The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3)

by H. Anthe Davis

  A brick popped from the wall, followed by a gout of dirty water.

  “Oh crap,” said a soldier. Captain Sarovy silently agreed.

  They battled the metal elementals in a rough oblong, their backs to the two mages. Voorkei struggled to keep a ward over their heads to defend from the bricks and other debris their upstairs assailants kept dropping, while Tanvolthene speed-enchanted swords—clapping his palms around them to form a stiff wedge of energy like an arcane chisel. The spells only held for a blow or two, but with their support the infantrymen's swords managed to cut chips from the elementals rather than simply be blunted.

  The ruengriin were more effective, though their methods concerned Sarovy. Two had grabbed mallets from fallen militiamen and were pulverizing anything that stood up to them, but the rest tore at the elementals like animals, their illusions gone—the scales and plates beneath their armor revealed, their hands clawed, jaws unhinged. Chunks of metal flew in all directions.

  As did blood. Sarovy saw a ruengriin clamp massive jaws around an elemental limb only to have spikes shoot out through his cheeks, lips and chin. He tore the piece of metal off and spat it away in a gob of red.

  Meanwhile, Sergeant Rallant had his sword and shield out but stood in the center, still radiating. It was not light so much as presence, a sense of steadiness and a faint whiff of sweet. Sarovy's nose said saccharine but his nerves said toxic. The senvraka's illusion pendant had also failed, leaving his skin marbled and his eyes segmented. Despite that, the men bunched around him as if for reassurance; Sarovy saw him shove and shield-push them toward their positions but they kept gravitating back.

  At least it had kept them from panicking.

  Another brick fell free, followed by a gush of grey water. They were two floors underground in the West Ridge district, nowhere near the river, but the recent rains must have filled the Old Crown cisterns above them, and this basement had no exits.

  What I wouldn't give for a map, he thought, staring at the doorways above. He had no idea which would lead out and which to a dead end. Entering the warehouse from street-level would have given him a better idea of what to expect, and he almost regretted the portal.

  As he watched, a pair of militiamen pushed a huge crate over the edge of the hole in the ground floor, sending it plummeting straight at him. Three feet above his head, it hit a flaring orange barrier and smashed to flinders, sending a cascade of iron nails down the ward.

  Several metal elementals broke off to gather the nails and lash them at the front-line soldiers. They clattered on shields and armor and elicited a wave of curses.

  Sarovy pulled back a bleeding man and pushed the ones around him to close the gap. Several others knelt here in the middle, clutching mangled arms or punctured sides; two archers, out of arrows, played combat medic while the others finished their quivers or fought with short swords alongside the infantry. A few stood guard to watch everyone's feet and stab any tendril of metal that tried to hook an ankle or invade the center.

  From the earhook, Sarovy gathered that the lancers were on their way. That was good, but there was no direct route from the Civic Wedge to West Ridge; the cliffs of Old Crown stood in the way. They would have to follow the riverside road all the way around.

  He cursed himself for not dispatching them immediately, but he had expected a strike on the garrison and maybe assaults along the route. It would not be difficult for a Shadow group to take down his lancers if they were without a mage.

  Trapped, yammered his fear, but he squelched it. There had to be a way.

  His gaze lit upon a standing column.

  Wide concrete cylinders, they matched the foundation. He had seen their like in old ogrish ruins and the broken aqueducts of Kanrodi—and, more recently, in the deeper storage facilities of the Shadow Cult—but the column the militiamen had hammered down was unusual. Bent by the weight of the collapsed floor but not broken, it had metal bars in it.

  The standing one was the same. Sturdy, able to retain its shape. But heavy.

  “Magus Voorkei, Lieutenant Vrallek, I need your attention,” he said.

  Despite the clash of metal on metal and the roars, the shouts, the crashing debris, Vrallek heard him. In a moment the big ugly ruengriin was at his side, ruddy face made redder by many seeping wounds. Blood coated his chestplate, likely his own, but his starburst eyes held the hard, fierce light of battle. “Captain,” he slurred through ragged lips.

  Voorkei backed toward them, not taking his eyes from the ward above, and gave a brief nod.

  “We need to get to the next floor, but we don't have mages enough to construct and hold stairs. Voorkei, can your magic cut concrete?”

  “Er? Yes?”

  “Vrallek, your ruengriin are very strong.”

  “Heh.”

  “Cut that column at the base. Ruengriin haul it to the wall, lean it under an opening. We either chop footholds or the mages do something. We go up to the opening. Understood?”

  Magus Voorkei glanced at him, brows arched like startled black caterpillars, then said, “Ward avove us vill fail if I svitch.”

  “Give it to Tanvolthene. Tanvolthene! Man the ward! Everyone! On the defensive!”

  A ragged cry rose from the soldiers. Sneering his amusement, Vrallek sent up his own roar of, “Specialists, to me!” and strode through the ranks, shield-slamming a resurgent elemental from his way like batting down a mannequin. Magus Voorkei shot Sarovy a dubious look then scuttled after him, the ruengriin accreting around the pair as the rest of the men closed ranks.

  Tanvolthene moved beside Sarovy and turned his attention upward, raising his hands to activate sigils in midair. The next barrel to come down on them shattered against a pale orange ward shot thickly with white, like a spiderweb.

  Hand on the hilt of his heirloom sword, shield tucked to his side, Sarovy scanned the fray. The militiamen in the upper openings had noticed the change and were shooting toward Vrallek and Voorkei's team now, shouting to the ones above to alter their bombardment. As heads peeked out past the torn floor, Nachirovydry and his comrades took their last shots.

  Sarovy saw Voorkei form a whip of orange energy between his hands, then crouch at the base of the column. Ruengriin, guided by Vrallek's spitting and grumbling, moved around to brace it. A smell of boiling water and burning rock arose within a thin wisp of smoke.

  The column tilted. The ruengriin roared. Sarovy winced, half-expecting the crash and crush of at least one man, but all that came was another roar as the monstrous specialists controlled the column's fall.

  Wouldn't want to be punched by one, he thought as they started hauling it to a wall.

  First task done, Voorkei immediately started weaving a new ward above the ruengriin, orange strands of spell-stuff stitching together into an oblong. In the opening they were approaching, Sarovy saw militiamen blanch and withdraw. A moment later, Voorkei snapped out a mage-light and sent it up that corridor.

  “Move on me,” Sarovy said, and started a slow pace after the ruengriin. With Rallant dogging his heels, the infantry shifted like one organism, while the makeshift medics hooked the wounded under the arms and struggled to drag them along.

  The high end of the column hit the wall with a solid thunk. Brickwork dented inward. Tilted, the span left three feet of clear space between its top and the opening, but that was doable. One of the ruengriin immediately scrambled up, claws biting into concrete, the others bracing the column to keep it from rolling.

  That vanguard swung up into the corridor and vanished. For a few long moments there was nothing, then came a reverberating roar—not of pain or fear but victory.

  “Get the wounded up,” Sarovy shouted as another few ruengriin made the climb. His group merged swiftly with the specialists, the wards merging as well, and the circle opened on one end to let ruengriin hoist the injured and climb one-handed. They made it look easy.

  Under Vrallek's command, half the ruengriin stayed to brace and play rear-guard. Tanvolthene slipped and slid
up the pillar, setting small foothold-wards, then was hauled into the corridor by the men already there. After him went Rallant and the infantrymen.

  The middle of the column began to sag and shed concrete. It was not meant to lean at such an angle.

  Sarovy sent the archers up next. Light-footed, it took each man mere moments. The circle of remaining soldiers constricted around him, while the metal elementals—battered and chipped but all the more menacing—converged again. From above, Tanvolthene threw down panes of energy to stand like barriers, and the ruengriin laughed and hacked and beat away those elementals that slipped through.

  By the time the last archer went up, the column was sliding down the wall, its middle disintegrating to show its iron ribs. A ruengriin hooked hands together and boosted Magus Voorkei into a short, awkward flight; two more caught him at the entry and pulled him in. Sarovy followed, wincing as hard hands clamped on his arms and shoulders. The opening was hardly wide enough for two and he was shoved down the hall so Tanvolthene could maintain the wards. Looking back, he saw more ruengriin boosted up, then the one that had done the boosting.

  Then a pair of hands clamped hard on the lip of the ledge, and Lieutenant Vrallek pulled himself into the corridor, blood caking him all over. He garbled for them to move.

  In the tight press, it was hard for Sarovy to force through to the front. Mage-lights bobbed overhead but the largest ruengriin stood hunched, scalps scraping the ceiling, and the injured had to be held upright to keep from being trampled. Blessing his own narrow build, Sarovy elbowed and shrugged his way through to find a storeroom at the end, all but bare. No exit.

  He looked up at the ceiling and said, “Make a hatch.”

  In short order, a two-foot cube of dirt and boards dropped down into the room, cut cleanly by Voorkei's searing whip. The first ruengriin used it as a stepping-stone and leapt cat-like into the room above, mage-lights whizzing past him to illuminate it. At the all-clear, the other ruengriin started boosting soldiers up.

  “Make a door,” Sarovy told Voorkei as the ogre-blood mage took his turn.

  And so they stepped out into sunlight, bloodied and coated in dust and dirt, through the side wall of the warehouse and into a narrow alley. A hush fell, and as Sarovy pushed to the fore, he saw why: at the far end, as yet unaware, stood another troop of men in militia green.

  Anger rose in his chest. How many men was the city willing to throw at him?

  “Scatter them,” he told Vrallek. The Houndmaster grinned bloodily and led the charge with a nerve-shattering roar.

  By the time Sarovy, Rallant and the infantrymen jogged free of the alley, half the militia was in flight. The other half retreated with a shred of discipline, shields and spears raised against the battered ruengriin. With the infantry moving in for support, Sarovy tried to call Vrallek back; too many of his specialists were leaving blood-trails in their wake, their movements frenzied. They were too valuable to lose to this lot.

  Then a baying chorus arose from a side-street and he saw Vrallek's head whip up, saw him step back and snarl.

  A moment later, hounds poured into the street, grey-skinned and gape-mouthed. Their collars gleamed with the golden teardrop, their movements ungainly and hideous. Half the mob broke for the ruengriin, the other half for the outer circle of infantry, and shouts of shock and fear rose from the human Blaze soldiers as they braced themselves.

  The sound that came from Vrallek's mouth was like the end of the world.

  Hounds skidded onto their tailless rumps, their heads swiveling toward him. A few men stepped out to hack at the distracted beasts but were hauled back by Rallant. A palpable tension filled the air, and a foul stink.

  From down the alley came an answering howl-shriek, a ball-shriveling expectoration of rage and dominance. Then a twisted form in olive-green streaked from the entry, a red badge jangling around its neck, and leapt upon Vrallek.

  The rest of the militia took to their heels.

  Sarovy wiped at his mouth as he watched the rolling, screaming, clawing pair of monstrosities. The other was definitely Houndmaster Chelaith, the Lord Governor's bought man. The tide of hounds encircled them, full of yawping and whining and snarls but no movement, no interest in the Blaze Company force. Though he wanted to send his men after the fleeing militia, the fight filled the street, and his archers were out of arrows.

  Then the green-coats changed directions, and lancers suddenly filled the intersection they had been trying to cross.

  'What— By the Light, captain,' he heard Benson exclaim through the earhook.

  “Run them down, lieutenant,” he said through bloodless lips. His tongue felt like a knife. “Do not let them escape.”

  A silence, then the lieutenant turned his horse and pulled his sword free. Orders rang out, and the horde of horsemen split down the roads where the militia had fled.

  In the street, on bloodstained cobblestones at the center of the circle of hounds, Vrallek raised his gory face and howled his victory. Chelaith hung in his grip, armor sundered, partially delimbed and thoroughly disemboweled yet still struggling.

  One by one, the hounds ghosted up to Vrallek, making undoglike snuffling and grunting sounds, and Sarovy looked away. He could feel the pressure of old mindwashes trying to paralyze him. Some of the men stood stock still, others shook their heads vigorously. Rallant, no longer radiating, stalked around smacking the dazed ones.

  Tanvolthene met Sarovy's gaze with wide, wild eyes. “What just happened, captain?”

  “War,” said Sarovy, then sighed and cued the earhook. “Lieutenant Benson, ignore previous order. Back to me. Garrison, we have injured; prepare the infirmary. Scouts, disperse to the council hall and the governor's mansion in pairs. Catch any staff you can, but be careful. The cultists are watching. Shield Two, be prepared to march.

  “Scryer Yrsian, please scry the Crimson Claw and advise them of my intent to burn down the governor's mansion and place Bahlaer under military control.”

  '...Yes sir,' came the scryer's voice.

  The soldiers closest stared at him. Nachirovydry grinned the toothy white grin of a sadist.

  Raising his voice, Sarovy called out, “All right, Vrallek. You have your hounds. Let us put them to work.”

  A gurgling chuckle came in answer.

  As the crowd of hounds and soldiers slowly began to move again, Sarovy felt a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A smile? Faint, angry. He did not want to think about it—to revisit the pit of fire and smoke that he saw in his dreams, capped by that crushing red ward.

  But it seemed that was what Bahlaer demanded of him.

  So it would be done.

  *****

  From the eiyenbridge, Ardent surveyed the wreckage of the warehouse and considered what to do with the militiamen her agents had rescued. The eiyets whispered in her ears about the Lord Governor in his manor, frenziedly throwing clothes and ornaments and papers into bags that his aides then rushed down into the secret tunnels.

  She could leave him to that. Leave this whole wretched city. Madam Lirayen—in safe-keeping among the militia—had admitted to calling on the metal elementals for aid, invoking her goddess's connection with Brancir the Silver. Commander Tonner, who had refused to stay in the Shadow Realm, had raged at Ardent for her interference in his fight, as if he would have won with his men and the metals alone. And perhaps it was true; in the end, the Dark bite had hindered both sides and set a dangerous precedent.

  But she wasn't done. Not while the captain still had his head. Commander Tonner might be an idiot but he knew how to start a fight, and if the captain retaliated, this scuffle might turn into a full-blown insurrection. She thought of Shan Cayer in forced retirement, of the citizens trapped in this city—of her own man Ticuo, who had been born here.

  The Kheri could extend their credit a little while longer.

  *****

  Not far down the trade road, a small wagon rattled north, the tools emblazoned on its flank identifying it as a tinker's vehicle. Th
e hammer of the crossed hammer-and-tongs mark was painted red, but nothing else was out of the ordinary.

  Not the driver, a grizzled old man in a leather hat with forge-scarred forearms bared to the wind. Not the tattered old rug of a dog in the footwell. Not the big tawny Tasgard horse, its plodding steps quicker now that the city wall loomed ahead. And not the girl who hunched on the far end of the bench, arms crossed tight, clothes desperately needing to be taken in.

  Winter sunlight glazed the river that ran beside the road, throwing flecks along the side of the wagon and dappling the man's jaw. It was firm-set, unsmiling, though the lines that mapped his weathered features told of happier times. His deep-set green eyes were hard as stone.

  His hands, rough from millennia of strife, clutched the reins as if wishing to strangle them. And if he occasionally ran fingers through the tawny lion-pelt that covered his lap—complete with ears—that wasn't so strange. There were many hunters in this land.

  Stay away from Bahlaer, Enkhaelen had all but told him.

  To Jasper—to Gwydren Greymark, the Hammer of Brancir—it was an invitation.

  Chapter 18 – Schism

  Cob and his friends did not stay long in the spirit realm—maybe a mark—but it was still enough time for him and Lark to have a shouting match. The subject was Rian's soul, and at Lark's insistence, Cob tried to reach out to the goblin's patron spirit.

  The black water came instead, surging up through the realms as if it had been waiting. Despite his familiarity with it, Cob panicked, and hooked his friends with the herd cadence then half-stepped half-plunged down into the physical realm to escape it. Though they came through safely and left the water behind, the bad air immediately swept in to choke them.

  Two days later, they were still suffering.

  There was only so much that the Guardian's influence could do. Cob kept it up at all times, but he couldn't conjure food from thin air or soothe the hacking coughs Lark and Fiora had developed. Crystal Valley's poisons lingered in their lungs. As a skinchanger, Arik was in better shape, though notably ravenous; sometimes he ran after the lizards and sand-spiders that peeked out at Cob, but never caught them.