by Matthew Ward
Josiri staggered upright, blinking to clear dark spots from his eyes. Fire raced across walls and rafters, filling the air with bitter, choking smoke. Righted by a spluttering Altiris, he stared back towards the archway.
“Ana?”
She was on her feet, a pair of translucent wings spread behind; vaporous golden feathers black as soot at the edges, her rags charring as fire took hold. Her hands were still clasped to those of her grey opponent, but her stance was subtly different. No longer was she holding him at bay, but locking him in place. Insects skittered away across her arms, shells crackling in the flames. Horrific, but for the laughter spilling from frozen lips.
Actually no. The laughter made it worse.
[[I am a serathiel! A daughter of Lumestra! Guardian of Astarria’s golden towers! I do not kneel to the dead!]]
Altiris stared, awestruck and open-mouthed.
The mists parted to Josiri’s left. A coughing Kurkas lurched to his feet. “You know she could do that?”
“No.”
The crash of a falling beam dragged Josiri back to reality. Already the smoke was as dense about the roof as the mist was the floor. The cages were empty, the path to the door full of fleeing souls, some running, some hobbling and a few carried. Erashel chivvied them along with barked command and shove.
Heat blossomed. Josiri joined the etravia in staring blankly at the shifting contest between serathi and… whatever the grey figure truly was.
Concern for Anastacia battled fear. But more than ever, Josiri had no idea how to help. He’d seen so many sides of her over the years, but there was always more lurking behind the veil. Friends, lovers, partners in conspiracy… From their first meeting, he’d known she was more than he’d ever be. Never had their differences been starker. Was this how an ant stared at the sun?
The grey figure screeched as the flames took hold. Golden wings, alabaster skin and tattered grey robes vanished in a maelstrom of blazing timber and spiralling smoke.
“Go,” Josiri told Kurkas.
“Sah!” He frowned. “What about the vranakin?”
“Let them burn.” Josiri tugged at Altiris’ arm. “Come on, lad.”
Kurkas set off for the warehouse door. Skin prickling with sweat, Josiri followed.
Half-blinded by the smoke, he never saw the kernclaw’s approach. There was only the maddened shriek of a raven cloak, the thick wet scrape of its talons, and Altiris’ scream. Josiri spun around in time to see the lad fall, his belly torn apart. Beyond, bird-shapes swirled in the thickening smoke.
“Altiris!”
Josiri knelt beside the wounded boy – still alive, though that was little mercy. The kernclaw would have done kinder to cut his throat.
“He came between the Raven and his promised prey.” The kernclaw’s voice lacked its earlier strength, his posture its earlier certainty.
Josiri struck the first slash aside. The second scraped past his guard and split the skin on his right cheek. He circled away from Altiris’ fading gurgles. Blazing wattle peeled from a nearby wall, scattering flames through the mist.
Claws made a dizzying dance, swirling ephemeral smoke and divine mist. With each scrape of steel, Josiri lost ground. Every slash ran him closer than the last. Every parry inched closer to disaster.
Raven’s Eyes! Where was Kurkas?
The kernclaw cried out and spun away. Josiri caught sight of a dagger’s slender hilt protruding from his shoulder. A storm of black wings, and the kernclaw was gone.
Josiri gasped down stinging breath and blinked smoke from his eyes. Kurkas and Brass stumbled into sight. “You cut that fine, Vladama.”
“All part of the service, sah!”
Ana, her clothing charred and the samite porcelain of her face smudged black, staggered out of the smoke. Of the golden wings – of the light she’d wielded – he glimpsed no sign. With every step, her feet caught as one on the point of complete collapse.
“Go, lord.” Brass gathered Altiris beneath shoulder and knees. The lad moaned, eyes wild and unfocused. The phoenix tabard he’d worn so proudly was torn and bloody cloth. “I have the boy. See to your lady.”
Sheathing his sword, Josiri slid an arm about Ana’s waist. She sank into him, the exposed clay of her arms warm against his skin.
[[That was fun.]]
A blazing rafter crashed through the smoke. Tiles followed suit, stone rain shattering on the floor.
Apara clung to the rafters as the warehouse burned. So many cousins dead. The Raven’s offerings taken. And through it all, she’d kept to the shadows, forbidden to act by the sliver of darkness Viktor Akadra had set in her soul. But the strangest thing was… she wasn’t certain she’d wanted to.
And as for the elder cousin… Was that revolting abomination of an existence to be her reward for faithful service? Were they all like that? Decay clothed in tattered robes? Neither dead nor alive? She gagged – a mistake in the acrid air.
A portion of roof gave way, burying the mass of burned flesh that had once been an elder cousin. Past time to leave. Erad had already fled, nursing wounded pride and shoulder both. She should do the same. Let others lead the pursuit.
The main body of the warehouse collapsed as Josiri reached the alley. The roof gave way with a screeching rumble, the rear slope shedding tiles and generations of accumulated filth into the harbour. Flames flickered through the mist in their race to find fresh fuel, but the easterly Dawn Wind dissipated their fury across the water.
“Yeah,” said Kurkas. “We did that nice and quiet.”
[[Hush, Vladama. I’ve warned you about making that horrible noise.]]
Josiri sank against the alley wall. The mists felt colder than ever away from the flames. Scores of filthy, blackened faces stared back. He’d come to Westernport with fewer than twenty, and would leave with three times their number and more. He took in the sight. Hope shone in weary eyes. Filthy bodies tangled in embrace. The tears of joy. A worthwhile exchange, and a duty done.
A piercing, croaking cry split the gloomy skies. It was answered a dozenfold across the crooked rooftops. Bells tolled, joined to the rush of running feet. Along the alleyway, murmured conversations fell silent, and expressions turned to panic.
“Word’s out,” said Kurkas. “Every vranakin for streets’ll be on our heels.”
Josiri nodded bleakly. A brisk walk and they’d be at Drag Hill, and beyond Dregmeet’s mists. Easy enough under most circumstances. But now, with a mob of weary, terrified people and fewer than a dozen soldiers scarcely less hale to guide them?
“Listen to me! Listen! My name is Josiri Trelan, Duke of Eskavord. Son of Kevor and Katya Trelan…”
Faces tightened in recognition. He hated using the title to which he’d proven a poor heir, but he needed them to listen more than he needed to salve his shame.
“I’ve brought you this far. Stay together – stay calm – and I’ll get you the rest of the way. Lady Beral?” He used the formal title deliberately. “If your militia will lead the way, my hearthguard will bring up the rear.”
“Gladly, Lord Trelan.”
Of course Erashel understood.
Another shriek wracked the air. Another clamour of bells. Neighbouring alleyways shook to quickening footsteps. Then the haggard procession lurched away uphill, Erashel at their head, Brass carrying the dying Altiris close behind.
Josiri glimpsed drab figures in alleyways and side streets; the gusting mist revealed others pursuing in their wake. They grew closer with every shuddering step up the cobbled incline, scavengers snapping at the heels of wounded prey.
Others followed the crooked skyline, boots clattering on tiles and leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Children lined windows, balconies and the summits of uneven walls, hurling jeers, pebbles and rancid waste. Josiri staggered on, one arm about Anastacia’s waist to offer her support, and told himself that there was no evil behind their malice, that it was just the cruelty of poverty.
“Keep going!” he shouted. “We’re almost cl
ear. We cross Drag Hill and make for the Hayadra Grove. They’ll not follow us there.”
A fresh jeer rang out above. Josiri’s head snapped back beneath a stone’s glancing blow. He clapped his free hand to his brow and swore.
[[So much for the Council’s authority.]]
Anastacia’s remark, which would ordinarily have been sharpened to a razor’s point, was distant and languid. Signs of an exhaustion seldom seen. Josiri forced a smile. “At least you’re feeling better.”
[[I’m fine. Truly I am.]] She made no effort to pull away. [[For a moment, I was myself again. My real self, not this shell of spirit and clay. I could smell the smoke. I felt the fire’s heat on my face. It was… oh, it was wonderful.]]
“How? How did it happen?”
[[I don’t know.]]
He’d known her too long to not recognise the lie, but lacked the energy to offer challenge.
The first suggestion of open sky clawed its way through the jettied roofs, not yet the blue of a sun-graced afternoon, but the first mellowing of mournful grey. Drag Hill. So named for the cargo incline used before more accessible harbours were cleared further north.
Almost there.
Josiri only hoped that Kurkas had been right about the vranakin halting at Dregmeet’s border. His own legs shook from the steep climb – the starving and wounded were immeasurably worse off.
The familiar chorus of crow-voices echoed across the rearward rooftops as they left the mists behind. Jeers from the buildings fell away into raucous, bloodthirsty cheers.
“Pick up your feet!” bellowed Kurkas. “Move it!”
Josiri glanced back over his shoulder. On the right-hand side of the street, a kernclaw clung to a bell tower’s sill, then dissolved into a torrent of sable wings to continue pursuit. Two more ran full tilt across the sunken rooftops to the left, effortlessly vaulting a broad alley.
On the threshold of Drag Hill a new problem loomed. The barbican in the old wall; a defence against pirates and Thrakkian raiders of yore. The gate itself hadn’t closed in decades, and the dilapidated wall was half its former height, but the choke point of the narrow archway would give the kernclaws all the time they needed to close the distance.
Unless someone stopped them.
Josiri drew to a halt where Drag Hill opened into the barbican approach. “Enough left for a defiant gesture?”
Ana pulled free and nodded. [[With you? Always.]]
But she tottered, an arm outflung for balance. Josiri strove not to notice, and drew a sword heavier than it had been before. “Captain Kurkas!”
“Sah!”
“Get everyone home, captain.”
“Certainly bloody won’t, sah! Lady Beral and her lot have that well in hand.” Kurkas limped to take position between them. “Hearthguard! This is the line. Time to earn your pay.”
One by one, they formed up. A thin line of king’s blue, blazoned with the spread-winged phoenix. Jaridav. Kelver. Merisov. Only Brass went on with the rest, Altiris a limp bundle in his arms.
A district emptied onto the hillside. Urged on by crow-voices and ringing bells, the mob drew on through the mists, knives and cudgels ready. The poor and hungry come with expectation of rich pickings, the vranakin in search of revenge.
“Death and Honour, captain,” said Josiri.
Kurkas shrugged and gave an experimental swipe of his sword. “I prefer ‘For the Phoenix.’”
“Shut up.”
“Sah!”
On the rooftops, a kernclaw threw back his head and screeched. The mob roared in answer and broke into a ragged, stumbling run. The kernclaw spread his cloak wide and cast himself to the winds. Talons glinted.
Josiri staggered in the backwash of something heavy. The gleaming shape blurred over his head. It caught the kernclaw mid-flight, and bore him to the cobbles. The simarka landed rather better than its victim, sculpted forepaws braced against the kernclaw’s chest and noble, leonine brow gazing intently down at its prize. The kernclaw’s scream died as metal jaws tore out his throat.
The mob’s fury ebbed as more simarka loped to join the first, skirting Josiri’s thin line of phoenixes to form one of bronze a dozen paces to his front. Others scrabbled for purchase on the crumbling wall and bounded down to join their fellows.
The mob juddered to a halt. As the line of simarka thickened to a full dozen, the mob dissolved back into the mist, leaving a handful of resentful vranakin to stand witness from the safety of the rooftops. A single simarka, more enthusiastic than the others, pursued too far and shuddered to a halt as the mists overcame its light. Others halted just short and prowled back and forth.
Kurkas wiped his brow. “All right, plant pot. How’d you manage that?”
[[I might ask you the same.]]
Revelation arrived when congestion about the archway slackened. Three riders passed through the arch: a pair of gold-robed proctors and an aged, wiry man in altogether humbler attire who wore salt-and-pepper stubble and a wry smile. High Proctor Ilnarov was of that rare breed who mined amusement from even the most overworked seam.
Josiri blinked. “Elzar? What? Not that I’m not grateful, but you can’t be here. The Council—”
“The Council, in the form of our beloved Lord Reveque, had me spend the better part of the afternoon ushering cohort after cohort of simarka from the foundry to Lord Zarn’s estate to add spectacle to what I suspect will be a gathering already drowning in the same. And I will not have my simarka sit idle when there’s mischief afoot.” He sniffed and swung down from his saddle. His two companions pressed on into the mist to retrieve the frozen simarka. “Lumestra’s teachings about mischief are very clear.”
It all sounded too convenient for truth, but what was done was done. And forgoing death and glory for another day among the living suited Josiri very well indeed.
“Then I’ll impose further. We need physicians for the wounded.”
“I’ve sent an apprentice to fetch them. Lady Beral was insistent. Southwealders always are, I find.” Elzar crouched beside Altiris and his expression turned cold. “Poor boy.”
One last defeat from the unexpected victory. “Without him, I’d be dead.”
Elzar’s hand brushed Altiris’ brow. He shook his head. “He’s all but gone. We’ll make him comfortable and pray that Lumestra grants him peace.”
[[No,]] Anastacia said flatly.
“Ana, this isn’t the time.” The last thing Josiri needed was an argument about the fate of Elzar’s storied goddess.
[[That’s not what I meant. You want to save the boy? There is someone in the city that can help him. We both know it.]]
She was right. Malachi would be furious, but did that matter any longer? He’d done nothing while people suffered and died. While others had fought, he’d spent his efforts ingratiating himself with Konor Zarn. He’d forfeited his stake in all this, and any respect owed his wishes.
Let him be furious.
“Elzar. I need your horse.”
Eighteen
Afternoon wore into evening before Melanna rode for Ahrad. The hours since the fortress’ fall had passed in a wrenching blur. How did one mourn a goddess? How even did one convey tidings to others? Should she even try? What right had Melanna to remove hope? Did she have a duty to the truth? A noble sentiment, to be sure, but what if all she sought was solace? Another with whom to mourn?
Perhaps her father could offer that solace. He at least lived, for the owl banner flew free atop Ahrad’s keep, rather than furled to mark his passing.
No gateway remained along Ahrad’s eastern walls, but a perimeter guard of Silsarian shieldsmen held vigil on the bank. The rubble slope and choked waters were thick with labourers tending the dead.
No, there was grief enough that day. The Goddess’ fate would wait.
“Saranal.” The havildar of the guard was a thickly bearded brute. His bare forearm wasn’t flesh, but a bindwork limb of wicker and woven metal, animated by a glimmer of moonlight, and crafted to replace one lo
st in battle. A rare and expensive gift that spoke to a history of loyal service to his chieftain. “I am to tell you that the Emperor awaits you within the keep.”
He stumbled over the formal phrasing, and the Silsarian accent – which many likened to a slow, grumbling avalanche – lent roughness. But his greeting was sincere. How far she’d come. No longer an outcast. No longer the distaff heir.
“Have the Tressians given any trouble?”
He offered a wolfish grin. “The lunassera have the living in hand.”
There was no finer keeping. The healing skills of the Goddess’ handmaidens transcended the efforts of other ephemerals, bringing peace to seething wounds and speeding recovery through precious salve and soothing touch. A worthy tribute to the defeated, to have the lunassera tend the enemy. A small gesture set against the dishonour of unheralded assault, but small changes rippled outward. The people of the borderlands would not be enemies for ever. Mercy would speed transition. If they were free of the Dark. There could be no clemency for those afflicted with the Sceadotha’s curse.
“And the dead?”
He shrugged and thus revealed a deeper truth. The Tressian fallen would be given to the worms, there to languish in darkness until a Third Dawn that would likely never come. Melanna had never understood that. The promise of tomorrow superseding the passage of today. But it was the Tressian way, and would be respected. Glory in victory, fortitude in defeat, and honour always. The warrior’s mantra.
She thanked the havildar and spurred through the sentry line.
Long hours after the battle’s end, there was still work for the lunassera. They drifted like ghosts over the broken ground, bearing biers to pyres already burning in the innermost courtyard. Men walked with them, heads bowed and helms removed out of respect. Others knelt upon the rubble where brothers and sons had fallen, and wept for their loss.
In the middle bailey, where damage to the wall was less pronounced, men erected a palisade of new-felled timber to span the gap. The air was full of groaning wagons, the bellows of straining work crews. Whenever the wind dropped, a foul stench rose – death, soured further by sweat and the aroma of dung.
