relinquish your duties. When Vaka Aster returns, you’re going to ask for your mortality back so you can raise your daughter in the way of commoners.” He voice hardened. “You’ve lost your faith in Vaka Aster, and in our duty.” Another pause. “Do you believe you have the conviction it will take to see this through?”
Anger and sadness coursed among his innards in a toxic brew. He’d witnessed many deaths—of foes and of friends. He’d witnessed betrayal and despair. One cannot live for as long as he had and not see these things, not be branded by them. But this loss of trust gutted him almost worse than any of them. Because she was right—he had lost faith, or at least the will to remain faithful.
Regardless, he was their Stallari. “You will follow orders, Eisa, or by Vaka Aster . . .”
Before he finished the statement, Mallich placed a hand on Eisa’s shoulder and gave it a warning nudge. She didn’t move but continued to hold Ulfric’s stare.
“This fight isn’t for now, Eisa,” Mallich said. “We have our own duty to see to.”
She stood still for another moment, then took a half step back. With a sigh, she relented. “And so we will. Come on.”
The two exited through the heavy door, Eisa throwing one last look at Ulfric as she sent, Don’t fail us, Stallari. A life spent unworthy of our maker, mortal or not, isn’t worth living.
Chapter 11
Mylla doubled over beside the Dragør Wing fighter and launched her last meal onto the rocky mountainside. If she weren’t thus preoccupied, she would have fallen on her knees and kissed the ground. The prospect of doing so, after painting it with her breakfast, held less appeal now.
Havelock climbed out of the fighter’s cockpit beside her. From the corner of her eye, she saw him pat the fuselage gently and murmur something. Then he turned to her and placed a hand on her back. “If I ever doubted the toughness and resolve of the Knights before, I never will again, Mylla. I can’t tell you how glad I am you waited until we landed to . . . let fly.”
She knew his tone well enough to know it was accompanied by a smirk, though her eyes were watering too much to see it yet. She couldn’t be angry at his gibe. He’d flown with the speed and skill only a true creature born to flight could rival and brought them limping to the landing field in a fighter that shouldn’t have been capable of anything but a final fiery explosion after directly darting into unforgiving earth. More than one time up there, she’d wondered if she were going to scream or die, or simply do as she’d just done and reacquaint everything within her to without her.
On the whole, at least she could take comfort in the fact that she hadn’t screamed. That would have been irredeemably embarrassing.
They hadn’t seen the remaining attacker since its engagement with the second Dragør Wing fighter started, and given the Ivoryssian pilot’s tenaciousness, she doubted they would. She straightened, feeling more or less herself again, and wiped the back of her mouth, then peered far up the mountainside toward the cave leading to Vaka Aster’s sanctuary. “It’ll take too long to hike up to the main entrance, but a hidden tunnel that leads to it is near. Come on.”
Lock remained where he was, staring out over the horizon. “That was Jimp Owers’s fighter. I don’t know why he would have been up there.”
“He saved our rears. Does it matter? Time is short, Lock.”
“Mylla, you need to tell me what’s going on. Those foreign ships must be part of a fleet. Asteryss City could be under attack right now. I . . . I should be there.”
A worm of guilt writhed its way into her guts. “I understand, but we’re here now and that,” she pointed to the Dragør Wing fighter, a plume of blue-black smoke still rising from the damaged stern, “isn’t taking you anywhere.”
He looked at her, his brow deeply wrinkled, his hazel eyes squinted. “I’ve deserted my post. There will be consequences.”
“Trust me, they’d have been much worse if you hadn’t helped me get here.” She took a step toward the cave entrance, hoping the movement would be enough to entice him along.
It wasn’t. “Why?”
“If you come with me, I’ll tell you on the way. Now let’s—”
Before she finished the statement, a low hum, more pressure than sound against their eardrums, came from above.
Scanning the sky, Lock said, “There he is. Thank Vaka Aster, he made it.”
Mylla’s instincts were telling her to get inside the mountain before anyone else arrived. Lock was right; the sickle ships they encountered couldn’t be the only ones. More could just as likely be approaching.
Then she heard through her Mentalios, Mylla, we’re about to join you.
Symvalline? Here? It took Mylla another moment to spot the Wing fighter, and then with the nimbleness of a hummingbird and the speed of a diving eagle, the ship settled beside them, its frame easily maneuvering onto the gently pitched mountainside clearing. The area lay within the tree line and had been strategically groomed long ago by the Knights to look as if it were a natural mountain glade. Between the two fighters, the clearing was now full.
The cockpit covering slid back and both Symvalline and Isemay sat inside. Mylla and Havelock exchanged a surprised look.
“What . . . how . . . I didn’t know you could fly like that,” she finally got out.
Symvalline reached the ground and held an arm out. Isemay passed her a burlap bag, then climbed down beside her. “I’m seven hundred and seventy-nine turns old, Knight Evernal,” she said. “I’ve had the time to learn. Don’t worry, Wing,” she said to Havelock, “this ship’s usual pilot wasn’t harmed, merely persuaded.”
Over her surprise, Mylla said, “You saved our skin, Sym. What happened to the other attacker? Do you know where it came from?”
Symvalline rested the base of the sack against the ground and pulled open its drawstring. She reached inside and withdrew—
“Star Spark!” Mylla said, surprised to see the sword she’d had to relinquish at Aster Keep. More than a mere weapon, it had
been hallowed by Vaka Aster, turning it into a weapon powerful enough to destroy not just foes but also the corporeal vessel of any Verity. Balavad’s, for example. “How—?”
“Acolyte Irrick retrieved both yours and Ulfric’s weapons and gave them to me when I arrived at the keep to collect my daughter.” With hard eyes, she stared at Isemay, who looked down with the expression of put-upon shame only half-agers can master. “As for the fighters, they’re part of Balavad’s forces. They’ve attacked the city, and soon the rest of Ivoryss, no doubt. I chased your pursuer, but it diverted back to Asteryss. I had to let it go in order to get to Mount Omina as fast as possible.” After handing Mylla her sword, she hefted the sack to her back and secured it with a strap across her chest.
“Attacked Ivoryss!” cut in Havelock. “I have to get back there.”
“Yes, you should go, Wing,” Symvalline said and stepped away from her “borrowed” fighter.
“Wait, Lock . . .” Mylla reached a hand to stop him, then froze. Who was she to dissuade him from his duty?
He bristled, but only for a moment. “Mylla, it’s my city,” he said simply.
You could die, she’d almost said. But he was mortal. Of course he could die. She knew it, but it had never hit her in this way before. He could die, and I will not. “You’re right. Yes, you should go.” To hide her pain, she busied herself with buckling Star Spark’s scabbard back around her waist.
Before she finished, Havelock drew her into his embrace. “Mylla, we’ll see each other soon. I—”
She put a finger against his lips, unwilling to hear promises that neither of them had any power to keep. “Take care of yourself.” With a last kiss, she stepped back. Turning to Symvalline, she said, “And Stave and Safran? You warned them . . .” through the lens, she finished using the Mentalios.
Yes, Symvalline responded. “To the tunnel.”
Havelock stepped to the Wing fighter. As they took the opposite direction, Mylla felt his eyes on her back, and she turned for a final wave.
At that moment, the dark seeds of a bad dream swarmed up the skin of the mountain, soundless and insidious—a dozen or more of the attack ships.
“LOCK!” she shouted, and the nearest of the ships began strafing the glade with iron projectiles like giant spearheads. They looked almost innocuous as the streamed through the air, but when they struck the earth, the trees, and—oh good Verity!—the two Wing fighters, they exploded in oily crimson fireballs. As Mylla watched, the fighter Havelock was mounting took a projectile near the bow, throwing Lock backward to the ground.
“Come on!” Symvalline yelled, and began tearing down the path, her daughter’s arm firmly in her grasp.
Mylla froze as the squadron of attackers shot up the mountainside, then began a wide turn back for another strafing run. He’s not moving. Her legs made the decision before her mind, and Mylla raced back through the glade to Havelock’s inert form. When she reached him, she fell to her knees, skidding along the grass for the final few steps. “Lock, Lock, talk to me.”
His eyes opened, unfocused. “Whuh . . . ?” And he sat up and shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Did that ship just blow up my fighter?”
She didn’t know whether to weep or laugh at his sheer incredulity over their attacker’s nerve. Reaching out a hand, she demanded, “Can you run?”
He turned his head and tried to focus, his eyeballs still dancing to an internal jig.
Nothing for it. She grabbed him by an arm and hauled his bigger form off the ground with the strength of seven hundred turns as a warrior and a vein-popping dump of adrenaline. “RUN!” she yelled into his face, and this, at least, made it past his fog.
The trees, the trees were their only chance.
The trail led into a forest of straight-trunked pines and aspen. They made it. Just. Mylla felt the breeze from those black darts shooting past her head and back, even after they’d crossed the threshold out of the glade. Despite how shaken up as he was, Havelock’s survival instinct kept his footing fast and sure behind her. Branches spread high and wide above them, interlacing densely to create a canopy through which little of the sky could be seen. White and gray lichen-covered boulders and smaller stones dotted the ground, and many turns’ worth of dried brown needles lay thickly beneath their feet. A fleeting realization struck her: even if they avoided being skewered or blown to bits, the forest was sure to catch fire, and in the dryness it would spread quickly.
For emphasis, a dart pierced the canopy nearby and impaled an aspen trunk. With a vermillion explosion, the entire tree flared up like a gas-filled hurricane lantern. Glimpses of the speeding attack ships came through the trees as the squadron jetted up the mountainside, still firing darts helter-skelter. Smoke quickly began to limit their sight. But that wasn’t the worst part.
“What’s that noise?” she managed between gasps.
“Avalanche!” cried Symvalline. “Move!”
No one needed to be told twice.
Ahead, a thin branch split from its tree trunk and crashed down in front of Symvalline and Isemay. They halted in time to avoid it, but Mylla and Lock hurdled it and kept running. Nothing could compel her to look up the slope and watch their own deaths approach. The avalanche may be coming directly at them, but it may just as easily bypass them. No way to tell through the trees, and that was just fine. One thing was sure, it sounded big.
The tunnel’s mouth drew near, but she could only see the sigil that marked the keyhole by looking through her Mentalios lens. Scrambling forward wildly, she pulled the pendant free of her armor and placed it against one eye. The rumbling coming from higher up the mountainside worsened, assaulting her inner ear with an ominous base note. What would happen inside the tunnel as the avalanche struck? Will it collapse and trap us in our own tomb? A shifting stone tricked her stride and she nearly rolled an ankle but continued to run. Shut up, Mylla. No more thoughts until we’re out of danger.
She could laugh at her own absurd illogic later, she decided.
“Mylla!” The fear in Isemay’s voice brought her up short. “My mum!”
Symvalline had fallen to her hands and knees, looking as if she wouldn’t be able to rise on her own. Even as Mylla realized this, a boulder crashed down the mountain’s face and caromed into a close-grouped copse of pines, smashing splinters from their trunks before it stopped.
Symvalline commanded, “Take Isemay and get to the tunnel. Go!”
Isemay shot Mylla a desperate glance. Immediately, Mylla raced to Symvalline’s side and put a hand beneath one arm. “We’re not leaving you, Sym.”
“Take my daughter.” Symvalline used Mylla’s frame to pull herself up. “I’ll be right behind.”
Mylla spared her another look, then grasped Isemay’s hand and tugged her back into motion. Havelock was ahead and she placed Isemay’s hand into one of his so she would be free to take the lead in search of the cave entrance. Focusing too hard on finding the boulder marking the tunnel proved a bad idea when she tripped on an unseen fallen limb. She stumbled to a knee, grunted, and tried to right herself. But Havelock was unprepared for her tumble and came down on top of her, flattening her against the earth, and releasing Isemay, who fell back.
“Oof!” Dirt spattered into her face. Tilting her head to the side, she caught sight of a boulder the size of an unpleasant outcome flying over the top of them, leaving debris to fall in its wake. It landed just beyond their prone forms, then continued down the slopes.
“Close one,” Havelock whispered, and she would have kissed him if dirt wasn’t coating her lips.
They scrambled up and ran on as she pressed the Mentalios lens back to her eye. There! The semirectangular slab she’d been searching for lay just a couple dozen yards away. Risking it, she closed one eye to get a better look through the lens. The Elder Veros rune glowed like blue fire, its middle engraved with a circular keyhole for her lens. “Almost there,” she mumbled, saving breath.
“Isemay! Stop!” Havelock yelled.
/> They were nearly there, and the urgency in Havelock’s tone didn’t divert her attention. The next moment, she slid the lens home, channeling the sigil’s incantation through it, and the stone rumbled into a seam in the slope, revealing a narrow passageway. Jubilant, she turned to usher the other three inside—but only Havelock was there. Peering over his shoulder, she could see Isemay supporting her mother, who hobbled toward the opening with maddening slowness, still many paces distant. Too many.
The ground bucked—it felt as if the entire mountain bucked—and a cacophony upslope rent the air with the promise of imminent chaos. She looked upward, then blinked to shake away the sight of half the mountainside sliding toward them. Lunging from the tunnel mouth to help Sym and Isemay, she was brought up short by Havelock grabbed her trailing hand.
“No!” he yelled, and yanked her hard into the tunnel.
Stunned, it took her a moment to react, but his relentless pulling into the dark made it impossible to get her balance.
“What are you doing? They’re still out there!” she cried, but his fingers had turned to rods of steel and his grip held. In the next heartbeat, a gust of air smacked into her from behind, sending her flailing, again, to her stomach. And the light outside the cave disappeared behind them.
Chapter 12
“Faith in the fight,” Ulfric muttered to himself as he prepared to call Vaka Aster from her absence elsewhere in the Cosmos. His mind picked up the words and repeated them in a litany. Faith in the fight, faith-in-the-fight, faithinthefight . . . inthefight . . . faith . . .
Though empowered by Vaka Aster’s celestial spark, which made him practically immortal, he was still just a man, and he knew this summoning would tax him to his limit, maybe beyond.
Positioned on the foundation at the vessel’s ankles, the five Fenestrii gleamed—four of Vaka Aster’s and one of Balavad’s. Ulfric knelt before them and affixed Balavad’s other Fenestros to the setting on the Battgjald Scrylle. Before looking into the oculus, he closed his eyes and reflected on what he’d seen in the Scrylle at Aster Keep. It had staggered him, and he wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t again. But if anything could prepare him, his millennia as Knight would have to be it.
