by J M D Reid
The front door was locked. Ary pounded hard, the door rattling in its ceramic hinges.
“Yes, yes,” a woman’s voice called. “Don’t you know it’s after sunset? I have a mind to let you sleep in the gutter, Sharene.” The door opened, revealing a hook-nosed, middle-aged woman. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back into a tight bun. Her angular eyes widened. “What can I help you fine boys with?”
“Which room is Wriavia staying in?” Ary growled.
“Is that bird in some sort of trouble? He always is so nice and polite—”
“His room?” He was too close to waste time chit-chatting. He could feel Wriavia lurking above. Finally, he’d attack the assassin. He’d take control of his life.
Madam Feitsa huffed. “Follow me, marine. Though why you feel the need to be rude to an old woman, I have no idea. I have a mind to report you to your superior.”
Ary glowered and she shrunk back, motioning them to follow. She led them to the stairs and up four flights to the top floor. She paused before the room on the corner, a touch winded, her hands clutching to her breast.
“Do you have the key?” Ary demanded.
She fished out a ring of bone keys from her pocket. “Let’s see. Ah, here it is. I have each key carved—”
Ary ripped the keys from her hand and shoved the right one into the lock. He twisted it; the lock popped and he shoved the keys back into her hands.
“Young man, there is such a thing as—”
“Move down the hall for your safety,” Ary ordered then motioned to Guts.
Guts nodded, readying his thunderbuss. The Agerzak woman backed away as Ary grasped the doorknob with his left hand, his right gripping his thunderbuss. He twisted and pushed the door open. Raising his weapon, he barged into the room.
A bitter stink washed over him and stung his eyes. A collection of beakers and vials filled with strange liquids rested on a table pockmarked with strange burns. Against the wall, a pile of sheets and pillows formed a kind of large bird’s nest.
“Why are there two nests, Ary?” Guts demanded.
Wood creaked from an open door that led out to a balcony.
*
Wriavia peered into the hole drilled into the ballista shot. The black powder was a dark stain in the low light. With a narrow, long-handled wooden spoon, he scooped out a cavity for the vial, dumping the black powder into a sack. Any on the ground would be suspicious. It didn’t take long to excavate. Next, he slid in the vial containing the dilution of fortified water. In about three and a half days, the contents would eat through the glass and detonate the shot.
The vial inserted, Wriavia patched the damage with matching clay. He’d drilled into the seam between the two hemispheres so his hole was where a patch already existed. He examined his work. It looked satisfactory. He stepped back, brushing his footsteps out of the sand with his wing feathers.
“Xaipiai,” he softly chirped.
“Almost ready,” the other assassin answered, his voice a soft song drifting on the breeze. “Okay. Done.”
A giddy flutter went through Wriavia’s gizzard. There would be no lucky escape for Ary this time. The Dauntless sailed in a day and a half. Two days later, the ship’s magazine would detonate, never to be seen nor heard from again, assumed to be lost to pirates or other dangers of the sky.
And this Theisseg-damned assignment can be finished.
Wriavia extended his brown-feathered wings. The warm air rising up from the skyland had diminished as the night’s chill set in, forcing him to flap hard to generate lift and take to the skies. He folded his legs beneath him as he soared back to Madam Feitsa. Xaipiai joined him. Below, the many taverns that crowded the port flooded light into dark streets. Drunken sailors sang as they wandered in staggering packs. He spotted Madam Feitsa’s building and the balcony to his room.
His night wasn’t over. Vel may have lived long enough to identify his attacker. With their sabotage finished, it was time to slip away from Onhur. Wriavia circled down to the balcony. He flapped his wings hard to cut his speed. He landed on the wooden railing, gripping it with his clawed feet.
*
Chaylene barely felt the chill air rushing past as Ary and Guts entered a boarding house. Her stomach tightened. She scanned around the building with her pressure rifle’s scope, looking for other exits in and out of it. Many of the rooms possessed balconies. She had no idea which was the target’s room. Whitesocks’s wings flapped every dozen heartbeats as they circled them.
Zori flew in formation just behind her. It heartened Chaylene to fly with Zori. It eased her fear knowing her feisty friend provided a second set of eyes.
As she circled, she fought against tedium, errant thoughts distracted her when she needed vigilance. What is Vel’s involvement with Wriavia? swirled through her mind. Why would that slimy assassin attack him?
Vel’s dying cries reverberated next. A hitching shudder trembled her shoulders. Once, she’d counted him a friend, as close as Ary. She’d tried to maintain that friendship until the stench of his lies drove her away. Now he lay dying . . .
She tightened her grip on her pressure rifle’s stock. No distractions. Not until Ary and Guts were safe.
Zori’s shrill whistle cut through the air.
Chaylene scanned the building for what her friend spotted, forming her pressure bullet. A shape hopped off a balcony’s railings while a second landed in his place. Two Luastria? She had no idea which one was Wriavia. It didn’t matter. They both must be assassins trying to kill her husband.
With the threat evaluated, Chaylene fired.
*
Shapes moved inside Wriavia’s room. The Luastria froze on the balcony, gizzard tightening. A warning screamed in his mind: We need to flee. Wriavia turned to wave Xaipiai off. His stout friend landed on the balcony and cocked his head in question.
A hissing sound streaked down from above, followed by a wet splat. Mist sprayed from Xaipiai’s chest and drizzled across Wriavia’s feathered face. Xaipiai chirped as he crashed into Wriavia. The assassin, while stumbling back, caught a glimpse of two pegasi flying above. He threw himself into his boarding room as a second hissing bullet struck Xaipiai in the back.
They’ve found us.
As Xaipiai gurgled and spasmed, Wriavia fought his panic. Flight through the air was impossible with a pair of Autonomy sharpshooters in the skies. Wriavia turned to face the intruders in his room. They were large figures dressed in red.
“Shoot!” a man yelled.
Strobing brilliance dazzled Wriavia’s eyes as a pair of white-blue streaks arced at him, painting the room in contrast. In that instant, the assassin witnessed his target. Briaris Jayne, his face a mask of stony fury.
The lightning bolts struck Wriavia.
*
Ary fired his thunderbuss at Wriavia. A lethal bolt of lightning leaped from the barrel of his weapon. Its twin crackled from Guts’s. They arced through the air and struck the assassin right in the chest.
Did nothing.
Smoke rose from Wriavia’s robes, two holes burned into the fabric. The bird didn’t collapse in a spasming heap. He didn’t caw in shock. He only shook his head, eyes blinking as though dazzled, beak clucking.
“He’s got Minor Lighting!” Ary roared, training propelling him through the shock. He dropped his thunderbuss. “Draw swords!”
Mist flooded the small room in a wave of gray, swallowing the assassin. Wings flapped. Talons scratched wood. Ary grasped his greatsword’s hilt over his shoulder. He ripped the blade from its half-sheath as the assassin burst out of the fog before him. Talons struck him in the chest, piercing past his ribs into his lungs.
Intense pain flared in Ary’s chest as he stumbled back. The claws flexed, ripping at his lungs. He gurgled, liquid choking his windpipe. The assassin leaped away into the fog. Ary collapsed onto his backside, dropping his heavy sword. He coughed blood, the salty tang flooding his mouth. His heart labored. Darkness beset his mind as he drowned in hi
s own life.
He smashed his fist into the floor, focusing his thoughts on his heat. He gathered the fire to his chest, pouring his Healing Blessing into his punctured lungs. He gurgled and choked, struggling to breathe. The flames forced a tide of crimson to vomit out of his mouth.
“Ary!” Guts roared in the mist.
More blood rose from his healing lungs. He spat it out, his breathing easing. Heavy footsteps thudded out of the mist. A sword whistled through the air and wings flapped. He couldn’t see beyond his arm. He drew in a wheezing breath. Then another. He couldn’t lie here. He grunted to his feet. Every breath brought torment as broken ribs twisted. While his lungs were healed, bones took longer to mend. He lurched forward, growling in agony and pushed into the fog without his sword.
Lightning flared to Ary’s right, illuminating Guts grappling with the Luastria. Guts’s face twisted as he gripped feathers in his hand before vanishing into the murk. Ary charged after.
As he rushed through the fog, the scuffle moved to his right then to his left. Grunts and squawks buffeted him. The billowing darkness disoriented him. He didn’t know where anything was—the door, the balcony. He lurched to the right, to the left, crashing into furniture, trying to find his friend and the damned assassin.
“Theisseg’s Storm!” Guts grunted, voice thick with pain. A wet, gurgling sigh followed. A body crashed to the floor. Clawed feet scrapped on wood. Guts coughed and choked, his body thrashing.
“Guts!” snarled Ary.
Only liquid wheezes answered.
*
Thick fog poured out of the boarding house room. Strobing lightning illuminated the interior. Chaylene’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t see what was going on inside the room, not because of the fog—Minor Mist let her see through dense vapors—but the angle.
Why is so much lightning flashing? she wondered. Does Wriavia have Minor Lightning?
The fear became an almost real pain stabbing into her chest, a half-dozen sharp claws ripping at her heart. She couldn’t orbit, helpless. She had to get down there and help.
She dove Whitesocks for the mostly flat roof to the boarding house. The wind howled past her. She ducked low as her pegasus neighed. She flared her Pressure and yanked back on the reins. He whinnied, wings thrown wide, biting into the dense air. She gritted her teeth against the inertia. It pressed her hard into the leather saddle. Her bones compressed. Her vision darkened for a moment, fuzzing down to almost pinpricks. Then her dive was arrested. Hooves clopped on the clay-fired tiles of the roof. Pottery shattered beneath his weight.
“Ary!” she shouted, hands ripping at the safety straps.
Wings flapped. Dancer whinnied as he landed nearby, Zori’s pressure rifle already slung as she freed herself from the saddle. In moments, Chaylene leaped off Whitesocks and landed on the shifting tiles. She raced to the balcony.
“I’m coming!” she shouted.
Her stomach twisted, dreading what she would find. Bellowing screams came from inside, full of ragged pain. Terror whipped at her. Images of Ary lying slumped in a puddle of his own blood, his guts ripped open and spilling out, filled her mind. Was he dying like Vel? Could he heal an injury that severe?
What if Wriavia ripped out his throat?
The fright felt so real to her, she almost felt torn to ribbons. The fear pierced her chest and lungs with cold talons. Her torso and arms felt raked with wounds. The imagined harm to her husband almost staggered her with its intensity. She slipped on the tiles. The clay cracked beneath her boots. She fought for balance.
Found it.
She reached the edge of the roof and leaped down to the balcony.
*
Feathers rustled and the fog eddied to Ary’s right. The assassin’s clawed foot lashed out of the misty darkness. Ary raised a hasty arm to block. Sharp talons ripped through his wool coat and tore through his muscles. The pain spasmed up his arm as Ary reached out. He seized the foot and spun the Luastria. He threw him off into the fog. Beakers and bottles shattered as the assassin slammed into the worktable.
Ary rushed after, agony throbbing through his left arm. He couldn’t expend energy on healing that wound. All his heat burned in his chest. His breathing grew easier.
“You are so vexing, Briaris,” the assassin’s voice trilled out of the fog. Ary knew this tactic. Someone with Moderate Mist could fill a small area with fog then see through it while their opponent—Ary—stumbled blind. “I have never met such a hard man to kill. Theisseg must really love you to spare you from Riasruo’s judgment.”
“So you are from the Church,” Ary spat. “Part of the Skein of Adjudication.”
“You are well informed for a farmer’s son from the back end of the Autonomy.”
Ary rushed at the voice. Wings flapped. Wriavia danced away in the fog. Ary crashed into a stool. He grunted as he stumbled and fell over it, his shin throbbing. He landed on his side. Claws clicked. Ary rolled and threw up his arms to block. Wriavia slashed at him out of the darkness, cutting more ribbons down his arms.
“I’m going to break your scrawny vulture neck!” Ary growled as he pushed himself up. “You’ve tried to kill my wife three times now!”
“An unfortunate consequence,” Wriavia admitted. His sing-song voice almost sounded displeased. “I always hate killing the innocent, but you were touched by Theisseg. That’s why Riasruo wants you dead.”
“Does she really?” demanded Ary. “I thought she loved all her children.”
“The Bishriarch speaks in her name. I have no doubts that the loving Riasruo desires your death. So submit. It’ll be over quick. Your fellow marine may very well live, and your wife will no longer be in danger. Let Riasruo’s fires cleanse your soul. They cleanse us all!”
“And if I break your neck?” Ary demanded.
“More will come if I fail. We are Riasruo’s burning judgment! None can escape her gaze forever!”
Guts’s gurgles grew slower.
“I’ve survived your every attempt. I’ll survive theirs,” Ary boasted. He couldn’t waste time. This wasn’t playing tag in the Snakewood. Guts lay dying. Ary turned to face the wall, feigning disorientation and exposing his back.
Wriavia’s wings flapped. Ary stood ready. He spun just as the Luastria crashed into him. Sharp claws slashed down Ary’s side, digging deep furrows into his flesh as a knife-sharp beak pecked into his shoulder.
His left arm went numb and fell limp to his side, tendons and nerves torn. Ary seized Wriavia’s wing with his good arm. He gripped feathers, screaming through the assault of agony. The assassin’s claws sliced down to Ary’s legs as Wriavia struggled to break free. The beak ripped at Ary’s flesh.
“Just give up and die!” sang the assassin. “Let Riasruo judge your soul. She will be merciful. She loves you. She just can’t let you live, but Her fires will cleanse your soul! Paradise awaits you, Briaris Jayne!”
“Theisseg-damn Her paradise!” growled Ary, not caring about blaspheming Riasruo. He was tired of being hunted. Tired of being hated. His hand shifted up the assassin’s wing.
The sharp beak tore at his forearm. Pain writhed through Ary. Memories of seizing Theisseg’s chain assaulted him. He had held onto it as long as he could until the fires had melted his bones, cooked his flesh. This pain paled in comparison. He endured Wriavia’s wounds. His body swayed. His Healing powers split to fight a dozen wounds, diffused, unable to repair much damage. Ary felt himself at the limits of his body’s strength.
He couldn’t let go. Wouldn’t surrender.
“If She wants me dead for events I can’t control, then She can join Theisseg in Her prison in the Storm for all I care!”
“Doesn’t matter if you kill me!” sang Wriavia.
Ary seized the assassin’s scrawny throat and squeezed.
“You’ll . . . be . . . dead . . . soon . . .” cawed Wriavia, his life throbbing in Ary’s grip.
The assassin screeched. His wings flapped hard to pull him free of Ary’s grasp. The pain
didn’t matter. Ary’s rage finally had the assassin. It burned through the agony tearing and clawing at his flesh.
He clenched his fist. Jerked his arm.
The thin, hollow bones of the assassin’s neck snapped.
Chapter Thirty-One
Chaylene landed on the balcony in a crouch. Silvery vapor bled out of the open door to the boarding room. The Luastria she had shot spasmed in a growing pool of dark blood. She ignored him, her stomach tight, and swept her gaze into the room, peering through the fog. A Luastria crowed and a man growled.
A loud snap choked off the Luastria.
Mist swirled.
“Ary!” she gasped, spotting her husband throwing Wriavia to the ground.
He staggered. Blood drenched his body, his coat torn to ragged shreds, soaked by the wounds he sustained. But he could heal. Riasruo, let him heal, she prayed, forming the sun.
“Guts!” screamed Zori from behind Chaylene.
The smaller scout darted past her and threw herself at the prone figure of Guts. Bloody slashes ripped open his torso, his clothes soaked by his crimson life. Red bubbled on his lips.
“No, no, no,” Zori cried. She grabbed Guts’s shoulders, shaking him. “You can’t be dead, you big, dumb boar!”
Chaylene’s fear crystallized into immovable horror. Guts lay limp. She couldn’t do anything as Zori cried over her dead or dying lover, her face pressed against his, tears raining from her eyes. No man could survive such wounds. Not without help. Not without Ary.
Her gaze shot to him. Her voice came out thin and ragged, “Please.”
But Ary was already lumbering to Guts. With a grunt, Ary sank to his knees and grasped Guts’s shoulders. Ary’s eyes closed. Chaylene trembled, staring at Guts, waiting for some sign that anything was happening. Zori kept wailing, rocking, grieving.
Please, Riasruo, please, she prayed.
The big man coughed and spasmed. Frothy blood spilled from his mouth. Relief exploded out of Chaylene. Her held breath burst from her lungs. She staggered. It wasn’t too late. Ary was healing him.
