Siege of Rage and Ruin

by Django Wexler

“Okay,” I tell her. “But you stay well back from the front.”

  She nods, and I can see the grim determination on her face. I wait for her to climb back down, out of earshot, before leaning over Zarun.

  “Stay with Tori,” I tell him. “If this goes bad, get her out of here.”

  “Got it. You’ll be following, of course?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” I pat the angel, and he nods, then jumps down to go after Tori.

  I hear her shouting something to the Red Sashes, and getting a cheer in response. I’m busy with Eddica, sinking once again into the angel’s senses, pushing the huge construct into a run.

  Straight down the middle, she said. The angel isn’t agile enough to try much else. It accelerates slowly but implacably, building momentum, moving first faster than a man can walk and then faster than a horse can run. Through the black-and-white view from the crystal eye, I can see Ward Guard officers shouting at their conscripts, ordering them to move aside. At least someone from the first encounter must have made it here, because they don’t waste their crossbow fire on me.

  It’s not going to work. The officers are right—at full speed, the angel can hardly change direction, so all the Imperials need to do is clear out of its immediate path and close in behind me. By the time I can get turned around, the Red Sashes—and Tori—will be in the square, under the withering fire of those crossbows and being charged by the cavalry. Blessed Above, it’s going to be a rotting massacre—

  Except the officers are no longer shouting. They’ve gone quiet, standing stock still, and the militia are shifting in place, waiting for a signal that hasn’t come. Spearpoints start to waver, all across the line, and the men and women in the rear shuffle backward, looking over their shoulders. I would dearly like to look over mine, but I don’t dare—keeping the angel’s complicated gait going requires all my attention.

  But through its eyes, I see the first militiawoman run, throwing down her spear and sprinting past her suddenly paralyzed officer. She’s followed by another, and another, and all at once the whole line is coming apart. The officers, suddenly reanimated, scream at their conscripts, but there’s nothing to be done, not now. Horses rear and shriek, suddenly wild with fear, their swearing riders fighting desperately to keep them under control.

  And then there is no Imperial line anymore, just a mass of men and women fleeing for their lives, streaming out of the square by every road and alley. I slow the angel’s advance—no need to trample people already on their way out of the fight—and stare around uncertainly.

  They had us dead to rights. And they clearly knew what to expect. So why—

  I look over my shoulder. The Red Sashes are advancing into the square, spears waving. Tori follows, in the middle of the block of Blues, Zarun by her side.

  Kindre. The Well of Mind. Could she have done this? A shiver runs through me.

  The Red Sash captains are leading their companies onward, according to plan. Some of them are going straight to the grain storehouse, to make sure the Imperials don’t try to burn it as they fall back. Others turn east and west, to link up with the rest of our forces, while most continue south, keeping up the pressure and making sure the militia don’t have a chance to rally.

  We might get this district back after all.

  All at once, the angel seizes up. It’s halfway through a step, and off balance—for a moment, it sways precariously, then settles sideways at an angle, as motionless as if it were a statue in truth. I’m tipped from my perch, too surprised to get a hold on the harness, and end up falling into the dirt.

  I roll away, swearing, and pop back to my feet in time to see dark, armored figures dropping from the roof of a warehouse. The one in the lead is coming straight at me, and green energy crackles across her as blades ignite on her forearms.

  The Immortals have arrived.

  15

  ISOKA

  Not much time to think. There never is.

  From the top of the building, a flight of crossbow bolts hiss out, scything down on Tori and the Blues. Men and women fall, and I catch a crackle of green from Zarun’s armor. A moment later, the cluster of Blues is sprinting for cover, tightly grouped around Tori. They leave a dozen casualties behind them, lying still in the dirt or crawling doggedly after the rest.

  Most of the Red Sashes have moved on already. A few return fire, and the Immortals on the roof shift their aim to cut down this opposition. The air is suddenly alive with the crack and hiss of crossbows, but up above pale blue shields drop into existence to deflect the bolts, while the rebels in the square have no such protection. I hear screams and curses.

  That’s about all I have the chance to take in before the Melos adept reaches me. She’s shed her chain-veil, and I recognize the scarred face of the woman who abducted Tori. A wave of anger runs through me, and I ignite my own blades, a fat spark of green energy arcing between them as I charge her. She grins as she comes to meet me, and for a moment four blades cross, sorcery screaming against sorcery. Bolts of Melos power crackle between us, earthing all around as we form the eye of a maelstrom of barely contained power.

  I pull back, hoping to draw her off-balance, but she follows without hesitation, blocking my underhand cut and slicing at my face. I duck, twisting inside, but she’s ahead of me, bring her other blade down to block and forcing me to throw myself backward. She comes on with an overhand cut, which I let pass over my shoulder, drawing my blade the length of her forearm. Her armor flares, green energy spitting and popping, and at the same time her blade scores the side of my leg. Heat runs across my skin, and then she’s twisting away.

  I’ve only fought other Melos users twice, both times in the Ring on Soliton. I never learned the technique of using Melos energy to disrupt someone else’s armor, so that leaves breaking through it, or doing enough damage that the powerburn cooks her alive. The Immortal, of course, is trying to do the same thing to me. But I have the advantage of having spent the last half year fighting armored monsters, and I’ve learned a few tricks.

  I let my blade shrink, narrowing to an armor-piercing spike on one arm. I gather power there, enough that my skin grows warm, ready for a single devastating release. My opponent, watching, raises her eyebrows.

  “An interesting style.” Her voice is a rasp. “Master Naga is very cross with you, Isoka. He wants me to teach you a lesson in humility.”

  “Tell him to come out here and teach it himself.” I close my fist, and green lightning crackles across my arm.

  “Why would I want him to have all the fun?” She smiles, a twisted expression on her half-melted features. “He needs you alive to turn over Soliton, but alive doesn’t mean intact. You’ll be a little more biddable with no hands or feet.”

  “Get on with it, then.” I drop deeper into my crouch, waiting.

  Her smile widens. More light shimmers across her body, a golden glow joining the green, twisting through it. When she comes forward, she’s so fast I can barely track her.

  Melos and Rhema. Rot.

  I may be in trouble.

  TORI

  The Imperials break and run, and I exhale, relaxing my mental grip.

  I’ve done this before, but never on this scale. The principle is simple—reach out to their minds, suppress the duty and camaraderie that keeps them in their places, and replace it with an overwhelming, atavistic fear. Pushing so many at once strains my power, sending tendrils of warmth creeping across my scalp, but it helps that the fear is there anyway. These are conscripts, not professional soldiers, and it doesn’t take much of a shove to turn an organized army into a mob.

  Once the seeds are planted, I take hold of their officers, freezing them in place until the flight becomes a rout. Then I turn my attention to the cavalry, which is even easier—the horses don’t have any duty to worry about, only training and habit, and the strangeness and noise of the angel already has them on edge. I drive the poor beasts into a frenzy, and leave the riders to try to handle them.

  Now they’
re running, and the Red Sashes are following, spreading out across the square. Isoka reins in her bizarre mount on the other side of the market, and a mental touch brings the Blues to a halt around me. Zarun, Isoka’s companion, is standing by my side, radiating a mix of cinnamon determination and twanging confusion at the Imperial flight. I imagine Isoka sent him to keep me safe. Maybe now she’ll understand. Her sister is a monster, but a useful one—

  My mind fills with fog. A Kindre user, somewhere close, flooding the mental plane with obscuring static. At the same time, I see the angel collapse, sending Isoka spilling to the ground. There’s a drawn-out hiss, and black dots resolve abruptly into a flight of crossbow bolts descending on us.

  The Blues don’t shout or scream. A young woman steps in front of me and takes three bolts in the chest in rapid succession, tumbling backward with blood foaming from her mouth. More bolts stick in the dirt around me, and other Blues are falling as they try to interpose their bodies. Zarun is faster, and no sooner has he positioned himself over me than his armor flares brightly under multiple impacts. I see him grimace, but he grabs my hand.

  “Cover,” he growls. “Over there. Move!”

  I need no urging. Every Blue still standing comes with us, contracting into a tight knot as we run for the edge of the square. A shop front overhangs the street, providing a small measure of shelter. As we run, blue lines of force reach out, grabbing planters and a table from in front of a neighboring shop and pulling them toward us. We reach this makeshift barricade just before the next volley lands, bolts thudding into wood in front of us and cutting down a couple of Blues who straggled behind.

  Naga was waiting for us. Or, at least, once we’d come through the gate, he’d organized this ambush. The presence of a Kindre adept makes it clear it’s me he’s hunting for. And something stopped that angel. Isoka hasn’t explained enough for me to understand how that was possible, but it has to be Naga’s doing.

  “They’re on the roof,” Zarun says. “Across the square. And Isoka’s fighting another Melos adept.”

  More bolts land around us. I risk a quick look out between volleys, and see the rooftop he means, lined with armored figures. There’s a whole squad of Ward Guard crossbowmen up there, and three Immortals in black armor and chain-veils. Beside the motionless angel, Isoka and another Immortal are a blur of coruscating green light.

  “Rotting hell,” Zarun says. “That woman’s got Rhema, too. Isoka’s in trouble.” He straightens up. “Stay here. I’m going to help her.”

  Rhema. That makes it Kadi, the woman who’d kidnapped me. I grit my teeth. “I have a better idea.”

  “Better than helping your sister?” he snaps.

  “One of those Immortals is keeping her from controlling the angel.” I point at the rooftop. “If we can chase them off, then Isoka can use it.” Or, if it comes down to it, I can handle Kadi myself once there’s no Kindre fog protecting her.

  Zarun bites his lip. “You’re sure?”

  I nod vigorously. He hesitates, then grabs my hand again, waiting for a volley of bolts to land and then darting toward the shop. The door shatters under Tartak force, and we duck into the darkened interior. The air is thick with spices.

  The Blues follow, a half-dozen of them making it before one man catches a bolt in the temple and drops.

  “Get the rest of them to stay,” Zarun says. “It’ll split their fire.”

  I relay the message, and we hurry into the back of the shop, finding a narrow stairway up into the apartment above. It’s a single room, laid with several sleeping mats, now abandoned. There’s no obvious way onto the roof, so Zarun simply ignites his blades and carves a hole, flinging the debris away with Tartak. Bands of pale blue grab me and lift me up until I can catch the edge, and he follows with a standing jump. The Blues swarm up after us.

  We’re about a quarter of the way around the square from the Immortals. The buildings are close together, with only a few alleys separating them, easily leaped. But the slate tiles are uncertain footing, and they’ll be shooting at us the whole way.

  I see Zarun making the same calculation, and I wonder if he wants me to stay behind. He doesn’t say anything, only sets off at a run, tiles clattering and shifting underfoot. I order the Blues to stay between me and the Immortals, and run after him.

  It doesn’t take long for them to notice us. At a shouted command, the Ward Guard loose a volley in our direction. It’s a hard shot, and bolts clatter around us without coming close. Zarun leaps an alley, landing catlike on the other side, and extends a Tartak tendril to help me over. More bolts start landing, and one of the Blues is caught in the leg just as she tries to make the jump. She trips and plummets to the earth below, her mental connection winking out.

  Isoka is still fighting, green flashes blazing around her as Kadi hacks away, a blur of green and gold. Move, Tori! She said she’d trust me. So do something!

  Another alley. My legs are burning, and there’s a stitch in my side. Pale blue energy lifts me over, but I stumble on landing, sliding toward the edge of the roof. Two Blues swing down to catch my arms, keeping me from going over but pinning us all in place. Bolts hiss and clatter, and another of my defenders falls, all in silence. I get my feet under me and keep moving.

  We’re nearly there. The Ward Guard aim a final volley, too close to miss, but Zarun throws out his hand and a wave of Tartak force proceeds us, scattering the bolts like stalks of wheat in a windstorm. One of the three Immortals turns, a big, broad-shouldered man, and Tartak blooms around him. He meets Zarun head-on, force slamming against force, the two of them shoving like a pair of grappling wrestlers.

  The Blues run past, drawing their weapons and engaging the Ward Guard, who drop their crossbows to fight back. It’ll only buy a few moments—there aren’t enough Blues. I focus on the other two Immortals, two women standing side by side. One, whose long golden hair falls in a thick braid from the back of her helmet, is focused on the angel and the fight below. The other stares straight at me from behind her chain-veil, and I feel the fog in my mind redouble.

  I wonder if she was the one who kept me locked down in the Pear Wing. One of a few, perhaps, taking shifts. How many Kindre users can Naga have? I’d pushed through there, eventually, though not before I’d put a significant amount of distance between me and my minder. Now we’re separated by only yards.

  Naga said defense is easier than attack. But he also said that I’m an adept. I gather all the strength I can muster and throw it at the veiled Immortal, a hammerblow of mental energy. I see her flinch, and the fog recedes for an instant, then returns. I bear down, and so does she.

  It’s a raw contest of strength, of will. I don’t know my abilities well enough for anything more subtle. The air between us starts to flicker with subtle power, invisible waves becoming almost tangible as they thrash against each other in shimmering rainbow patterns. Beside us, Zarun and the Tartak-wielding Immortal fight their own battle, lines of blue colliding and breaking apart at breathtaking speed, and down below green flares against green.

  Heat rolls over me, pricking my skin. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. Pain starts to spike inside my skull, beating inward from my ears. If I let up, I won’t have anything left to try again. So I don’t let up. I see the Immortal stagger, falling to one knee and tearing off her helmet. She’s Isoka’s age, with short dark hair, and steam is starting to waft off her. When she looks up, her eyes are stained crimson from burst capillaries.

  “I can’t hold her,” she says. Her voice rises into a scream. “I can’t hold her!”

  My face is a rictus. I keep pressing, until all at once resistance collapses. The Immortal falls backward to the tiles, steaming all over. I fold up around a stitch in my gut, fighting for breath.

  The big man claps his hands together, and a wave of Tartak power blows off him, pushing Zarun back for a moment. Before he can recover, the Immortal is backing away, grabbing the two women with blue energy and vanishing over the peak of the roof. The Ward
Guard, who have cut down the Blues, seem bewildered to be thus abandoned, but not for long. Zarun grins, ignites his blades, and leaps among them. Terrified screams rise.

  As soon as I can move, I turn to Isoka. She and Kadi are still fighting—Isoka has a shield on one arm, and she’s huddled against the bulk of the angel, trying to protect herself from the other woman’s breathtakingly fast assault. I reach for Kadi’s mind, and nearly get a grip, but it’s too far and I’m too tired to hold on.

  She trusted you. I crawl toward the edge of the roof. Do something.

  The third Immortal must have been the one who interfered with Isoka’s control over the angel. I try to gather breath for a shout, but my lungs won’t work. Finally, desperately, I reach out for my sister’s mind.

  ISOKA

  “I may be in trouble” has been upgraded to “Rot rot rot, I am definitely going to die.”

  If the Immortal isn’t a Rhema adept, she can’t be far short. Being an adept in two Wells isn’t impossible—I qualify in Melos and Eddica—but the latter has been disabled, somehow, while this woman has all the power of Melos and Rhema to draw on. She’s as fast as a hornet, darting and striking with horrifying speed and precision, and her armor means the few counterblows I’ve been able to land haven’t done much to slow her down.

  My right hand still bears the armor-piercing spike, though I haven’t gotten close to landing a finishing blow. On my left I’ve stretched the blade into a shield, desperately intercepting attack after attack. It’s better than taking the hits directly on my armor, but it still drains power, and my left arm is in agony, slowly cooking from the inside out. Sweat is pouring down my face, and the padding of my armor is soaked, as though I’ve been fighting in a sauna.

  She’s sweating, too. But when she comes to a halt for a moment, she smiles her half-melted smile.

  “Have to say I’m disappointed,” she rasps. “The way Master Naga talked about you, I thought this would be harder.”