Dalathos grunted to his feet. He stumbled after Ulric and through the door to the small room.
Jerine dragged them through. Dalathos fell to the floor. The door slammed closed after.
Darkness enveloped him. The crackle of flames became distant. His body throbbed, numb and sore.
The air tore apart, as if struck by a thunderbolt. It boomed through his bones so hard it seemed his heart might burst. The floor shook violently and he was thrown to the air. The kids around screamed. Dalathos wanted to cry out to make everything stop.
The door was blown from its hinges and Jerine fell away. Heat like a thousand furnaces blasted through. Ulric staggered up, and barged closed what was left of the door — used all of his body strength to force it shut, and keep the fire and thunder out.
Red and orange flashed. There was a heavy thump, more banging. A row of vicious blades speared through the brick wall. A sound like a heavy sack slammed after them.
Supporting timbers cracked and rent. Dalathos was shaken from his feet. The world spun and he fell on his back. The terrible noise rolled on and he thought he’d throw up.
Almost as quickly, everything quietened.
A red glow lit the room through the cracked wall. A huge fire roared from the other side. Ulric still leaned against the broken door. Muffled, horrific screaming filled the air. Kids in the small room sobbed and shrieked.
Dalathos felt like his face and lungs had been thrust into ashes. He tried to rise, fell back, and coughed.
Flashes of light, then more thunder erupted. The walls shuddered. Smoke flooded in.
Jerine shouted, “Everyone out!”
Dalathos stumbled to his feet. He had to be careful not to cut anyone with Protector. He turned to see Jerine helping everyone escape. Tilirine carried a white-robed figure over her shoulder. Sirath held a thick book.
And Ezekiel stood with a look of intense concentration, his staff pulsing madly with color.
Dalathos blinked, and looked away — all his senses were wrong and confused. But pursuit might come through what was left of the door. Dalathos reached Ulric and stood guard by it. He urged Ulric to flee, then covered his mouth against the worst of the smoke pouring through.
Only when everyone else had gone did Dalathos stagger back, and outside to the makeshift ladder. Coughing heavily, he followed Ulric up and onto the wharf.
Flames shot through the roof of the warehouse. Dalathos stumbled in flight along the quayside, all the time trying to find his breath. The kids fled ahead of him. Another peal of thunder and he almost lost his footing into the soot-black dock.
A horrible creaking came from behind. A section of wall collapsed over the wharf, splashing fire into the water. A storm of embers erupted into the sky.
Burning debris rained down as Dalathos ran. All he could do was wonder if he’d died and gone to hell.
A Woman Alone
Erin
Erin found the solitude of her room too much to bear. She should have gone with the others, and not remained alone. But it was too late to join them.
She tried to read, but could still feel the cracked fingers of the beggar in her hands. It had been a little thing to hold them, and try to reassure Barillios. She could have done nothing more.
Now she remained alone with the memory.
She so missed the company of sisters and brothers. Especially their singing. They would be holding vigil for the Feast of Pollos on the morrow. The day of her presentation. The day her future was decided.
Would she join the College of Ministers, as she had always expected? Could she be happy among the deacons instead? What if they said her place was among the Sardonian Sisters, devoted only to a life of prayer? Might that help recover her faith?
Whatever happened, she must not be ignorant of the wrongs in the world. Jerine had spoken of being blind and opening her eyes, but Erin had seen too much already. Especially today. And at no time had faith been a savior to anyone. It was essential to change that.
She sighed and closed her book.
There was little point trying to study now — she was too distracted. And lonely. At least if she went downstairs to the common area there would be conversation and laughter. Being surrounded by people might be a comfort.
She glanced up at the ikon of Blessed Pantocles, and kissed her prayer necklace. Then she put out her candle, taking care not to spill any wax. Locking her door, she placed the key with its wooden label at her belt. She pushed it behind a fold in her habit, so as not to be so easily lost as her purse. The coins Jerine had provided she had left in her room.
She made her way down the staircase. The descent was long, dark, and tiring, and busy. The noise of merriment grew louder.
When she reached the gallery level, she saw the people below singing and dancing to some crude tune. As she finally stepped into the common area itself, the song stopped with a cheer, and hearty laughter broke out. Boots stomped the floor in appreciation, and cups were banged on tables.
Unable to share in the humor made her feel all the more apart from it. Whatever she wanted would not be found here. She needed someone to speak to, who could offer guidance. A priest, perhaps. It occurred to her then she had yet to enter a temple since arriving in the city. It might be a blessing to find one, and hope for illumination.
She pressed her way through the crowd. When she passed through the doors to the outside, the cold air of the street hit her. A drizzling rain blew in. She pulled her hood up. There was a stench of vomit and a man fumbled against the door frame.
Erin hurried away into the road. She stared around at the buildings and darkness. A part of her feared to wander the city at night. But she had always done so in Pora — none could harm a Servant of Pollos without inviting the pain of seven hells.
Golden statues glistened in lantern light ahead. She approached them. When she reached the Avenue of the Emperors she looked for the nearest temple dome. One rose to her left. There was no obvious road to it, but an unlit side street should bring her close.
Erin steeled herself — she should not need to go far — and strode into it. Darkness enveloped her. Her skin tingled with anxiety. She sought to distract herself by hoping the others fared well at the docks. When she reached the temple she would offer a prayer for their success.
A drunk sang from a doorway. A couple grunted together in an alley. She hurried past. She found herself touching her wrist as she did so — and the bracelet Mallian had given her. With a stab of regret in her chest, she continued. The temple could not be far now.
The road twisted and weaved. It became almost too dark to see. And there was still no sign of the temple.
The sky turned red, like an approaching sunrise. Dull retorts of thunder rolled through the city and made her heart flutter.
But the weak radiance showed her the temple, stood just ahead. As she approached, she could just make out that it was painted a pale green — the sacred color of Hurran. His virtue was humility. That seemed especially fitting now. Yet her relief turned to confusion to realize that no light came from within. Surely someone kept vigil there on the Eve of Pollos? Erin reached the main doors and pushed at them. A heavy chain rattled. Anger grew inside of her. How dare they lock shut the House of God against those in need? She tried to spy any sign of a lamp within, and she rapped at the door. There was no answer. The building was deserted. Despite her indignation, there was nothing she could do.
A door slammed somewhere across the street. Erin whirled around, but could see no one about. Low rumbles continued.
With the temple closed to her, it was as if Pollos was also gone. And with that, the protection of God. Erin looked around, and held her breath. She was no longer an acolyte seeking prayer — but a woman alone, in the dark backstreets of an unfamiliar city.
Her chest tightened. She pulled her hood further over her face, as if to hide within it. She hurried to retrace her steps as best she could.
Yet she was unsure of her direction. The orange glow in
the sky provided some illumination, but it changed how everything looked. She silently cursed that she might be lost until morning. That was not how she had planned to start the day of her presentation.
A cat meowed. The air reeked of urine. She listened for the singing drunk. She heard only the patter of her own foot falls. The low rumbles faded.
Lantern light appeared ahead — the Avenue of the Emperors. She let out a sigh of relief, and quickened her step.
She was thrust through a doorway. Something struck her back. Her head smacked against a stone wall and she fell to a floor covered with rubble. Fists pummeled her down. Erin gasped, trying to rise before a boot struck her shoulder. She managed only to raise an arm in submission. “Alright!”
“Give us your fucking purse.” Two gray figures stood in a doorway.
Erin kept a halting hand raised. She panted, laid on an elbow. “I lost it ... stolen.”
“Give us your bracelet, then.”
Hands grasped at the bracelet Mallian had given her. The clasp was hastily undone and her wrist felt lighter.
“If you try to follow us we’ll smear your face into the fucking pavement.”
She had absolutely no intention of pursuit — but was surprised by an intense sense of fear coming from the attackers.
Both figures disappeared from sight.
Erin remained gasping on the floor.
Slowly, she recovered her breath. She rose onto her hands, then her shaking knees. Her head smarted, her ears were hot, and her body numb where she had been kicked and punched. Feeling dizzy, she slowly stood and put a hand against a wall to keep herself steady. Follow them? She could barely stand up properly!
She touched her fingers about the bridge of her nose and then below her nostrils, feeling the skin there. There was no blood. That her nose was not broken was a blessing. That and the fact she had not been killed, or worse.
Once she had recovered something of her wits, she staggered out from the broken doorway and into the empty street. The rain whirled over her.
She had left the inn to pray, and clear her mind. All she had achieved was a sore head from being beaten and robbed. And her bracelet was gone, that last remnant of Mallian. She almost laughed aloud at God’s cruel irony.
Watching the Docks Burn
Sirath
Sirath clutched the ledger he’d taken close to his chest. He staggered to the quayside as the air thundered about the dock. His ears felt like they’d been punched, and everything was muffled. But he could feel every rumble through his bones.
What remained of the warehouse was a raging inferno. The building next to it burned, that length of wharf wrecked. The ship beside it was a blazing tomb — the mast had already fallen in a splash of embers. Around it, hapless men struggled in black water that boiled with fire. Every now and then there was a flash, and a barrel streaked up through the sky with a shriek. A constant clatter echoed, and tremors rattled the wharf at his feet. Thick smoke drifted like fog into the night.
He’s never seen fire burn with such violence. He hoped he never would again. There was a horrible stink in the air, and he couldn’t shake the fear this all came from sorcery.
The quayside was crowded with people, staring, watching. The taverns and baiting pits had long emptied. A few men approached Sirath, concern on their faces. He said he was fine, and waved them away. Most just stood and watched anxiously. Some retreated from fear. Others ran to aid those in the water, where they could.
Screams and shouts for help carried on the air, as dockhands and sailors burned to death. That was the worst part. Sirath was in no condition to do anything for them, even if he’d wanted to. It sickened him to think on their suffering, and could only hope it would be quick for them. That could have been him out there.
Men of the city watch ran past with buckets and ladders, as if ready to tackle the flames. Some stopped along the wharf, looking lost and afraid at the size of the blaze. Sirath didn’t blame them — better to accept a couple of warehouses destroyed than court a nightmare death. Others bravely continued on to carry out what duty they could.
Sirath looked for Jerine and the others. Some workhouse children remained, wandering about in confusion. Most had disappeared.
At least some good had come out of this.
He finally spotted Jerine, and was relieved to find her safe. He went to stand with her. She looked shaken, but unharmed. Ezekiel turned up. Ulric and Dalathos weren’t far behind, with the unconscious scribe between their shoulders, like some drunken companion. Tilirine had insisted on abducting him, despite Sirath’s protests, to explain the ledger he carried.
A section of warehouse creaked, then collapsed into the dock with a flurry of fire.
He saw Tilirine alone by the wharf, watching the destruction. He handed the ledger to Jerine, then loped over. He tapped Tilirine’s arm, then quickly backed away, expecting her to lash out. She didn’t react. He stood in front of her, to get her attention. “Better keep moving,” he said, gently touching her shoulder. Tilirine inclined her head, and he saw her coming back to her senses. He pulled at her more forcibly now. “Dockers who escaped might recognize us. Come on.” He guided her back to the others. “We should make ourselves scarce. Someone’s going to take the blame for all that. Some might point the finger at us. Jerine? Ulric?” He needed the others to shake from their shock and start listening.
Jerine nodded. She held the ledger to her coat with one hand, and clasped her sister with the other. “You’re right. We’ve seen enough.”
Across the dock came a screech and a groan. The burning ship tore in half. The decks burst into orange splinters with enough fury to part the water. A hot wind gusted over them. A terrific boom followed, and hammered Sirath’s guts. He had to steady himself from falling as the quay timbers shook under his feet. Foaming waters crashed over the remains of the ship, sinking it under their spray. A pool of burning oil rippled out from the wreckage.
A tide of black water surged against the quayside and sprayed through the gaps. The crowd that had gathered there staggered back in panic, as if its touch was death.
Sirath took Jerine’s arm, determined to leave, with or without the others. “We go. Now.” He set off with her — and slowed his pace only when he knew the others followed. He allowed Jerine to lead the way back through the city.
It was hard not to keep glancing back as they moved away, but they finally left the burning warehouses at their backs. Then fortifications hid it from view, and the cool damp air of the city streets enclosed them.
Ulric broke the silence. “Jerine? We’re not outlaws now, are we?”
Jerine smiled tiredly. “No, we’re not.”
Dalathos nodded, “I think this scribe, and the book Jerine carries, will give Councilor Amberlin everything he needs.”
Sirath clapped Ulric on the shoulder, trying to make light of it. “I think we just earned our wages.” Then Sirath fell into a coughing fit. He wondered if he could ever get the noise of tonight out of his ears. The thought they might get real money from this was almost a comfort. More than that, he knew he no longer wanted to sell the mules. Instead, tomorrow he would leave, riding them. While he still could. The question was whether Jerine might be persuaded to come with him.
Memory of Fire
Tilirine
Tilirine could not stop herself shaking — not from the cold drizzle that blew through the dark, city streets, but for the memory of fire.
The flames had roared as they had torn through the warehouse, raging like Sindra unleashed. The savage heat had taunted and teased, inviting her to step into its grasp. And promised to finish what it had begun, and kill the monster she had become.
Somehow she had escaped, leaving the firestorm howling in frustration behind. But danger remained.
As they passed dying lamps along Southgate, men of the city watch hurried by to the docks. None paid them any attention.
But somebody followed.
Tilirine could not see who, or whe
re. Nothing hid in the shadows at their side, nor moved up the road behind. And yet, her unease continued.
She tried to feel her surroundings, touch the emotions of any nearby mind. They came like a flood. So soon after the fire she was unable to cope, and was forced to push them back. But she had sensed more than one predatory gaze upon them. Most bore no more than a passing interest. One held them with a cold malevolence.
She listened for the Song of the World. The drums were distant — no immediate danger. She would not dance, not yet. But she centered herself in case it approached, and moved through the charayanas of Running Antelope and Hissing Cobra, to warm her body to act quickly. The others looked at her, and Jerine raised a brow. “This relaxes me,” Tilirine answered, not wanting to add to their concerns.
The others talked too loudly. Ulric confessed that he had lost his sword, and hoped that his auntie would not be upset by that. Dalathos laughed at how he had faced down dozens of men without getting hurt. Sirath joked that if he had have known they were going to make a fire he would have brought sausages. Tilirine had to hush them more than once. She reminded them all that their conversations would carry, and after tonight’s actions, that would be most unwise. Especially as their hearing had been dulled by the noise, and their voices were raised.
Even still, Jerine’s new companions were finally bonding, as they shared in what they had survived — just when they were most likely to go their own separate ways. And there was nothing her sister could do to stop that.
The feeling of being watched continued.
The rain came thicker on the Avenue of the Emperors, and they finally reached the Lion Inn. The common area was full of people huddled down to sleep. A few glanced at them with lazy, uninterested gazes.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 15
