Torsten signaled to Xander. “Secure the front door,” he ordered. “Muskigo is somewhere in here. We take him now, or we die trying.”
Xander saluted, then led a smaller unit toward the palace doors. Torsten surveyed the courtyard again, trying to decide the next move. And that was when he heard a scream of agony too near to be Whitney’s doing. He drew his claymore and swung back to face the direction it’d come from.
A bar of spikes had swung across the Arcade’s central passage from one side. Xander screamed and flailed, trying to free himself from the bar which had him pinned against the wall. The sound of Saitjuese orders cracked the air, the voice familiar. Standing on the walkway right above where Xander met his fate was Afhem Muskigo, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Torsten.
The moment he saw him, Torsten knew Redstar’s betrayal was complete. He had warned Muskigo, sending any and all competition for command of the Glass Army to their doom.
Muskigo barked something and archers flooded in from surrounding rooms. They lined the second-floor balconies overlooking the courtyard as well as the roof.
“Ambush!” Torsten shouted. “Form up. Form up!”
King’s Shield armor was durable, laced with the glaruium of Mt Lister herself, but it was not impregnable. At the right angle, the Shesaitju’s barbed arrows could pierce it, as Torsten knew too well. And now his men would learn too.
Arrows zipped around the courtyard from every direction like angry hornets in a stirred nest. They stabbed at angles, stung shields. The Shieldsman right in front of Torsten took one to the weak, flexible mail around his throat as they all closed rank. Another arrow glanced off Torsten’s white helm, sending him staggering and knocking the helmet off his head.
“Wearer!” one of his men shouted. Whoever it was grabbed him and raised a shield, but was stung from behind by another projectile. Torsten went to pull him back and received a mouthful of innards as another arrow erupted through the man’s stomach.
He wiped blood and bits of flesh from his eyes. Metal clanked all around him as the King’s Shield formed a circle of shields.
“Shields…” Torsten coughed, the tang of copper heavy on his tongue. A wave of frantic bodies crushed him in the center of the circle, pressing against his chest, stampeding his feet. He could hardly breathe.
Of all the battles he fought under Liam, he’d never felt so… hopeless.
Every arrow clashing against their shield wall stole a bit more breath from his lungs. And those were the ones that didn’t sneak through the cracks, shredding flesh and sinew of one of the men he’d foolishly led to their dooms.
He pawed at his chest for the pendant of Iam—something to squeeze as he prayed for a miracle. But his arm was pinned between two of his men jockeying for position under the umbrella of shields being slowly picked apart. He was able to loop a finger around the necklace when someone banged into his side and caused the chain to snap off his neck. The pendant cracked as it hit the ground, then shattered beneath a boot.
Torsten fell to a knee, finally able to gasp for air. He pawed at the shards, and in the reflection of the largest piece, he caught a glimpse up into the balcony. All the breath he’d only just regained fled his lungs at the sight of Muskigo standing there.
The gray man watched like a galler bird, eyes set upon floundering prey, so focused that he didn’t see what was coming up behind him.
The blood mage—from a village razed at his very command—walked up behind him, something sharp in hand. A strange, scaled creature, which looked like it could be a newborn zhulong sat perched on her shoulder.
Iam is still with us!
Anger contorted her features just as it had in the Webbed Woods when Redstar pushed her to the brink of death. Torsten watched her weapon sink into Muskigo’s shoulder blade, and then his mass of soldiers shifted and obscured Torsten’s view. Swimming through the mess of legs and armor, Torsten clambered for a better view. Arrows battered the metal on the other side, but he lifted his head regardless.
Now he saw Muskigo hulking over Sora, sword to her throat as she crawled back across the floor.
“Muskigo!” Torsten roared. “Come down here and face me like a man!” The barb of an arrow slashed his cheek on its way by. His men pawed at his shoulders in an attempt to drag him back to safety.
He stood strong.
Muskigo momentarily turned his attention from Sora to meet Torsten’s glare. The girl grabbed the sword by either side of the blade with her bare hands. Blood leaked from her palms as she squeezed and fire swirled around her. The scaly creature on her shoulder leaped at Muskigo and dug sharp fangs into his shoulder. The afhem released a roar, sword slipping from his grasp.
The attempt to kill their afhem had some of his men distracted, but others rallied. Arrows flew at Sora, flaking to ash before they reached her flame-covered body. Another charged her from behind and swung a curved sword, but a flick of her finger sent fire hurtling into the man’s face.
Muskigo ripped the creature from his flesh and threw it back at Sora. It screamed loud enough to be heard over the din of battle as it skidded to a stop. Muskigo backed away slowly, lowering into a Black Fist fighting stance.
“This is for my master,” Sora said. “This is for my home!”
Fire exploded from her hands. At the same time, it shot forth from the scaly creature’s mouth. Both streams merged together.
Muskigo spun out of the way, but a part of the blast caught his side and sent him flying backward so hard he broke through a wooden post. The rest hit the structure of the roof and courtyard, igniting the wood rafters and melting the stone columns of the arcade as if they were iron under the smelter.
The entire half of the building sagged, then began to crumble away. The devastation rippled across the entire building, wood catching everywhere. Torsten and Sora’s eyes met for but a moment before the ceiling caved in around her. She grabbed her scaly friend and vanished.
“We’re not alone!” Torsten hollered. He could feel the energy flooding his muscles, his despair fading beneath the blinding glow of fire. “Fight toward the exit. Push!”
Half of Muskigo’s men surged across the crumbling upper walkway to dig him out of the rubble. The others continued the assault, but Torsten’s men seemed reinvigorated by the spreading inferno.
The mass of shields and armor shuffled out of the courtyard and into the entry hall. Walls collapsed around them, and the ceiling fell away. Torsten never felt such incredible heat, but he took comfort knowing the Shesaitju hadn’t either. They preferred their nigh’jels to fire, and this fire was unnatural. Its arms licked and spread as if fueled by the rage of the very girl who ignited it.
Shesaitju soldiers fell upon them as they reached cover. “Shift!” Torsten ordered. The men at the edges of the formation turned their shields and those behind thrust spears through the openings.
“Wall!” Torsten said, the shield closing once more with a thunderous clap.
“Push!” They pressed forward toward the front entry as if one unit. Less than half the men he’d come with remained, but in the King’s Shield, that counted for hundreds.
A large portion of the ceiling crashed down, breaking their formation. Torsten didn’t wait for Shesaitju to flood the gap. He leaped over the bodies, his claymore carving a bloody arc across the chests of his enemies. He parried a spear, then ducked under another. A Shieldsman—Sir Nikserof Pasic—jumped forward, blocked an attack from his flank and pulled him back to cover.
Another chunk of the ceiling gave way ahead of them, crushing a mass of Shesaitju warriors. Torsten, seeing an opening, waved his men onward, over the smoldering rubble. He lowered his shoulder, and cold air filled his lungs as he broke through the estate doors, finally feeling like he was able to breathe. Icy snow and burning embers met in a macabre dance, sweeping across the entry. Dark clouds swirled in the darkening sky, bringing with them a robust and west-blowing gale that felt like daggers upon his bleeding cheek. The prefect's estate was wholly cons
umed, but it wasn’t alone.
The strong wind rapidly carried flames across the city. At the same time, a strange voice echoed through the air. The words were long and trailed off, but it sounded like Drav Crava, as if he could hear Redstar chanting across the battlefield.
The wind allowed the inferno to bridge Winde Port’s canals like forest wildfire. Building after building caught, even though it was snowing—an unstoppable force of nature’s wrath.
Torsten turned his attention to the streets. They were out of the cauldron, but Muskigo’s army still filled the city. A cluster of unmanned zhulong stampeded through the streets, throwing massive tusks in every direction.
“We are the right hand of Iam!” Torsten shouted as his men formed rank again. “The sword of His justice and the shield that guards the light of this world!” The zhulong crashed into them, throwing Nikserof aside like a rag doll. Another couldn’t dodge the pack, taking a long tusk through his abdomen.
“Fight toward the gate!” Torsten ordered after the beasts passed. “We shall make it out of here alive, men. Iam is with us!”
Torsten emerged from the shield wall and brought his claymore down upon a Shesaitju warrior’s skull. He heaved Nikserof to his feet by the forearm, and they fell back into cover. In and out of the formation he and others went, taking five with them for every Shieldsman that died.
But they were dying.
Torsten knew they wouldn’t last long surrounded by enemies and fire, but now he wasn’t afraid.
Just like in the estate, their formation slowly ebbed west through the overwhelming force. The finest men the Glass had to offer would only die if they took hundreds more with them. The further west they edged, the louder Torsten could hear Redstar’s voice, as if the warlock was directly beside him.
The wind grew stronger as well, and Torsten saw the fire hopping across the rooftops. The distraction helped give them breadth through the army, and now it was beginning to catch the palisade wall surrounding the city.
Torsten’s giant hands snapped the neck of a Shesaitju, cracking like a branch underfoot, then he spun, pulling his sword free and bringing it down through the shoulder of another. A blade slashed his thigh, but his armor dulled the blow. He grabbed the man by the neck, and as he raised him, a ram’s horn filled the air. One long blow.
‘We will know the time to strike when the cold is driven away by wind and flame.’ The words Redstar had spoken before he left suddenly filled Torsten’s mind. That horn belonged to the Drav Cra, and suddenly, all around them, Torsten’s men were no longer the Shesaitju army’s target.
Shouting echoed all over in common and Saitjuese. Torsten could make out the meaning of some, like ‘wall’ and ‘charging”—enough to know that Redstar was about to do whatever it took to be the hero while Torsten and his men failed, damned be to the innocent citizens being used to shield the city.
Redstar would claim it was Nesilia who sparked the fire that took the walls even though Torsten knew it was Sora. He knew Iam was working through the girl though he knew not why. As a blood mage and descendant of mystics, she was everything Iam’s scripture preached against, but he knew it to be so.
He crushed the throat of the man in his grip. His men cheered as the horns of reinforcement sounded and Shesaitju warriors flowed by to meet the army at the burning wall. Torsten’s heart, on the other hand, sank again. He looked back toward the estate and searched.
Muskigo was being helped out of the crumbling building and led toward a zhulong. He shook one of his Serpent Guards off and hopped up. Half his chest was seared, his usually-gray skin bubbling, exposing the pink of muscle and sinew.
“To the wall!” Torsten shouted. He helped Sir Nikserof take down a Shesaitju soldier, then pushed him in the direction of the walls. “Go!”
He and the rest of his men rushed by. Torsten stayed put. He leveled his sword, its tip pointing down the street at Muskigo.
“Muskigo!” he bellowed. The afhem’s dark eyes spotted him through the smoke and embers. “Will you cower from me again?”
One of his Serpent Guards threaded a bow, but Muskigo raised a hand to stop him. He slid his scimitar out of his sheath and pointed it back at Torsten. “Defend the city,” he ordered. “The Wearer is mine!”
XXV
THE THIEF
From his perch atop the tilted mast of the black galleon, the reality of Winde Port’s fate was all too clear. The hundreds of buildings and businesses lining Merchants Row were being destroyed. Fire raged along the road as the wind blew, hopping the city canals and burning both sides. The strong western wind fanned it along so it couldn’t spread to the wharf, but it rapidly pushed toward the city walls. It was as if the gods themselves were blowing upon it and Whitney thought he could hear eldritch chanting in the air.
The Shesaitju army stormed toward the palisades to defend their captured city, vanishing in the smoke. War cries and battle drums were all Whitney needed to hear to know what was happening. The Glass Army was charging.
“Torsten,” he said under his breath. The inferno spread fast, but Whitney was sure it began at the prefect's estate where Torsten was making his ambush.
He ran down from the boat and onto the quay. The Shesaitju remaining were so distracted trying to saddle the dozens of zhulong roaming the streets, they didn’t even see Whitney as he bolted passed them.
As he reached the place where Winder’s Dwarf used to stand, he thought about Tum Tum. The look on the dwarf’s face as they watched his livelihood be overrun would stay with Whitney forever. Tum Tum had always been a good friend. If Whitney believed in life after all this chaos, he’d hope to be wherever Tum Tum ended up—even if it meant the Great Hall of Meungor.
“For you, good buddy.”
He stopped at the turn onto Merchants Row. Fire licked at the streets from all sides, but the wind kept Whitney’s face free of smoke. That was when he realized he had no idea what to do next. He could barrel into the burning prefect's estate and find Torsten, his best chance at standing up to Kazimir. Or he could continue searching for Sora in the most logical places he could think of—the Panping Ghetto and the Darkings Mansion.
Both were on the north side of the city, beyond where the fire was spreading. But the Darkings Mansion was atop a hill and mostly stone. The Ghetto was down at the base, and if a single ember reached those shoddy, wooden flats, the place would go up like a bonfire.
Torsten can handle himself, he decided. If starting this fire was part of his plan to ambush Muskigo, he’d have a lot to answer for to Iam.
Whitney went to cross the canal when, from the direction of the prefect’s estate, a mob of Panpingese men and women raced toward him through the smoke.
Whitney turned and pushed through into the heat and smoke. “Sora?” he questioned. In all the smog, half the women looked just like her. He coughed and called for her again. His eyes were burning now, tears streaming down his face.
“Sora!” He stopped, placed his hands on his knees, and tried to take a breath as the crowd fully passed him by. Instead, he just made himself cough even more. He watched them, unsure what to make of the exodus. He wasn’t even sure why he imagined Sora might be with them. He’d spent the whole trip trying to prove to her that it didn’t matter what she looked like, that the only people she had were the ones she chose to stand with.
Wetzel and himself, namely. Half the reason Whitney was so okay with taking her to her ancestral homeland was so she could see that it had nothing to do with her. It was just a place with a name and similar looking people. It also had a great deal of strange and magical treasure to steal, especially if they stumbled upon any underground mystic covens. But that was beside the point.
He sighed, pulled his shirt up over his mouth, and backed up out of the smoke.
Focus Whitney. You’ll find her.
He went to turn and continue back on his path across the canal when he heard a low growl.
“Aquira?” he said. The little wyvern stood on the ash-a
nd-snow-covered street blinking its big, yellow eyes at him. Whitney fell to his knees in front of her.
“Aquira!” He went to pick her up but she growled even louder, and he wisely redrew his hand. “Aquira? Where is Sora? So-ra.” He pronounced both syllables. “You remember her, right?”
He patted himself down, searching for anything he had that might contain her scent. There was nothing. A month together and he realized he had nothing of hers. If she died in the city or was already dead, he’d have nothing to…
A woman burst through the gathering smoke and fell to the ground. She hacked and coughed, sounds that would have made Whitney vomit if not for realizing the mouth they came out of.
“Sora?” he said softly. His eyes went wide. He scrambled over and pulled her further out of the smoke so she could catch her breath.
“Whit,” she rasped. She threw her arms around him and he her. They held each other there in the middle of the street as the city came undone around them. Whitney went to pull away so they could get moving, but she squeezed tighter.
“We need to move,” he said.
A group of Shesaitju warriors rumbled by, half of which were mounted on zhulong. They must not have seen Whitney or Sora as enough of a threat to stop.
“C’mon, Sora.” Whitney forced them apart, took her hand and led her over the canal to the side where the fire was less rampant. Aquira flew up and dashed along the railing in pursuit.
Whitney leaned Sora against the side of one of the few buildings still standing in that district. He coughed and breathed, and then, again.
“Are you okay?” he asked. Now that she was in front of him, he realized tears were streaming down her face. And not just from the heat of the fire. Her shoulders bobbed like she was trying not to weep.
“Me?” She wiped her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just breathed in too much smoke. Wasn’t my first time. There was that time with the dragon—wait a second.”
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