by Lucy Hounsom
The bondsman’s eyes were open, staring accusingly up at him. A ragged slash across his throat still oozed blood; blood soaked the front of his tunic. Sensing the silence, Hagdon looked around.
A circle of torches lit the space before his tent. Men and women stood there, grim-faced. He knew each and every officer by name. Lieutenants next to sergeants and corporals, even some recruits barely out of their training. Fists gripped blades. Hagdon gazed at them and they gazed back. A few seemed troubled, but most wore a hard determination. The smoking torches stung his eyes and he blinked, half convinced it was all a fever dream.
Iresonté stepped forward. A dark red cloak now hung from her shoulders. She plucked the helm from his unresisting fingers and then her expression was lost behind its snarling faceguard as she settled it on her head. ‘Kill him.’
Lieutenant Malker saluted Iresonté; the movement was stiff – he’d still be smarting from his lashes. ‘Yes, General.’
Hagdon knew it was over – there were too many of them. But he wasn’t going down without a fight. Carn’s dead eyes bored into his back as he drew his weapons. Long sword in right hand, short sword in left, he faced Malker across the naked earth. The two men circled each other. Malker bore a greatsword – powerful, but slow to swing.
Only long experience saved Hagdon from a blow that would have taken his head. Sensing a presence behind him, he threw himself aside and Malker’s second overbalanced with the fierceness of his attack. Hagdon turned his lurch into a spin, came around and thrust his short sword up under the lip of the man’s helmet and into his neck.
‘A coward, Malker?’ he said, pulling the bloodied blade free. His shoulder throbbed a warning at him. The lieutenant glanced at the dead man and then at the rest of the soldiers. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword and he cut low, forcing Hagdon back. Hagdon kept his blades up, conscious of the greatsword’s range. He parried the next strike and tried to get around Malker, but the lieutenant reversed his grip and drove the pommel of his sword at Hagdon’s temple. Hagdon blocked it, but only just. His shoulder made him slow. A shout of warning went up from one side and he chanced a look. Two soldiers coming to aid Malker had fallen to their knees, wearing twin expressions of shock. They toppled forward and Hagdon caught the glint of metal protruding from their backs.
Chaos broke out as every fourth soldier present drew a blade and slashed it across his or her neighbour’s throat. Iresonté was shouting; the black-pauldroned stealth force closed up around her protectively. Malker’s triumphant snarl slid off his lips. He bared his teeth at Hagdon and brought up his blade, but his eyes kept darting from side to side, watching as more soldiers he’d thought loyal pulled blades on their fellows.
Counting on his distraction, Hagdon took a risk and lunged, trapping Malker’s blade with his short sword. The lieutenant caught Hagdon’s other sword in one hand as it came for him, but it sheered through gauntlet and mail to pierce his belly.
Malker fell back with a gasp, yanking Hagdon’s arm down. The greatsword slid from his hand and Hagdon kicked it aside.
‘General!’
He planted a foot on the corpse, hauled his blade free and turned in time to see Commandant Taske break a recruit’s nose, sending him stumbling into one of the torches. The recruit knocked it over and the flames caught on a piece of sacking, consuming it hungrily before jumping to the young soldier’s cloak. Hagdon looked away from his shrieks and saw Carn’s body instead, discarded like an old tool, forgotten in the chaos.
‘Taske,’ Hagdon forced the name through a dry throat. ‘Have you come to kill me too?’
‘No,’ the commandant said, ‘but if you ask any more stupid questions …’
Somehow, terribly, Hagdon wanted to laugh. He blinked at the scene unfolding – Sartyans fighting Sartyans, soldiers killing soldiers – ‘Such a waste,’ he whispered.
‘In war, there always is.’ Taske took him by the arm. ‘Our numbers are not quite so great as the Fist’s,’ he said and the whole of it was surreal, another part of Hagdon’s dark dream. ‘We must go now if we’re to get you out.’
A shrill whistle went up; a signal. Numbly, Hagdon followed the commandant through the camp, where more and more soldiers joined them, so that eventually Hagdon was surrounded by a human shield at least two hundred strong. Those on the fringes fell and were replaced and he couldn’t see their faces, these nameless giving up their lives in the dark. It seemed to take forever, but eventually they broke free of the camp’s perimeter. Hagdon caught the fresh, reedy scent of the lake and he breathed it in deeply, trying to rid himself of the taste of smoke and blood. ‘A waste,’ he whispered.
‘Iresonté’s scouts will track us,’ Taske said.
‘They can try,’ answered a voice and Hagdon shook his head in amazement. The woman who spoke wore black pauldrons; so did another beside her. Whatever this was – whatever rebel faction splintered away from the Fist – even Iresonté’s people were a part of it. Surely the emperor couldn’t know.
‘We’ll double back, lay false trails,’ the woman said. She gave a piercing cry – the greathawk call that the stealth force was known to use – and she and another ten companions melted off into the night.
‘Most are double agents,’ Taske said to Hagdon, ‘working right under Iresonté’s nose.’ His smile was sharp. ‘She trained them too well.’
‘Who are you?’ Hagdon asked, still haunted by the feel of Carn’s hand under his boot. How casually Iresonté had pulled his life out from under him. After Khronosta, he should have seen it coming. But to think that the emperor …
Faces surrounded him, illumined now only by moonlight. They were all ages and genders, some high ranking – with a little shock, he spotted captains Dyen and Analia, who nodded gravely to him – and scattered across all the corps of the Fist. They looked to Taske to answer.
‘We’, he said, ‘are the Republic of Acre.’ He put a hand on Hagdon’s shoulder. ‘And since you currently find yourself without one, we’re here to offer you a job.’
25
Cymenza, Acre
Char
The streets of Cymenza were in uproar.
It was an elegant city, its pale stone buildings topped by colourful turrets. Roads ran off from sunburst-shaped intersections, their cobbles worn smooth. Merchants’ stalls were shaded by elaborate awnings … or would have been, if those awnings weren’t lying trampled in the gutter.
Char and the others had reached the gates of Cymenza to find them wide open, guardposts abandoned. A dull roaring came from deeper in the city, as if a dam had broken upriver, but he realized it was the sound of many raised voices. The street they were in did indeed look like a river had swept through; it was littered with bits of wood and shop fittings, all strewn at random across the cobbles. An old man huddled beneath an overturned cart. Char slid off the back of Kyndra’s horse and crouched down. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.
‘Riots.’ The man shrank away from him. ‘Tension’s been building for weeks. Defiant work, no doubt. Then the Starborn rumour reached us and ignited the lot like a match dropped in oil.’
Char almost looked at Kyndra. ‘What Starborn rumour?’
The old man blinked at him with rheumy eyes. ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘I wouldn’t be asking if I had.’
‘They say a Starborn slaughtered a whole division of Sartyan soldiers.’ His voice was hushed. ‘Killed hundreds. They say General Hagdon was among the dead.’
This time Char did look at Kyndra. She’d closed her eyes, as if in pain. Did that mean it was true? Is this what she’d refused to discuss the other night? He swallowed, glanced back at the man. ‘When did the rioting start?’
‘Yesterday evening. It began in the docks and spread through mid-town and the trade quarter. Only the iarls’ district’s left untouched.’
‘Where are the guards?’
‘Trying to put it down, boy,’ the old man said and spat. ‘All this on the strength of a rumour. And o
f Starborn!’
‘You don’t believe it?’ Kyndra asked quietly.
‘It’s a Defiant plot – a story spread to take advantage of the unrest.’ He shook his head. ‘Hot-tempered fools. They’ll see us all dead.’
Char left him in his dubious hiding spot and turned to the others. ‘What now?’
‘We have to cross the city,’ Medavle said, narrowing his dark eyes. There was something about the man that made Char nervous. ‘We steer clear of the worst of the fighting.’
‘Can we not do something to help?’ Kyndra said. Her face was distraught as she looked around at all the wreckage.
‘You can’t blame yourself for this,’ Nediah told her firmly. ‘You heard what the man said. It sounds as if the riot’s been brewing for weeks, long before we were ever here.’
The woman, Kait, seemed the only one not perturbed by the situation. Char watched her as they set off cautiously into the city, leading the horses and keeping to the smaller streets. Her eyes were bright; she seemed pleased at the half-constructed barricades they passed, the furniture thrown out of windows, heaped in haphazard piles. Nediah was looking at her too and Char didn’t blame him: with her height, long legs and almond eyes, Kait was a beautiful woman. But there was a hard edge to her, a sliver of something unstable in her smile that he couldn’t bring himself to trust.
The noise grew louder as they advanced through the city and the warm air stank of smoke. The horses grew twitchy, except for Kyndra’s stallion. Perhaps it was a strange side effect of her presence, but the black remained quite calm under her hand. Grey plumes flowed into the sky, throwing flecks of soot to the wind. Irilin, who, Char guessed, would like nothing better than to stick a knife in his back, began to cough. People surrounded them now, jostling; one thrust a grubby white banner into Nediah’s hand. Words scrawled across it read: CYMENZA STANDS.
‘Isn’t that the Defiant sign?’ Kait said, tracing the crudely drawn clenched fist.
Irilin nodded. ‘I saw one like it in Ségin’s base.’
‘You might do better to throw that away,’ Medavle said. He scanned the jostling, shouting crowd. ‘I see Sartyans.’
Char looked where he pointed and spotted the telltale red armour, as thirty soldiers, moving in a phalanx, thrust their way through the populace. Their drawn swords dripped with gore and blood spattered their faceguards. ‘Well, that’s one way to put down a rebellion,’ he muttered.
‘No,’ Medavle said, seeing Nediah gazing at the carnage. ‘We can’t get involved. This is not our fight.’
Nediah’s face was very pale as he watched the Sartyans cut the townspeople down. Even those that flung their weapons aside, who fell on their knees in surrender, were not spared. ‘This is the emperor we’re trying to ally with,’ the Wielder said almost to himself. He seemed unable to take his eyes from the slaughter. ‘We’re taking peace talks to him?’
‘For Mariar’s sake,’ Kyndra said. She was pale-faced too, but her expression hardened, as she watched the Sartyans quelling the rioters. ‘If we don’t, then this could be Market Primus.’ She looked at Nediah. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to protect our people.’
Nediah shook his head. ‘Is it worth the price?’
If Kyndra had an answer, she’d no time to voice it. ‘Drop your weapons,’ came an order from behind them and Char felt the point of something distinctly sharp pressing into his back. He slowly turned his head. A woman stood there, wearing the red plate of Sartya – it was her sword threatening his shoulder blades. ‘Drop your weapons, slaver,’ she repeated.
Damn it all. The incriminating tattoos crept from under his shirtsleeves and Char wanted to laugh. Here he stood in the middle of a full-blown riot beside the Starborn who’d sparked it all and the Sartyan was arresting him for slavery.
Hesitantly, as if terrified of the sword at his back, he slid his hands towards his kali sticks, drawing them into his palms. ‘Drop them,’ the woman barked.
Char had no intention of doing so. Tucking his head in, he dived, rolling clear of the blade’s reach. Then he spun, bringing his sticks up in front of him. Now that he had a good look at his opponent, he cursed. She wasn’t alone, but flanked by a dozen soldiers.
Char darted a glance at Kyndra. The Starborn’s eyes were fixed on the Sartyans and she looked haunted – perhaps she really had slaughtered as many soldiers as the rumour claimed. He saw her tremble and realized that she’d be no help at all. Kait, however, raised her fists and in each out-thrust hand there appeared a curving golden sword. Twin blades readied, Kait sank into the same preparatory stance as Char and he couldn’t help but gape at the scimitars and the way her hands were curled unflinchingly around their fiery hilts.
Medavle drew the silver flute from his belt, flicked it once, and it lengthened into a metal stave. He spun it several times, whistling through the air, and suddenly the odds didn’t seem so bad to Char. He grinned fiercely, feeling the blood pumping through his veins. Anticipation made his heart race … or was it the rage, uncurling from the depths of his stomach? For once, he almost didn’t care.
Irilin darted out to snatch up the reins of the horses, pulling them away from the Sartyans. The soldiers hadn’t reacted at the display of magic. In chilling silence, the woman who’d threatened Char advanced on him and began to circle, her blade flicking out to test his reflexes.
Char caught the blows on the edge of his sticks, maintaining a defensive stance, eyes narrowed. She was slower, in all that mail, and she couldn’t swing her broadsword as fast as his sticks. But he was unarmoured; even a glancing blow could be fatal. Speed and agility were the only ways he’d win this fight.
The black lenses fell out of his tunic onto the cobbles and the soldier crushed them beneath her heel. With a growl, Char whipped a kali stick at her neck. She angled the sword high and horizontal and caught Char’s blow on its edge, but she’d left herself open and she knew it. He drove his left stick into her side with all the force he could muster. The mail links were finer there and though they still cushioned the blow, he hoped he’d at least cracked a rib. The woman gasped and sprang back. Her teeth were bared; she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
They returned to circling each other and Char glimpsed the others, battling the Sartyan woman’s companions. Kait fought three, her face fixed in a stiff snarl of concentration. She was fast, possibly faster than he, and, in his distraction, Char almost let the soldier’s next strike through his guard. He ducked to one side and spun, aiming a kick at the back of her knee. It connected, but the blow was glancing and didn’t seem to slow her.
The air around Medavle’s staff pulsed with energy, invisible waves snapping out with each swing, knocking the soldiers back. Nediah guarded Irilin with a shimmering shield and Kyndra, to Char’s chagrin, stood behind it, gazing at the battle with dark eyes. Her expression warred between fear and resolve; it was a helpless look and it made Char angry, fuelling the rage that pounded beneath his skin.
Their fight was just another part of the greater battle ringing through the streets, though the Wielders’ display was starting to attract notice. Char dodged his opponent’s lunge, feinted high and went low, aiming for the back of her knee again, but the soldier didn’t go for it. She kicked out with her mail-shod foot and caught him in the hip. He gritted his teeth; if he lived through this, it would make a spectacular bruise. He circled, keeping his eyes on the deadly blade.
Kait cried out and Char risked a glance. There was blood on her shoulder and one of her hands was red; she was having trouble gripping the flaming blade and it disappeared as he watched. Nediah yelled something and Kait jumped back, just as a sheet of flame sprang up between her and the soldiers.
His distraction cost him. The woman made a feint of her own and Char fell for it. His backward leap was more of a stumble, his heel slipping on the unfamiliar cobbles. The edge of her sword sliced across his chest and blood flowed like black ichor. The Sartyan froze, staring at the wound she’d delivered. Her eyes moved to her blade
, to the sticky black blood that dripped from it. She took a step back.
Just as it had once before, on the day Ren had cut him, the rage exploded in Char. It raced up his throat, roared out of him, and a great force hit the soldier, hurling her back like a rag doll. She smashed into the front of a building and crumpled. Char turned to face the remaining soldiers, who looked from him to the broken body of their leader. The rage was building again, that roar of air and force, and he couldn’t hold it in. It roiled in his belly, trying to melt his bones. Although Char fought, he knew he couldn’t stop it. Part of him didn’t want to. His whole body prickled; the skin on his arms rippling, as if there were a sea beneath it, or a wind.
Eyes fixed on him, the Sartyans edged backwards. The rippling beneath Char’s skin became unbearable and he sank to his knees, fists clenched. A moment away from giving into it, he felt a touch on his bare arm and looked around. Kyndra crouched beside him, her fingers curled around his bicep, pressing them almost painfully into his flesh. Char shuddered; her touch was ice, colder than ice, and, just as it had last time, the force that battered his insides quailed beneath it. He gasped as it sank back into his belly, into the heart of him. Her hand was pale against his dark skin. Her eyes held his implacably; they were depthless, a blue that was almost black. ‘You’re not human,’ she said with terrible conviction.
Char stared at her, confused. As soon as the rage dwindled, the pain of the sword slash rose up instead, and he had to grit his teeth. ‘We need to get out of here,’ Kyndra said. She let go of Char’s arm and he tensed, half expecting the rage to come surging back, but it lay quiescent.
Rioters were closing in on the remaining soldiers, giving Char a wide berth. ‘Leave them to it,’ Kait said, clutching her injured hand. Char caught a glimpse of the soldier he’d killed. He didn’t know what to think as he stared at her still, broken form. Her sword lay beside her; she’d held onto it even as she died. Char felt drained, wearier than he’d ever been in his life. But not weary enough to stave off a sharp stab of regret.
