“You do it,” said Ji-hyeon, the inside of her chest vibrating with anticipation. She was a hardened veteran of a hundred battles, none could refute it, but this war was different, the first in a very long time to make her nervous. And if all went well, the last she’d ever fight.
“Yes, General!” Hyori ducked back inside the temple, crossing a gulf between worlds quicker than it would take Ji-hyeon to reach the bottom of the steps. Her sister loved giving orders so much Ji-hyeon would have stepped down as general and let Hyori take over long ago if she hadn’t promised their first father she would lead her sisters home—he had a lot more faith in her command than she did, and you don’t break oaths you swear to the dying. Would that he had held on a little longer …
Hyori came back through, leading Shagrath and Therion by the reins. Once Ji-hyeon had earned his respect Shagrath had carried her through many battles; they called their mounts dire pangolins, though they were about as close to their namesakes as the monsters cantering toward them were to horses. She petted his black-scaled head while he snuffled her, then put her boot in the stirrup and mounted up. By the time she had settled into the saddle and set her flag upright in its holster the first dozen Cobalt riders had come through, and after walking their steeds to the base of the temple steps they took off at a gallop to intercept the charging jade-eyed monsters. Before Hyori could object Ji-hyeon rode after them, not intending to plunge straight into the Tothan rear by herself but damn sure wanting any Immaculate defenders on the wall to see the Cobalt pennant flying as their salvation came charging from the very Gate through which they had banished her.
The Tothans had figured out the ambush now, the whole rear turning to face the Temple of Pentacles, but their foot soldiers had a lot of wet ground to cover. These riderless equine monsters moved fast, however, chittering herds of them galloping out of the holes the massed infantry opened for them. There were more of the demons than Ji-hyeon had anticipated, but that just meant her cavalry would have to fight twice as hard to keep the Gate clear for the rest of their army to come through. Ji-hyeon blew the horn she had carved to replace the one lost during the Second Battle of the Lark’s Tongue, a trophy taken from something even bigger and meaner than a horned wolf—she couldn’t wait to show Choi and sing her its song, once she rescued her captain and the rest of the Cobalts from the Immaculate stockade.
Lightning splintered the rainy heavens over Othean, and down on the ground it was pure hell as the first Cobalt riders met their spear-legged foes. These things cared nothing for the mounts, focused entirely on snatching the riders in their split-mouths, and succeeding more than once. Ji-hyeon’s flanks were clear for now, but straight ahead a massive demon came barreling toward her, its flaming eyes locked on her, its sideways jaws spreading wide, and she lowered her spear … but didn’t get a chance to use it.
Shagrath huffed in warning, and she held on to the saddle horn as he reared up, trotting on his hind legs with his front clearing the ground. As the Tothan monster reached them her pangolin backhanded its gaping mouth. Its entire head nearly came off, but before Ji-hyeon could cheer three more rode down on them.
She slapped Shagrath’s scales but as usual he was already ahead of her, slowing to a stop as quick as he could in the wet mud and wheeling around. His thick, scaled tail was twice as long as the rest of him, and while it looked less than graceful dragging along behind him most of the time, when he put it to use it was fast as a bullwhip and sharp as a bundle of saw blades. He snapped the legs out from under two of the stampeding monsters, and Ji-hyeon punched her spear all the way down the hungry throat of the third. As it fell Shagrath looked over his shoulder to check on her and, seeing she was all right, extended his ridiculously long tongue to lick the spattered grey blood from her face. Her exploits kept him just as well fed as Fellwing, albeit on less ephemeral provender; the owlbat braved the downpour as more of the monsters rushed toward them.
Shagrath retracted his tongue and pulled toward the incoming herd but Ji-hyeon steered him back toward the temple. The Cobalts were making good time clearing the Gate, all five hundred of the cavalry on the ground and the first of their war machines wheeled over by the side of the temple. Now that it was the infantry’s turn things were going to slow way the hells down, though. It would take all her cunning, and that of her captains, to see that the Tothans were held at bay long enough for the entire army to come through, and she couldn’t contribute that from the front. As she glanced back to make sure they weren’t pursued, lightning touched down atop the Autumn Palace, and to the accompaniment of a thunderclap she saw a huge, sagging band of the inner wall collapse.
A part of her hated to see it fall, the palace a symbol not just of Othean but all the Immaculate Isles. The larger part of her felt an ugly warmth at the sight, however, knowing that no sooner had it crumbled than word of the event had reached the empress. Ji-hyeon imagined the fear on the woman’s mean, pinched face as she contemplated the end of everything she held dear … and then the confusion and shame when she was informed that none other than the exiled Bong Sisters had come to the defense of the realm.
Ji-hyeon was still smiling when another flash lit up the fields to the north, and then her confidence dropped as hard as the wall of the Autumn Palace. Another army marched down upon them, hundreds of the horselike horrors galloping at their vanguard, and larger, slower monstrosities shambling in the vast field of Tothan foot soldiers. Then they were again but a dark blur to the north as the flash failed and the rain came down harder.
Well, fuck. Even if all the Cobalts arrived before this second force, which was unlikely, they would still be pinched between the Tothan armies. While Ji-hyeon had no doubts her soldiers could overwhelm one monstrous regiment before swarming into Othean to tackle the surviving Immaculates, there’s a world of difference between fighting two lesser armies in a row and fighting two at once.
“Bad luck!” Ji-hyeon called to Hyori, who sat astride Therion by the temple steps, directing the flow of soldiers as they came through the Gate. “That great plan of yours, where we trap the Tothans between us and the Immaculates? Crush one army between two?”
“I saw! I saw!” Hyori shouted over the rain and clamor of steel and shrieks of mortal beasts and chattering horrors. “Take it up with Yunjin—my strategy was based on her vision.”
“What do we do?” asked Ji-hyeon, waiting for another lightning bolt to show her how close the second army was but the weather refusing to oblige.
“We fight like devils and see what unfolds,” said Hyori. “Maybe the Immaculates come out from the castle to hit this first crew, keep them off our backs while we do the second.”
“Maybe,” said Ji-hyeon, “but they might take the opportunity to try to shore up the wall instead of running outside to fight. We Immaculates are sensible like that.”
“Some of us are,” said Hyori. “If something doesn’t happen, though, I’d say maybe we all die out here! Wouldn’t that be a laugh, after all we fucking went through to get back here?”
“I’ve heard better,” said Ji-hyeon, her heart sinking at the prospect. “But then I’ve also heard worse. I guess we just have to wait and see.”
CHAPTER
19
And I am telling you it can’t wait!” Diggelby was shouting at the top of his lungs and bouncing on his toes, clearly hoping his voice would carry over the shoulders of the guards who had stopped him from reaching the People’s Pack. “Jex Toth attacks! The Star’s in danger! We have the biggest news since the Age of Wonders!”
“I told you to shut up,” said the thickest woman in orange, jabbing a finger into Diggelby’s chest. “I’ve been polite, but no more. It’s time to go.”
“To meet the People’s Pack?” asked Sullen, seeing that one of the figures had risen from the table set back there behind the Gate and was heading their way across the square.
“To meet the inside of a cell, you fucking loonies,” said the lead guard. “Hand over that baton, big boy, and com
e with us.”
Sullen licked his lips, looking to Diggelby for direction … and then lamenting the life choices that had led him to do such an unthinkable thing. It was just as Nemi had warned, but unlike Sullen the witch hadn’t broken from the hooded mob to support Diggelby, so at least one of them would make it to Othean. He felt like he might throw up as he realized what he’d just done—thrown away his one chance to get back to Ji-hyeon and Keun-ju, and for what? To back up Diggelby’s brilliant plan of bum-rushing a giant state-sanctioned ritual on the rim of a Gate.
“Let’s just call it a goof,” Sullen told the guards. “Forget the whole thing. Me and my friend are leaving.”
“Yes, you fucking are, and you’re leaving with us,” said another guard, holding his polearm like he was about to jab Sullen with it. Sullen’s spear felt hot and hungry in his hand, and as if sensing the danger emanating from the rag-sheathed weapon, another of the half dozen guards reached out and said, “I’ll just take that now, all right?”
“This is an outrage!” cried Diggelby as a pair of guards put their hands on his shoulders and began steering him away. A guard had his fist on the haft of Sullen’s spear but Sullen couldn’t bring himself to let go—as soon as he did, any hope of getting back to Othean died. The guard tugged but the spear didn’t budge. Sullen knew from the man’s expression that things were about to get very, very unpleasant but still his fingers refused to release the weapon.
“Diggelby?” An older man in an ostentatiously embroidered black robe with a yellow collar, a bead-brimmed orange hat, and red facepaint had come up behind the guards. “Is that really you?”
“You know these yahoos, Cardinal?” asked the lead guard.
“Unkie Obedear!” Diggelby shook off the hands on his shoulders. “You’re alive! And even better, you can help us! Tell these thugs to let us talk to the People’s Pack, we’ve got news of the utmost urgency.”
“My gracious,” said the old man. “We had better hear it, then. Let my nephew and his friend through, I’m sure he wouldn’t make a scene if it wasn’t something terribly important.”
The guard let go of Sullen’s spear, he and Sullen exchanging thankful smiles. What a fucking relief things had somehow uncomplicated themselves. Diggelby, man—just went to show that even without a devil of his own the fop was still lucky as one.
But then, just as everything had gone right for a change, a dog barked. Everyone turned to look behind Sullen but he didn’t have to, and couldn’t have even if he wanted, seeing as his blood had just frozen solid in his veins. He knew that bark, and picked up on the mocking falseness of it—what came running up behind them might look like a dog and bark like a dog but it wasn’t no dog. It was Zosia’s devil.
“Assassins!”
Sullen didn’t see who shouted it, but as soon as the word rang out in the square it was pandemonium, pure and simple. The guards right on top of him and Diggelby went from relaxed to way past their previous level of pissed, pikes lowered back down and swords clearing sheaths all over again. Diggelby was still in the act of pushing past them toward his uncle, and right then Sullen saw the big angry woman they’d first engaged make the decision to kill the pasha. It was a queer thing; Sullen hadn’t known it showed in the face like that, but there it was, a twitch of the guard’s eye and a setting of the jaw, and then she thrust her polearm at Diggelby’s throat.
By the time her arms were moving, though, so were Sullen’s, and the day some Outlander’s oversized pike was swifter than a Flintlander’s spear had yet to dawn.
Sullen darted in low and swung up, batting the underside of the guard’s weapon so that it popped up in the air, overshooting Diggelby completely. Sullen hadn’t expected to disarm her, but as he struck all the makeshift padding somehow fell off the head of his spear and the naked blade met the middle of her pike, severing the wooden shaft … and most of the hand that held it. He couldn’t fucking believe it, tight as he’d bundled up the spear, and besides that he’d been aiming for a good half foot up the haft from her fingers. But there they went, flying into the air with the broken-off head of her pike.
“Sorry!” he cried, which, as far as battle cries went, left a little something to be desired but was at least sincere … and also insufficient to placate the other guards, who did about what Sullen expected. He danced back from them but bumped into Diggelby, and then doubled over from a spasm in his stomach. Still hunched from the pain, he jabbed a charging guard through the foot and twisted his spear, hoping to just bring him down without hurting him too bad. The man shrieked as Sullen upended him, and other people were yelling, the guards surrounding them, Zosia’s devil barking, and Diggelby was yelling at Sullen, demanding to know what the hells he was doing, as if this were all somehow his fault.
Cringing as he straightened up from the pure fucking torment in his midsection, he saw the actual cause of all this trouble dashing around the far side of the Gate—a silver-haired devil named Cold Zosia. Sullen was supposed to stop her before she could bring hell to Diadem, but that looked to be exactly what she was doing. That they were both here, and in the middle of some shit, confirmed at least part of the prophecy he’d been dealt. Considering how very dead Zosia wasn’t despite all the fresh rumors, though, Sullen wondered just what the Faceless Mistress expected him to do about it. You can’t kill what won’t die, that’s just basic shit. But hey, Diadem wasn’t flooded with fire, so things weren’t as bad as they could be.
Yet.
CHAPTER
20
Things were going worse than Maroto could have predicted, and he had a pretty damn active imagination. You’d think with that creative mind of his he’d have figured a way out of this kimchi pot already, but no. As far as strategic pickles went, this was the funkiest he’d ever sampled. Not in a good way, either, but then even the best metaphors break down eventually. Point being, a bad morning in Othean was only going to get worse.
Two thousand Cobalts. Not the smartest of the bunch, either. You could tell that on account of these being the ones who’d apparently followed General Ji-hyeon straight into the Lark’s Tongue Gate.
Fourteen hundred Immaculates. Better trained and equipped than the Cobalts, these, but hardly the best or brightest on the Isles. That was obvious from the fact that the empress had assigned them this bleak babysitting detail, which any sane advisor would’ve told her was a lost cause. With such meager numbers it was, anyway.
Ah, and five hundred Chainites. Er, four hundred and nineteen. Hard to believe he’d lost almost a fifth of his troops just getting inside the Autumn Palace. He’d expected to lose over half. That just went to show that some pickle pots are stronger than they look.
Do the sums and that added up to nearly four thousand soldiers, all tucked safe behind the walls of a legendarily impregnable fortress. Nothing to sneeze at … so long as that legend was true.
Which, as of about thirty seconds ago, it wasn’t.
His ears were still ringing and the choking plume of dust that had enveloped the lurching terrace hadn’t yet been beaten back down by the rain, so Maroto stayed where he lay a little longer. Coughing, reflecting. Choi was dead. So was Da. Even dazed from falling flat on his face, he felt as if he’d grown an extra heart at the news just so he could have two ripped apart at the same time. Granted, before he’d even stopped hugging Fennec that section of wall a quarter mile north had crumbled, sending shock waves down the line, so he’d like as not be joining his dead kith and kin before very much longer … but that just meant he had to pack in as much grief as he could, while he could.
And administer twice as much before he went. At a minimum. That was Maroto maths, elementary as the sun rising from the Sea of Devils each morn.
At last he began to feel the rain on his neck again, prickling the backs of his legs where they emerged from his battleskirt. Could breathe the burning dust instead of just hacking on it. Clear as a sign from Old Black herself, too, the fume parted before his eyes and he looked out not to the west,
with its rampaging Tothan army, but to the east. It was a beautiful sight, the expanse of tiled rooftops stretching out to the horizon like the scales of a giant’s armor. Othean. Why the devils weren’t they already retreating into the city proper, fleeing to one of the other palaces erected at its four corners?
More importantly, why the devils was he looking for the back door when there was a good clean death knocking at the front? The Barbarian Without Fear, they’d called him in the old days, and while he’d always suspected Hoartrap had meant it sarcastically you couldn’t deny as a younger man he’d fought first and worried about the consequences second. Hells, as an old man he’d done the same—he might have gotten better at avoiding trouble in general, yes, but whenever the blighter came calling he didn’t pull the curtains and hide under the drysink.
Yet ever since Jex Toth it was as if he’d misplaced his guts … along with his balls, his spleen, and any other parts you could name what might give a fellow courage. Yes, the Vex Assembly were dread creepers, no doubt about that, but how much better off would Fennec and the rest of the Cobalts be right now if when the Tothans had captured Maroto he’d taken a noble death over betraying the Star and sending the monsters straight here to Othean? He was always risking his own neck to save his people before, it was the one thing he was good at, so what fell witchery had happened to make him value his own sorry skin over those of his friends? Was it really just because since falling in with Purna and company he’d started getting more out of life, was seeing it as actually worth the bother? There was some irony for you—as soon as he started appreciating his existence he stopped leading the sort of life that was worth living.
But maybe he was getting back on track, since right about now he wished he were dead.
“Alive.” Fennec wasn’t asking, he was telling, and Maroto obediently let his old friend help him up. Following his gaze out over the drizzly metropolis, Fennec said, “Bad news, barbarian—I just received a final order from the empress’s messenger vulture. Our last stand isn’t going to be quite as heroic as I’d hoped.”
A War in Crimson Embers Page 43
