People of the City

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  A bright blast of fire filled the square. Hemmit wasn’t even sure where it came from, but instinctively looked toward it, covering his eyes from the glare.

  The fire faded, and in a shimmering spectrum of light, there they were.

  Saints.

  Champions.

  Dayne Heldrin and Jerinne Fendall, their Tarian uniforms a mess, their shields scorched and seared. But still standing strong, refusing to yield to these villains.

  Inspector Minox Welling, sword in one hand, the other glowing with magic.

  Inspector Satrine Rainey, in the red and green of the Constabulary, crossbow in hand.

  The Rynax brothers. Asti in his patchwork coat and knives at the ready. Verci, leather coat over suspenders and shirtsleeves. Darts in one hand, metal glove on the other.

  And the Thorn—Hemmit could barely believe he was real—with his crimson cloak shimmering with magic as he leaped into the air, drawing back his bow.

  They all launched into action, moving as one.

  Asti Rynax was out in front, charging into a pack of the beasts. He fell upon them like a wolf upon deer, slicing through them with easy, fluid movements of his blades. Like a poet of death, he was perfect. No fear, no hesitation, like he had become a machine himself, one made to stop these creatures.

  Satrine Rainey and Minox Welling moved toward the machine, on either side of Verci Rynax. He slipped and dodged his way past the zealots who tried to grab him, firing shots from his gauntlet as he went. The zealots who went for him found themselves facing Minox’s sword or Satrine’s crossbow. Minox fought with precision and care, as if each opponent was a book he had already read, anticipating their moves before they were even made. Satrine was the opposite, scrapping with each one wildly, impossible for them to predict or match.

  The Thorn had landed on a lamppost, scanning the chaos and homing in on targets. He spotted a group of zealots and monsters charging off toward Frost Street. In a flash he was off, bounding after them.

  Jerinne went for zealots dragging children to the machine, bashing them with her shield, wrenching the children free. She fought through to a pair of civilians caught between two monsters, pulling them out while knocking the monsters into each other. She pointed each person she rescued toward the church, working her way closer with each person she saved.

  Dayne—bless him, that man—he ran straight toward that great giant, the largest beast of them all. He went at him, hands open. Hemmit couldn’t hear over the din and madness, but he could see that Dayne was doing what he always did. The thing that made him Dayne.

  He was trying to talk to the giant.

  The giant threw a massive punch, which Dayne blocked with his shield. The sound rang out through the square like a church bell. The giant punched again and again, but Dayne held his ground and took the blows.

  And kept talking. Because he was Dayne.

  These saints. These champions. These people fighting so hard for this city, for the people in it.

  Hemmit prayed it would be enough.

  The church was filled with terrified people. Kaiana was no exception, but she wasn’t going to let it show on her face. She made Delmin sit down in one of the pews, as he looked like he was only making himself stay on his feet as a point of pride.

  “What’s going on out there?” one of the brothers asked. “What can we do?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Kaiana said. “But those . . . people. They want these children. They need to be kept safe.”

  “They will be,” the reverend said, coming up to them. “You all are safe in this house, daughter.” He looked to Delmin. “You look decidedly unwell.”

  “I am,” Delmin said, looking back toward the narthex and the doors leading outside to the square. “That power is building to something, I can feel it.”

  “Something dark and unholy,” a young cloistress said, walking down the aisle. “Something so . . . contemptible, so abhorrent the ground itself shudders in its horror.”

  “Sister,” the brother said. “Perhaps we should look after the children, the flock. We should—”

  “I am not here to tend to children,” she said vacantly. She turned to the reverend, her face a puzzle. “This is really today, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” he said. “We’re ready.”

  The sister’s eyes found Kaiana. “You’re the one who tends to things. To keep all the . . . you help . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m made of memories I’ve lived too many times, but I haven’t lived yet. I’m just so very grateful to you and can’t understand why.”

  The brother gently took the cloistress by the shoulders. “Maybe these children are hungry and we should—”

  That was as far as he got before she swung her arm hard and knocked him down.

  “Do not!” she snarled. Then her face went calm again, looking to Kaiana. “Watch. Remember. Listen.”

  She turned and walked down the aisle to the door.

  “Sister Myriem!” the reverend called out. “You’re certain?”

  “Of nothing,” she said, looking back. “But necessity still calls.”

  Kaiana looked at Delmin, who was rubbing his temples. “It’s going further,” he said. “The machine, it’s magic and science and . . . life. I can feel it all, and she—” He looked down the aisle to Sister Myriem, now in the narthex. “She prayed with Vee yesterday.”

  “He’s going to need her prayers,” Kaiana said. “Maybe ours as well.”

  “Praying is always good,” the reverend said. “I will look to the children.” He glanced to the brother, still insensate on the floor. “Watch over Brother Mergolliet, please. He . . . he does not understand what today is.”

  “What is today?” Delmin asked.

  “The worst day,” the reverend said. “For so many of us.”

  “This is how I see it,” Sender said, lighting his pipe while standing on the walkway outside Grandma’s North Seleth flop. Bell had fled Dentonhill and had been crashing at Grandma’s with his cousin Sender for the past week, and they knew she would kick them to the street after the holiday. He and Sender didn’t push it, so they had been making a habit of slipping outside for a smoke, and whatever it was that shook the whole building was a good excuse to step outside. Bell had been enjoying spending time with family. Sender was good people, even if he insisted on staying out in westtown. “You’re on the outs with Fenmere. My crew is almost all in the wind. The time is ripe for us.”

  “For us to what?” Bell asked.

  “I got a few muscle boys who are still loyal to me. Access to a couple warehouses with merch. You must have a few guys. Some knowledge of buyers, of movers?”

  “Yeah,” Bell said, though he struggled to think of who, exactly.

  “Between the two of us, we build something. Maybe not here, definitely not in Dentonhill, but maybe if we go deep westtown, where there’s no real bosses?”

  “And no real money.”

  “Maybe. But maybe being the kings of the Old Quarry is better than in the gutters here.”

  “I don’t—” was all Bell managed to say when some blighter tackled him to the ground. Bell didn’t even know what was going on, just suddenly had this bastard pinning him to the ground, about to drive a knife in his neck. Bell managed to grab hold of the guy’s wrist, keep the knife away. He looked up to Sender, but he was just as busy—two of them holding him against the wall as he struggled to avoid getting stabbed.

  Then one of the blighters on Sender went flying. A rope suddenly wrapped around the neck of the other one, and he was yanked off of Sender, followed by the satisfying crack of wood on bone. Two more of those hits came, and the robed blighter on top of Bell slumped over.

  A hand grabbed Bell’s and pulled him to his feet.

  He was face to face with the Thorn. Or his shaded mask of a face. Bell instinctively let go
of his hand and stumbled back. This bastard, this kid, he had been the cause of all of Bell’s troubles. The arrow in his leg, the loss of his position with Fenmere, the near exile from Dentonhill . . . it all stemmed from the Thorn. Bell’s hand balled into a fist, ready to strike him in that smug smirk on his face.

  “Get off the street,” the Thorn said. “Get in and lock the door.”

  “How dare—” Bell started.

  In a blink, the Thorn drew his bow and fired an arrow that buzzed past Bell. He turned and saw the arrow found its mark in a creature—like a bear and a man put together—that had been charging down the street. Bell couldn’t even believe it was real, except there it was, dying a few feet from him.

  The Thorn had just saved him. Twice.

  “Really, get out of here. It isn’t safe.” He leaped up onto one of the street lamps, and from there to a second-floor windowsill.

  “Thorn, what the blazes is this?” Bell asked.

  “The worst thing I’ve ever seen,” the Thorn said from the windowsill. “But I couldn’t have them killing my favorite.”

  “Where’s this coming from?” Sender asked.

  “Saint Bridget’s,” the Thorn said. “If you want to make yourself useful, run for the constables.” He flung out his rope to an outcropping on the roof across the street. “Saints all know we’ll need them.” With that, he leaped off and was gone.

  “Gran, lock the door ’til we get back,” Sender yelled into the flop. He shut the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Bell asked. “To get the sticks?”

  “I don’t know,” Sender said. “All I know is that guy has every reason to put arrows in the both of us, and instead he saved us.” He gestured to the insensate men in robes, the dead bear-man. “Whatever this is, it scares him, and it’s happening where I live. So, let’s go.”

  Bell scowled. “I think the nearest stick house is in Keller. We better get running.”

  Amaya was surprised how much of a fight Grandmaster Orren had brought. Of course, he had been a Tarian for decades, training the people who trained the people who trained her. But at his age, she did not expect him to be as strong, fast, and nimble as he was. He had been able to cross the stage and keep Amaya from driving her sword through Colonel Altarn’s heart.

  “Why, sir?” she demanded, pushing her offensive on him. He might have skill on her, but there was no way she couldn’t beat him on endurance. If she had all the time, she could hold him back until he tired, and then subdue him.

  But she didn’t have that kind of time.

  She had no idea how powerful a mage Colonel Altarn was, but assumed she was only briefly dazed from the shield blow. She would recover shortly. She would bring her power to bear. Amaya had only moments.

  “You wouldn’t question me if you knew,” he said, parrying her blows with casual ease. “I’ve done what anyone would do in my place.”

  “Not Master Denbar,” Amaya said, feinting low and then swiping at his right side. Get him to dodge left. Move away from Altarn.

  “I wish he had understood,” Orren said. “I wish you did.”

  “I will never,” she said. He had left an opening, and Amaya leaped, driving her boot onto Altarn’s chest. That kept her down, but Orren was able to land a swipe that sliced through Amaya’s arm.

  “We are saving this country!” he shouted.

  “From who?” Kemmer shouted. “You all were behind the Patriots. Behind Chief Toscan. Behind Tharek Pell.”

  “And saints know what else,” Amaya said, grinding her heel onto Altarn while holding off Orren’s attacks. Altarn grabbed Amaya’s foot and twisted, forcing Amaya off her. Amaya stumbled back a few steps, losing any advantage she had pressed on Altarn and the Grandmaster.

  But she had stepped next to her shield, lying facedown on the floor.

  She stomped on the rim of it, sending it up in the air, and slammed it with the flat of her sword like it was tetchbat. The shield hurtled across the stage, knocking into Altarn just as she got to her feet.

  Amaya had only seconds. She dashed to Kemmer, slicing the ropes that bound him.

  “Run,” she said. “I’ll hold the line. Go tell the truth.”

  He scrambled out of the ropes and ran off the stage. Amaya turned back to Altarn and Orren. What happened to her didn’t matter, if Kemmer got out the door.

  She ran and dove at the both of them, arms wide. In the same moment, Altarn snapped her fingers, and bolts of red lightning flew across the opera hall. Amaya crashed into her, into Orren, and all three of them went tumbling off the stage into the orchestra pit. They landed with a resounding thud.

  Amaya didn’t let herself wallow in the pain. She had to get up, get on her feet, put an end to this. She forced her way up, glancing around through dazed hazy vision. Her sword and shield were on the ground. She grabbed them quickly, ready for whatever happened next.

  “Too late,” Altarn said from the floor.

  Amaya glanced back. There in the aisle, the scorched body of Kemmer.

  Grandmaster Orren moved in a flash, and Amaya didn’t react fast enough to stop him from slicing her side. She knocked his blade aside with her own, knocking him back with her shield. Altarn blasted more red lightning, which struck and danced on Amaya’s shield.

  Kemmer was dead. She was bleeding. Altarn was getting her wind back.

  There was no winning this fight. If she died here, Altarn’s lies would become the truth.

  There was a trapdoor to her right, for the musicians to slip out below the stage unseen. Amaya dashed for it before either Orren or Altarn could take another shot at it. She slammed it shut and wedged her sword and shield into it to barricade it.

  Then, hand to her bleeding side, she ran. On instinct, she pulled off her mail shirt and tunic, leaving them on the ground as she went. Around the corner, down another hallway, through a costume wardrobe. She grabbed a coat and threw it on as she stumbled her way around another corner. Out the door. Into the sunlight. Down an alley.

  She couldn’t go to the chapterhouse. There was no chance it was safe. She was too hurt to get too far, and she had to believe that Altarn was right behind. She had to believe the woman had eyes everywhere.

  She had to hide. Get help from someone she could trust.

  Only one place to go.

  Chapter 22

  THE SPINNING RINGS WERE TOO much, too fast, making getting close to the controls of the machine impossible. Verci wished that was his only problem. The zealots were fiercely guarding the only path to the machine that didn’t involve being torn up by the rings, as that was the route they were using to bring the children they caught into the cages.

  And they were.

  Verci watched in horror as each child they threw into the cages became engulfed in the same energy as the rest of the machine, and rapidly aged to adolescence, to adulthood, to elderly senescence, and then to dust.

  “I do admire a futile fight,” the mage said. “There’s something invigorating about watching doomed people try.” He hurled balls of flame at Verci, but Minox was there, using his odd black hand like a shield.

  “Consider yourself bound by law,” Minox said to the mage. “I will enumerate your crimes fully.”

  “That’ll really stop him,” Verci said.

  “What’ve you got, deputy?” Satrine asked. She was doing a damned fine job holding off the zealots who were trying to grab her, using their position near the spinning rings to keep them from being swarmed.

  Verci looked at the rest of the machine. What surprised him was, despite the fact that it was clearly more about magic than technology, the whole thing made a kind of twisted sense to him. “Well, those nine ugly statues are probably directing the magical energy somehow. Don’t know how that works, but I do know how to break things.”

  He cocked the spring load on his gauntlet and dialed in o
ne of the boom powder shots. Aiming at the base of the machine, he launched one, and then quickly repeated a second.

  The explosion knocked him back, tumbling into Minox and Satrine. The zealots all fell over, as did the mage. Minox scrambled to his feet and pulled up Satrine, but their opponents were back up just as quickly. From the ground, Verci drew and threw darts at as many zealots as he could, giving Satrine an opportunity to reload.

  The smoke cleared away from the machine.

  Not even a scratch on the bronze.

  All the while, the madman up on the platform cackled and howled.

  “I wish to point out that he has been up there for some time,” Minox said, shielding them with magic on one side while defending with his sword on the other. “I can only presume the longer exposure to the magics of the platform will generate an abnormally large effect.”

  “Great,” Verci said. “Well, I can’t get closer with the rings spinning, and the source of that energy is the magic. I don’t think we can do anything until we take that mage out of the equation.”

  “Then I will gladly remove him,” Minox said. “Stay vigilant and take your moment.”

  “My moment?” Verci asked.

  Minox was already stalking toward the mage.

  “More kids,” Satrine said, pointing to the three beasts who were dragging children toward the machine. More of the monsters were charging toward the church.

  “The kids are the fuel,” Verci said. “If we can’t turn off the machine, let’s stop them from throwing more logs on the fire.”

  “The church?” she asked.

  “Asti’s on it,” Verci said. He saw Asti moving like a whirlwind of knives through the zealots and the monsters. Laughing. For once, he was letting himself let go completely, and it was terrible and glorious.

  Asti was, for once, at peace. His body was a fury, acting with pure instinct and skill as he cut his way through the mob of villains who had dared to come here—come to his neighborhood, his church—and unleash these horrors upon those he loved. He had no mercy for any of them as he carved a path of blood. Knowing what he needed to do brought clarity.