Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “His name?”

  Meralonne nodded. “I would suggest a more extreme form of caution in this place.”

  “I was angry.”

  “And anger will serve neither of us.”

  “What will the Kings do?”

  “I do not know. In their position, I would now be very, very cautious.”

  “Cautious enough to have me executed?”

  “I am not the Kings. Their Empire is not an Empire that could have existed in ancient times; it is too diverse, too easily lost. They are as concerned as you are with the welfare of their citizens. You are correct; mortals did not survive overlong in the ancient cities.

  “Yet in the Cities of Man—should they reach them—they could. They did not often survive as lords, but the citizens of the hundred are no lords now, and if I am not mistaken, they are the prize that the Lord of the Hells seeks. They are also his sustenance. Do not think that even your city will survive without loss; people will die. You cannot prevent it. You will meet the Kings, if I am not mistaken, on the morrow.”

  “Will you be there?”

  He smiled. “I will, with the guildmaster’s permission. If nothing else, it promises a lack of boredom seldom found in the usual bickering for near invisible improvements in position.”

  “My life’s ambition is not to make yours less boring.”

  “No; it is a happy consequence.” He lifted the pipe and he gazed out of the window that had never quite lost the whole of his attention. “I believe we may have some difficulty.”

  Jewel’s eyes narrowed as she immediately sought whatever had caught his gaze. Shadow. Or rather, what occupied the air in pursuit of the great, winged cat. At a distance, she had mistaken wings for birds. Shadow was not at a distance—and neither were his pursuers. This close to the window—and at the speed of his flight, growing closer with each passing second—such a mistake was impossible.

  “Avandar!”

  He was already in motion. Meralonne turned to Angel and handed him his pipe. “I am very attached to that pipe,” he said, as he threw his arms wide. “Terafin, your permission?”

  “You have it. Are they demons?”

  Meralonne laughed. “No, Terafin, they are not; they are the natural denizens of the skies in this place.”

  They looked like demons to Jewel; they were, in shape—absent their wings—roughly human, in that they had faces, necks, arms and legs. But the arms and legs seemed covered in fur or feathers, and their faces would look normal only if by normal one meant enraged, insane, and dangerous. That, and they were screeching.

  “Avandar?”

  They are not demonic, no. They are natural.

  But—they have tails.

  Yes, Terafin. Come away from the window.

  She couldn’t. She indicated that the Chosen should stand back—but of course, if she didn’t, they couldn’t. It didn’t matter. Wind swept through the window, reaching for Meralonne, who had opened his arms wide to embrace it. He rose—no, he leaped—through what still appeared as glass to Jewel’s eye, and the sky became his terrain.

  She knew why Finch thought he was beautiful, then. He was not a mage who had taken to the skies; he was, at that moment, of them. His hair swept out behind him, like a pale, perfect cape. He drew no shield, no sword, but watching him, she couldn’t imagine he needed them.

  “Terafin,” Torvan said—because the Chosen had drawn swords. “Please. Retreat.”

  She shook her head. “If they can breach the windows,” she replied, unable to look away from Meralonne APhaniel, “we need to know. This is where we’ll be living.” She heard the rough crackle of Avandar’s magic, as lightning flew toward the skies beyond the magi. The bolt struck the closest of the three creatures.

  “It’s about time,” Shadow roared. He did not, however, come through the window, but veered up at the last second. At, in fact, a last second Jewel would have bet half the House against. He rose immediately beyond her view, at such a sharp angle he seemed to be running up the outside of the building.

  Meralonne, however, had control of the wind beyond that window; she could hear it, although she couldn’t even feel it as breeze. One of the remaining two pursuers—one that wasn’t smoldering—suddenly froze, dropping back as the air snarled its wings. It turned to face Meralonne, probably because it didn’t have any choice.

  Avandar’s magic struck again. The creature turned and headed directly toward them. Its feathers were singed, and its fur, blackened—but the lightning that had slowed it hadn’t slowed it enough.

  “Terafin,” Avandar barked.

  She threw herself toward Angel as the creature breached window and landed, screeching in fury, in the middle of a room that suddenly seemed much smaller. She wheeled as the Chosen turned to face it.

  Avandar caught her shoulder as she started to run toward them. Be still, he told her. And watch.

  It broke through—

  Yes. You allowed it.

  I didn’t—

  Jewel, you did. These men will be part of your first line of defense in this place. If they cannot stand against such a trivial opponent, they will not serve well. They have seen much in the past decade—but they require experience, and there is no other way they will gain it. I am here, he added. And Adam is within your reach. They will not die if they fall—trust them.

  She drew a deep breath, and tried not to hold it as the Captain of her Chosen closed with the creature.

  * * *

  The Chosen weren’t stupid. They had never been stupid. They were cautious, they moved slowly, they kept themselves grounded firmly over their feet. The ceilings here were so high, they didn’t impede the creature’s wings; those wings were weapons. The creature had the long claws of an animal, and at this distance, Jewel could see its very generous fangs. If it could speak, it didn’t.

  Torvan barked what sounded like orders, although the words failed to register for Jewel. The Chosen, however, moved in concert, fanning out in a semicircle around the creature. It wavered almost immediately as the creature lunged; swords parried the strike that Jewel herself could barely see, the creature moved so damn fast. The act of parrying drove the sword back several steps; Torvan immediately closed the gap by attacking the outstretched arm before the creature could pull it back.

  She was certain, from the sound the blade made, that the edge would be notched.

  “Avandar—”

  No, Jewel.

  Do you even know what it is?

  Yes. You have given them weapons that can harm the firstborn, but the weapons do not make the men. Watch and wait.

  She inhaled. I will never forgive you if they die.

  No, you won’t. I clearly have more confidence in your Chosen than you do. It is a confidence that you must build. They serve as your shield and your sword, but neither of these are meant to be toys or children’s tools. If you will not trust them, you must let them go.

  I trust them.

  You trust them not to harm you, yes. You trust them to obey you, yes. Neither will serve in this case. You trust me to deal with this creature. You did not blink when Meralonne chose to ride the wild wind into these foreign skies. You are not concerned for the fate of Shadow. But you are terrified for your Chosen.

  They’re just men. They’re not like you or Meralonne; they’re not like Shadow—

  They are like, very like, you yourself. You trust yourself.

  I— she lost the words as the creature’s tail suddenly shot to the left, moving independently of the long reach of its claws. Armor buckled as it struck; she thought she heard ribs crack. She certainly saw blood as it trailed, suddenly, from Gordon’s lips.

  Avandar caught her arm. Your presence will not help them. Your death is the only thing they truly fear.

  Gordon remained on his feet; the Chosen used the creature’s overextension to land two solid blows. The first bounced, with the sword-notching resonance she’d heard when Torvan struck the creature’s arm; the second, however, landed. The
creature’s thighs were not armored in the same way its arm appeared to be.

  She held her breath, but she remained at Avandar’s side, the whole of her attention on the Chosen; because it was, she was unprepared when Angel darted into the fray.

  * * *

  Swords didn’t have the necessary reach. Angel, no master of the sword, could see this clearly; he could also see that the Chosen weren’t armed with anything else. They wore the polished breastplates their duty as functional honor guards demanded, but they carried neither ranged weapons nor weapons that would give them the greater reach.

  He could see the powerful muscles that underlay the creature’s wings, because the creature kept them high enough they could be used as blunt weapons should the Chosen come too close. They also kept the creature airborne in staggered intervals; its leaps weren’t dictated by simple gravity. Angel didn’t carry a sword; given the Chosen, it wasn’t normally necessary or desired.

  He didn’t need one. Glancing down the wall, where weapons—not paintings or tapestry—adorned solid stone, he sprinted to the right; in the center of the wall were pole arms. Angel had no training with edged pole arms, but one of these, crossed over a halberd, was a spear. Its head was long and tapered, widest at midpoint; it had two wide lugs at the base of the head, each tapering to points that bent up, in the direction of the blade.

  Reaching, he pulled it down off the wall, expecting the weapon with which it was crossed to tumble after it; it didn’t. The pole of the spear was thick and solid, but the spear itself wasn’t as heavy as he’d expected it to be. He wondered if it were meant to be decorative; the spearhead looked solid—but at this weight?

  He turned, the question unanswered because it didn’t matter. This was what he had. In the time it had taken to run to the weapon, pull it down, and turn back, two of the Chosen had taken injuries grave enough they were lagging; they hadn’t fallen, but their place in formation was weak. The winged creature continued its up and down flight; it moved fast, striking and leaping back, where its wings buoyed it, lending its jump both height and distance.

  Angel didn’t join the Chosen; no point. They had the creature’s attention, and he wanted them to keep it for a few minutes longer. He came round the back, moving as silently as a man his height could. He’d learned that, in the holdings. This room and those streets had nothing in common.

  Nothing but Jay, who stood and watched, Avandar’s hand on her right arm holding her back. Angel was grateful for the domicis; none of the den would have dared. He watched, waiting for the creature to strike—there—and retreat, leaping, wings spread, back toward the windows. Its voice was a hiss, a garbled series of syllables that almost implied speech, but never quite attained it.

  Its wing tips grazed ceiling as it lunged, bringing itself as close to ground as it ever reached. It protected its bleeding thigh, attacking the two men it had already injured. Angel saw the beginning of its ascent, its positioning, and he ran, past Jay, past Avandar, out of reach of the direct light that streamed in through the windows so harshly.

  He didn’t brace himself; he didn’t stop. He had seconds before the creature once again leaped out of the range of the spear he carried. Wings were high; if the creature turned, Angel thought they had a good chance of snapping the spear’s haft, they were that powerful. He wore no armor; he had a freedom of movement the Chosen didn’t.

  He was also vulnerable in ways they weren’t.

  There. The creature’s wings snapped open as it slashed with its claws. Angel leaped seconds before the creature did. The spearhead pierced the flesh between its shoulders; whatever armored its forearms didn’t protect the flesh between those wings. Angel tightened his grip on the haft of the spear as the creature screeched and attempted to wheel; the jagged edge of the weapon’s bladed tip cut a rent in its back as it slid off the spear. It was the first significant wound the creature had taken, and in turning to face Angel, it exposed its back to the Chosen.

  Angel raised the spear and kept it between himself and his opponent; Torvan and Marave closed immediately from behind, taking care to avoid the wide, powerful sweep of its wings. Marave was driven back; Torvan managed to duck under the range of the wings, and his sword bit far deeper than Angel’s spear had, although he was struck to the side by the creature’s tail.

  There was no decisive blow. Angel’s was not; Torvan’s was not. But the cumulative effect of the concerted attacks slowed the creature enough that the fight became a combat of attrition.

  * * *

  Avandar released Jewel’s arm. She was silent as she watched. Demons didn’t bleed the way this creature did, and if they roared, it was in anger, not pain. They offered words—often insults—in place of syllabic animal sounds, and the grandeur of their presence was not based on sheer physical strength. They also tended to dissolve into a fine layer of ash when they at last collapsed.

  This creature did not; it was reduced, slowly, to a slashed, bloodied corpse, and the reduction seemed to go on forever.

  Yes, Avandar said. This is death. It is ugly and visceral, and you will see it time and again in the coming years. But it is the death the Chosen would have faced if they had fallen. There is no pity or mercy in a predator; they are driven, always, by the need for sustenance.

  Thank you, she replied, for the lecture.

  You do not kill your own food. You do not kill your own criminals; they are executed, as if execution were the end of a ritual. But some of your Chosen have seen war, and the rules of the battlefield are different.

  The Kings’ Laws—

  Do not be naive, Jewel. Yes, the Kings’ Laws govern some part of the armies—but not during battles. After the fact, perhaps—but even then, the rules are judiciously applied, and a blind eye equally judiciously turned. Laws exist because men accept them; where men choose not to accept them, such laws become no more than theory. Here, the only law is survival.

  It is not.

  When they fight, Jewel, it is.

  She had seen battle, in the South. She had seen the village of Damar, under siege by elemental water and demon, both. She knew what battle looked like. She had seen the foyer of her own manse destroyed, and she had seen the bodies of the fallen House Guard and Chosen, the bodies of their nameless enemies.

  It is not different?

  It was. He knew it. What she couldn’t say, as silence returned to the chamber, was why.

  It is your home, now; it bears the whole of your name, or you bear the whole of it. When war comes to your home, it is always more personal. You travel to war, and you maintain the illusion that the life you left behind is safe.

  The Terafin died.

  He nodded.

  “Captain,” she said.

  Torvan saluted.

  “Take Gordon and Marave to the infirmary.”

  He glanced at the Chosen and nodded. They left. He remained. It was not quite insubordination, and Jewel accepted it. She turned, once again, toward the open skies; Meralonne stood in midair alone, gazing down upon the valley. If something had fallen from the skies to the distant earth beneath his feet, it was invisible. She couldn’t see Shadow. But Avandar was right; she felt no visceral fear for the cat, although echoes of her reaction on the night the manse had altered were still present.

  She turned, last, to look at Angel. He was not one of the Chosen. He followed no strict chain of command. She could give him orders—and had, in the past—but they were orders demanded by the events of the moment; they were hardly premeditated. She wanted to tell him I never want to see you do that again.

  What came out instead was, “Nice spear.”

  He glanced up at its head. “It’s technically yours. I pulled it down from the wall.”

  “You probably want to clean it before you put it back.” Turning to the window, she raised her voice. “Meralonne! If you’re finished there?”

  He wheeled, a lazy, graceful motion, and then drifted toward the window as if the whole of his weight were insubstantial. Wind caught
his hair, and light brightened it; his eyes were silver, his skin almost white. She could not imagine this man smoking a pipe which would have met with her Oma’s approval. But he had.

  He landed ten feet from where she stood, shadowed by Avandar.

  “Shadow?”

  “He will return on his own. Or not. He is not mine,” Meralonne added, lifting a brow. “I would not own a creature who paid so little heed to my commands.” His hair settled down his back as the breeze left the room, but his eyes remained bright and a little too sharp. He glanced at the corpse. “They will need to learn basic anatomy,” he said. He turned toward Angel and stilled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘‘YOU WERE NOT ARMED when you entered this chamber,” the mage said softly.

  “No.”

  “And you simply chose a weapon with which to enter the fray?”

  “I chose a weapon with greater reach than a sword, yes. No one else was using it, and it wasn’t doing much good as a substitute painting.”

  At that, the mage smiled. “No, I imagine it wasn’t. It is, if I am not mistaken, an interesting choice. Will you leave it here?”

  Angel nodded. “Are we likely to see more of these creatures soon?”

  “If by that, you mean, are they likely to attack you in the library? No; I think it very, very unlikely. But this room does not exist in quite the same place, and yes, it is entirely probable. They will not attack unless provoked.”

  Jewel grimaced. “I’ll have a word with Shadow—if he gets back.”

  “I heard that.” Of course he had. Shadow was perched—precariously, given his size—in the window. He leaped to the ground, and curled himself around Jewel. “Wait, why is he holding that?”

  “It fell off the wall.”

  Shadow hissed. “Well, tell him to put it back.”

  Angel’s eyes narrowed. He gestured in brief den-sign. Jewel laughed, and got a nose full of Shadow’s tail in response.

  “But—clean it first?”

  Meralonne, however, said, “The blade does not need cleaning, as you can see. Where did you retrieve it from, Angel?”