The Exalted

by Kaitlyn Sage Patterson

  Taking a last deep breath, I went to join the chaos.

  We’d sent the brats to Mal and Hepsy with our horses and most of our supplies. None of us wanted to risk another of their lives, brave and ready to fight or not, and there were few enough of them that they could sneak back into town under the cover of night without much risk of getting themselves caught. I knew that, for my part at least, I would carry the guilt of Lei’s death with me until the day I passed, and I didn’t want to think about what another child’s death would do to me.

  As I walked through the group of rebels—some cheerfully making jokes with one another as they stretched and prepared for the fight, some silent and stone-faced, some openly praying to the gods and goddesses—each person stopped what they were doing to greet me. They saluted, shook my hand, clapped me gently on my uninjured shoulder. With each greeting, each acknowledgment, my throat tightened more and more. I looked for Curlin, to ask her what in Dzallie’s name was going on, but she was next to Aphra, conferring with her in low tones. I rubbed my last pearl, sewn into a tiny pocket in my trousers, for luck.

  A gentle hand came to rest on my shoulder, and I spun around. Quill’s lips quirked in a wry smile.

  “What?” I spit, anxious energy about what was to come spilling over into my words.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Quill smiled down at me and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I just wanted a moment.”

  “Quill, we don’t have a moment. The Shriven are going to show up at any moment.”

  “All the more reason to take a breath.” His eyes shied away from mine. “And to tell you that I love you, Vi.”

  He reached out, took my hand and squeezed. I hesitated for a moment—the timing of this conversation felt outrageously wrong to me—but in the end I closed my fingers around his.

  “I love you, too. Please be safe today.”

  I wanted so badly to kiss him. To push him up against the side of the building and lose myself in him. But what we lacked in time, we made up for in the eyes that were watching us, looking to us for direction.

  “Promise. There’s something else, though.” Quill’s expression became something far less playful. More serious. “Why’re you so uncomfortable with our people taking notice of you?”

  “Our people?” I closed my eyes and sighed. “I thought they were yours. You’re one of the people who started this whole thing. I just showed up here.”

  “I may’ve helped organize it, but there’s not a person here who’s not looking to you for leadership, and you’re well ready to give it to them,” Quill said. “What you insisted we do for the Shriven? That was nobility itself. You hide a great deal of empathy under that thorny skin of yours.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Quill, I don’t. I can’t...” Every idea that tried to form on my tongue was a faltering misstep. Incomplete or irrelevant or both.

  Quill laughed, hoarse and throaty and somehow utterly disarming. “All I wanted was to pay you a compliment and tell you I was wrong. I should have told you earlier. Should have trusted you. You may not have built this army, but you certainly are a leader, and you know I care about you beyond all that. Not many people would grant their enemies amnesty, not after what you’ve been through.”

  I looked away, face flushing. “It would’ve meant more if a single one of them had taken me up on my offer.”

  “We’ll see how many of them show up to fight.”

  The drumbeats in the south were a constant countdown to the battle we faced.

  “And what if they show up with an offer of peace?” I asked. “What if the fire spreads? What if our people are taken by the smoke? I just keep running through all the ways this could go wrong, and I can’t seem to see a way this plan doesn’t end with each one of our sorry souls dead or taken by unwarranted rage.”

  “I see them! They’re approaching from the west,” Myrna called, just as the bell on the top of the windmill began to sound.

  That wasn’t right. They ought to have just been coming from the south. From the temple. They were too confident in their position to sneak around, and there was no easy way to get from the temple in the south to the road leading west to Williford—only goat paths and jungle.

  I looked at Quill. His eyebrows knit themselves together and his face was suddenly grim. “Get your gear,” he said. “It’s time.”

  I went. The troughs on either end of the long trestle table were crowded with our people. They smeared mud all over their bodies, over clothes and skin and hair. Not a fingerbreadth of skin was left bare on anyone as they hustled away from the trough.

  I shouldered my way in and got to work. Seeing the gold bracelet on my wrist, I paused for a moment, reminded of my brother, but I couldn’t make myself take it off. So I took a handful of mud and smeared it over my wrist, bracelet and all. When I was fully covered, I grabbed a rag from the table and dunked it into the bucket of milk. One of the other folks at the table helpfully tied it around my face. The goggles and gloves came next.

  It’d taken some doing, but we’d forced our way into the half-burned distillery the day before. We’d found baskets full of old goggles like the ones I’d worn to dive in the Penby harbor and the kind of waxed-cloth gloves that buckled tight around a person’s wrists. Fisherfolk used them to keep their hands dry in the depth of winter in Alskad, and Curlin and I figured they might be of some use protecting our skin from the poisoned smoke.

  Fully kitted out and covered in a thick layer of mud, I jogged to the nearest fire and grabbed a torch. Without waiting for anyone’s word, I ran to my assigned place at the far edge of the field. The others were just behind me, and a moment later, the bell on top of the windmill stopped ringing. As soon as the air went silent, we all bent to light the nearest row of bushes. The oil caught in no time flat, and a line of fire spread across the edge of the field.

  Quill’s farmers had planned the firing so that it would go up hot and fast and, if everything went our way, burn out quickly. There were deep trenches between the rows and around the field—not much chance of the fire spreading to the jungle, and if it did, it wouldn’t get far. There was too much water everywhere. The Shriven should arrive to find the fields surrounding the entire burned-out estate on fire, and before there was a chance for them to put together the pieces of the puzzle, they’d be engulfed in the poisoned smoke. Meanwhile, we’d be on the road to Williford. Or we would’ve been, had there not been Shriven on that road, too.

  I made my way toward the others, lighting bushes along the way. When I stepped out of the field, I found the entire rebel force crowded around the trestle table, on which three people now stood. The smoke was thick and gray, and it hung low over the field, caught under the cover of the thunderclouds that rolled over the jungle.

  “...retreat into the forest,” Aphra said. “It doesn’t matter that there isn’t a path. We can cut our way through.”

  “And risk vipers or jungle cats or any of the other predators waiting in the trees? I think not.” Quill caught sight of me and waved me to the front of the crowd, though how he knew it was me under all the mud, I’d no idea.

  The group parted, and I came to stand next to the table, hands shaking. “We should hunker down,” I said. “Split into three groups in the distillery, the windmill and the servants’ quarters. Wait. The buildings should protect us from the worst of the smoke, and with any luck, they’ll inhale so much on their way in that they’ll cut each other to shreds, and we’ll be free and clear.”

  Myrna, crouched on the edge of the roof listening, pulled out her binoculars again. “We haven’t got much time to decide. They’re coming from every direction. We stay and fight, or we run.”

  “Every direction?” Curlin asked. “Are they coming through the jungle?”

  “Not that I can see,” Myrna said. “But Aphra’s right. We can’t move fast enough through the jungle, not this many
of us, and we’ll leave a path straight to the little ones.”

  Quill gestured at me. “Vi’s right. We should hide. There’s less risk in that than any other idea we’ve got.”

  I bit my lip, and the taste of rot and mud filled my mouth. I tried not to gag into the handkerchief that covered most of my face. The clouds of smoke billowed up over the fields, spreading like fog and rolling toward us on an errant wind like so many thick gray monsters. “Fine. We stay, but only until we have a chance at the road. Then we run.”

  I waited until every last one of our people had made their way to hiding places in the half-burned distillery and the windmill before I climbed over a fallen beam and made my way through the distillery to the window that looked out over the burning fields. Curlin, standing next to me, took my gloved hand in hers and squeezed.

  “We’ll get through this,” she said.

  “I hope so. I don’t like that the Shriven hold the only two roads out of here.”

  “You know they planned it that way. They’re strategists. The only thing you can expect from them is that they do exactly the thing you’d rather they didn’t. That’s how this works.”

  “Not long now,” Quill called. “Everyone quiet. Ready your weapons. Should they approach the building, stay put. Stay silent. We want to give the smoke time to work. But if it appears that the smoke has taken no effect, we’ll have to fight our way out. Be ready.”

  Aphra’s eyes went wide behind her goggles. “If the smoke doesn’t take effect? No one mentioned that possibility.”

  “It will,” I rasped, half under my breath. I bit the inside of my cheek and squeezed Curlin’s hand, staring out into the burning field.

  Dark figures emerged from the smoky haze that obscured our view of the road just as raindrops began to ping against the metal roof of the distillery. I breathed a string of violent curses. If the fires went out and the smoke dissipated, all of our plans would go to shit, and we’d be left without a chance of getting out alive.

  Then the rough sound of coughing came through the smoke, so low and pervasive it felt almost imagined. “Do you hear that?” Quill whispered.

  “You see them?” Curlin breathed.

  I peered into the smoke as more figures began to appear on the lawn outside the distillery. “Maybe.”

  “Watch their weapons. Something’s off.”

  The Shriven’s metal staffs scraped through the rough earth. A group of shadows, maybe ten of them, had made their way onto the lawn. The smoke grew thicker around them, and they were nothing more than shadows. They were no more than a stone’s throw away. Everyone in the distillery held their breath. One of the Shriven doubled over, coughing, and metal screeched against metal as one of the others drew a long blade from its sheath. A sickening thunk echoed across the smoke-dampened lawn, and the coughing stopped suddenly as the Shriven’s shadow was sliced in two and dropped to the grass. A sound like a pumpkin dropped onto grass was carried to us on the wind, followed by a distant, hysterical laugh that cut through me.

  Curlin’s grip on my hand became viselike. I hoped with every bone in my body that the groups in the windmill and the servants’ quarters were safe.

  The relative silence was broken by a single, inhuman scream that abruptly ended as something essential to the sound gave out in the Shriven’s throat. Then, through the thick clouds of swirling gray smoke, we watched as the Shriven began ripping each other apart.

  One tore another’s arm off their body before burying her teeth in her dead companion’s neck. A head rolled across the muddy ground, freed of its body. Shots rang out in the distance somewhere behind the distillery. The Shriven coming up the road must’ve been taken by the smoke, as well.

  I looked to Quill, and he held a gloved hand up, signaling for us to wait, to be silent. I took shallow breaths, trying to stay calm. Even though I knew the damp cloth over my nose and mouth would protect me from the smoke to some extent, watching the Shriven outside sent cold fear spiking into my very soul. This was the nightmare that’d haunted every day of my life, suddenly made real.

  Something crashed into the back of the building. Glass shattered, and the thin wooden walls shook. I slipped my knife out of its sheath, whirling to face the source of the commotion.

  Another crash. The squeal of splintering wood. I looked around for a way out. Hulking copper barrels stained with soot loomed over us. Tubes twisted this way and that across the beams in the ceiling. The wall on the far side of the barrels was charred, and I could see the gray cloud of smoke and rain through the cracks in the wood.

  Thunder clapped overhead, and with it, half of the far wall came down. Gunshots cracked like lightning through the air, and the room erupted in screams. I grabbed Aphra and Curlin and pointed to the wall behind the still. Quill saw my furious gesturing and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Everyone! Behind the still.”

  The rebels moved fast, running for cover just before the Shriven began to stream into the room. As I passed one of the massive copper barrels, someone’s shoulder crashed into me, throwing me off balance and into the side of the barrel. It teetered, and I heard the sound of sloshing liquid inside.

  The world slowed, and everything snapped into focus. The Shriven’s gunshots were going wild, almost like they were firing for the pure joy of it, not with any intention or direction. They raved and ranted, and their words held the same frenzied bloodlust I’d seen in the diminished time and again. Any shred of who they’d been before was gone, replaced by the poison cycling through their veins.

  Beside me, the enormous barrel teetered on unstable legs. I grabbed Myrna as she darted past me.

  “Wait! Help me push this over.”

  Myrna cast a dubious look at the barrel but leaned her full weight into it. A few of the others saw what we were doing and ran to help. We pushed, ignoring the shouts of our companions for us to follow, ignoring the bullets flying through the air, ignoring our terror, our pain, our heartache. Together we pushed, and, with aching slowness, the still began to tip. With the great scream of bolts tearing through half-burned wood, we ripped the body of the still out of the floor and sent it toppling over. The liquid inside spilled out in a great wave, and the faint scent of flowers filled the air. The wave hit the closest Shriven at thigh level, and before they could take another step, they were knocked to the ground.

  “Run!” I screamed, then turned on a heel and ran with the other rebels all around me.

  The air outside was thick with smoke, but the damp rag over my nose and mouth seemed to be keeping it out of my lungs. Rain fell in fat droplets, hissing as it met the flaming bushes. A great many of the fires had given way to the downpour, leaving only the husks of smoldering bushes steaming in the rain. The smoke was thick around us, and the steam coming off the bushes only added to the nearly complete lack of visibility.

  The bodies of dead Shriven covered the ground, but more still streamed up the road. Some of our people had been caught up in the fighting as well, their kerchiefs ripped away, leaving them exposed to the poisoned smoke. I froze, staring at the carnage around me—blood everywhere, limbs and heads disconnected from their bodies littering the ground.

  A hand closed around my bad elbow, and I had my knife up before I realized it was Myrna. She jerked her head and set off at a run, not letting go of my arm. I followed her to the foot of the windmill, where many of our number had gathered. The rain was coming down in earnest now, pelting us and leaving trails of exposed flesh as it began to wash away our protective layers of mud.

  “Both roads are crowded with the Shriven, but I’d put good money on there being fewer of them to the south,” Aphra was saying. “Our best chance is to cross the fields and cut behind them. We won’t be able to see much, and we’ll have to hurry, so we put ourselves at great risk of running into a fight. Or we could stay here, wait for the fighting to die down as they take one another on. Ei
ther way, we need to stick together.”

  I leaned against Myrna, trying to catch my breath without taking in a great lungful of smoke. “Not only is it raining, but we just sent a thousand buckets’ worth of some stage of the temple’s poison spilling over half of the Shriven,” I gasped. “Best case, they’re dead. Worst case, they’re right behind us, out for blood. We don’t have time to argue pros and cons. We have to go. Now.”

  Quill gave a single, curt nod. “Some of us have to make it out of this fight alive. Aphra’s influence alone could turn the tide among what’s left of the Shriven. We’ll split into four groups. Biz, Neve, Vi and I will lead. Keep our distance. Protect our own. Keep going until you reach the children, no matter what. Now count off.”

  The woman next to Quill began the count. As our groups assembled around us, Myrna came to stand beside me, her mouth set in a grim line. Curlin reached out and took my hand.

  “I’m right behind you, Vi. Every step of the way.”

  With a nod, I took off toward the burning field. My group went far to the right, angling away from the road down a path between bushes that would eventually lead us to a ditch that ran along the far edge of the field and back to the road. Moments after we made our way into the field, we were enveloped in smoke so thick I could hardly see where I set my feet. I turned to Curlin behind me, took her hand and put it on my shoulder. She did the same for Myrna, behind her.

  Like that, my little cadre inched across the field. The sounds of fighting—metal on metal; screams of pain, victory and fear; gunshots—faded like a distant memory as we passed through the haze. We would be safe soon.

  A sudden shot, so close my ears rang, had me jumping nearly out of my skin. A sound, so gutturally painful it brought tears to my eyes, came from just behind me. I started to look back, but Myrna’s hand tightened on my shoulder, and she pushed me onward.

  My heart raced in my chest, and I did my best to control my breathing. I took short, shallow breaths, just enough to keep me moving forward. I focused on the exercises I’d learned while diving; focused on keeping the poisoned smoke out of my lungs. The kerchief helped, but it could do only so much. I had to do the rest. I could feel the others becoming more and more agitated, so I picked up the pace, hoping they weren’t beginning to succumb to the effects of the philomenas.