Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  Dawn was a curtain of heat like the opening of an oven. Sorasa kept them moving as long as she could, pushing the outlanders to their limits. Until the sun was too high, too strong, the shadows pocketed in the dunes nearly gone. The horses gleamed with sweat, flagging in their perfect steps. Even Dom breathed a sigh of relief when Sorasa called for camp.

  She dismounted into sand hot enough it seared through her boots. A scrabble of rocks at the base of a dune provided good shade. It was still boiling hot but bearable, and the others used their cloaks to prop up little tents for more shadow. Andry was asleep in an instant, snoring as soon as he lay down. Charlie was quick to join him, while Dom took watch, his face buried in the dark of his hood. Valtik dug at the sand, building herself a nest in the cooler layers below, before waving at Corayne to join her. Sorasa quirked a brow at her, but did not bother asking how a northern witch learned desert ways.

  “They’ll have a watch on the canyon,” Sigil murmured, shucking off her armor. She was just as big without it, all muscle and thick limbs. “Archers, crossbows. It won’t be pretty.”

  Sorasa shaded her eyes and squinted at the horizon, the bright, blue sky meeting shimmering gold. Though she wore muted clothing, black and brown and dirty gray, blue and gold were her favorite colors. The royal blue of the flag. The gold of sand. The clear cerulean of the endless sky. The yellow wink of coin. They were Ibal. They were home.

  It was early autumn now. The others could not feel the change in the winds, the miniscule drop in temperature. But a daughter of Ibal certainly did.

  “I can handle the canyon,” she said, patting Sigil on the shoulder.

  The bounty hunter replied with a gruff laugh. “Good. I’d rather not have to save your skin again.”

  As they made their way forward, they slept through the worst heat of the days, rousing before dusk. It was exhausting, even for Sorasa, who had been long from home. Corayne’s lips cracked and bled. Dom swathed himself from head to toe, sweating in his cloak and hood. Poor Charlie nearly fainted every morning, ruddy from finger­tips to toes. Sigil sweated through her armor, her face shining, and Andry didn’t drop his hood for days, shading his eyes. Only Valtik was somehow unaffected by the heat or sun, her ivory skin never changing, her head bare and eyes wide open. Some Spindle­rotten trick, Sorasa assumed.

  The sun sapped their strength, leaving their nights quiet and swift. A week passed in near silence, their waterskins growing lighter, their stores of food running low. The apples bought in Adira were long gone, the sweetness of them only a memory.

  Sorasa did not worry. It was no longer summer and the red line appeared on the horizon as it should, growing with every passing hour. The cliffs cast long shadows, bathing the desert in cool air, the earth cracked by a seasonal lake. It would be months before winter rains brought it back. A few hardy plants still wormed up through the cracks in the dirt, fed by an underground water supply, seeping through the dirt and sand. The sand mares tried to nose at them as they walked, lips reaching for any hint of green.

  “Either you intend to go around,” Dom said one morning, his immortal eyes on the cliffs still miles off. They stretched the length of the horizon, jagged from north to south, a wall of rusty stone. “Or go through.”

  “Around would take weeks. The Marjeja rings the Aljer like a crescent moon. We’ll take the canyon.” The horse’s flank was smooth beneath her hand, steadying as an anchor. The sand mare shuddered at Sorasa’s touch, leaning into it. “And we won’t be the only ones.”

  Sorasa finished braiding her hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. With a will, she raised her eyes to stare at the horses spread across the dry riverbed, the canyon a gash in the wall of cliffs half a mile on. Though she was still, her heart rammed in her chest and her stomach twisted. There were two hundred Shiran at least, in all colors, from cream to sand to blood red and even a few obsidian black. They grazed across the cracked earth, hunting in the growing shadows of the cliffs. There were only a few stallions, the rest intelligent mares and colts still growing into their gangly limbs. They looked akin to sand mares, but any Ibalet knew them as a beast apart, stronger and faster and infinitely more wild than their domestic cousins. This is wrong, Sorasa thought, feeling shame already. This is unholy, a strike against the gods and the realm.

  The others stared with her, sweating against the dawn.

  “Are we going to look at them all day or . . . ?” Charlie said, trailing off with a half grin.

  “That is a Shiran.”

  Sorasa’s skin crawled at the thought of what they had to do.

  “After the gods, there is nothing so sacred to Ibal as these herds. They are the wind made flesh, faster than a storm, fiercer than sand wolves. In the days of Old Cor, the empire raided them, dragging wild Shiran screaming across the sea. Most died so far from home. Not so anymore.” Her mouth went dry. “To disturb or capture a wild Shiran is punishable by death.”

  Corayne shifted in the saddle. “Something else for the posters,” she grumbled.

  “They are a testament to the gods, to the Ibalet kings, to the great and terrible glory of Ibal, who was conquered but never killed.” Sorasa felt sick but forged on. At least I must make them understand. “These lands are their own to wander, from coast to riverbed, cliff to grassland, mountain to oasis shade.

  “They are truly free,” she murmured, feeling the wind in her air, the judgment of the gods in her bones. And Dom’s emerald eyes on her, soft for once, without his usual glare.

  “We will not harm them,” he rumbled, bowing his head low. “You have my word.”

  Sorasa could only nod, her mouth too dry as he urged his mare forward, descending the dunes with Sigil close beside him.

  Saydin nore-sar.

  Gods forgive me.

  Saydin nore-mahjin.

  Gods protect us.

  She worried more for the sacred horses than for most of her human companions. Somehow, the witch manages to survive everything. Andry will be fine too. He is a good horseman, easy in the saddle. Charlie not so much, but if he is trampled, so be it. His blood isn’t saving the Ward anytime soon. It was Corayne she looked to, reading the tension in the girl’s shoulders, the tightness of her fingers on the reins of her horse, a sand mare the color of garnet gemstone.

  “Keep your grip,” Sorasa said to her. “Whatever you do, don’t let go. One arm over the saddle, both feet in one stirrup. I’ll be right next to you; so will Dom. No one will let you fall.”

  Corayne dipped her chin in a firm nod, her face a picture of strength. The trembling in her hands told a different story. For once, the Spindleblade was not across her back. It would have sent her off balance. For the run, they’d strapped it to her horse’s saddle, angled out of the way, lashed as tightly as they dared.

  If we lose that horse . . . , Sorasa thought. Her mind tried to chase down every possible outcome and mistake they might face. There were too many to follow, too many variables to anticipate. And not enough time to plan for any, let alone all.

  Sigil knew how to move horses. She’d cut her teeth on the steppes among the stocky, stout ponies of the Temurijon. She urged her horse between the Shiran mares, aiming for a stallion standing apart, his neck arched and ears twitching.

  In the dunes above, Sorasa wound the reins into her hands, her heels and thighs tightening around her mount.

  The battle cry of the Countless, the great army of the Temur emperor, went up from the herd, a shriek like the crashing of metal and lightning. Combined with Sigil’s galloping mare and the flash of her ax, it was enough to send the stallion bolting. Muscle shuddered beneath his flank, a ripple over water, beautiful for a moment, as if he were forged from metal instead of flesh. He went for the plain but found Dom in his way, his sword bright with sunlight, startling the wild horse.

  Together they drove the stallion toward the canyon, his voice braying over the riverbed. The herd screamed with him, kicking up dust, exploding to follow his thunderous path.

 
“Don’t let go,” Sorasa said again, leaning over to strike Corayne’s mare on the flank.

  They raced down the sand, pelting into the thick of the Shiran, the smell of dust and wild horse in the air. Sorasa’s heart leapt with the horses, their hooves beating a rhythm to match her pulse. It was like joining a storm, falling into a tempest. Sorasa shuddered and jarred as her sand mare found pace with the herd, their bodies pressing closer together to follow the stallion as he charged. She galloped with Corayne, their knees nearly touching. As for the others, Sorasa could not say. There was only Corayne and the Spindle­blade, the scarlet flank of her horse like a beacon at the corner of Sorasa’s eye.

  The cliffs loomed, the canyon a narrow split of rock. All the world shrank to the red walls and the drumbeat of a thousand hooves, the rhythm of her blood, adrenaline rattling through her body. Corayne bent low over her mare’s neck, clawed to the horse, her teeth bared and gnashing. A familiar shade of gold flashed somewhere, joined by the snap of dark green. Dom pulled up alongside Corayne’s other flank as the shadows of the cliffs fell over them, the cool air a dropping curtain, the sound of the herd echoing off stone in a deafening roar.

  “Now!” Sorasa tried to yell, her voice lost in the din. She could only hope the others saw her and followed.

  Hands tight on the reins and the hard pommel of her saddle, she swung her left leg out of her stirrup, passing it up and over the horse’s back in a smooth arc. Her muscles pulled, tensing as she balanced one boot in the stirrup, wedging the other alongside as best she could. The horse didn’t break stride, urged on by the pace of the herd. Centuries of breeding could not outweigh pure instinct, and sand mares were Shiran somewhere down their lines. It wasn’t easy, keeping herself tight against the horse’s side, her head tucked to the saddle. The dusty ground flowed beneath her like water, cragged with rocks, uneven and worn. She tried not to look down or imagine being trampled. Instead she glanced left and right, back and forward, searching through the waves of roiling horseflesh.

  Her stomach turned when she saw soldiers in the high rocks, their silhouettes sharp on the cliffs. Archers, all of them, watching the canyon. She flinched, expecting a fiery bolt of pain at any moment. An arrow through the neck. It never came.

  It’s working, she thought, almost losing her grip in shock. Instead she strengthened her resolve, pulling herself closer to the horse.

  First she spotted Andry, his head pressed to the side of his bay mare. He was taller than Sorasa, and had to curl his body to keep his legs from dragging along the ground. He met her gaze, his mare weaving among the Shiran. The squire did not falter, his brow set in a dark line. Sigil was behind, also too tall. She wrapped herself around the horse, one arm and leg thrown over its back, the others passing under. Valtik and Charlie were nowhere to be found, lost in the sea. At least if she couldn’t see them, any Gallish scouts certainly wouldn’t either.

  Corayne was still on her right, the girl’s breath coming in hard, fast gasps. Her knuckles went white on the reins and saddle, fingers scrabbling to keep hold. She dangled close to Dom, the Elder gripping his horse with only one giant hand. The other held Corayne’s horse by the saddle, keeping them in pace together. He braced the Cor girl against his chest, his immortal grace holding them both up and out of crushing death.

  The horses ran at breakneck speed, their manes like flags in the wind, their hooves kicking up stones and dust. A cloud followed the herd, hazy and pink, obscuring the heights of the cliffs. The figures faded, the archers lost in the dust. Sorasa allowed herself a small burst of triumph. If they held on long enough, the herd would carry them through.

  The canyon seemed to stretch, endless. It widened and narrowed with each turn, forcing the herd to adjust, and their mares with them. Sorasa winced as another horse clipped her, nearly crushing her against her mare’s ribs. A cry of alarm went up somewhere. It sounded like Charlie. Sorasa tried to pray, willing him to hold on, willing the scouts not to listen. All she could do was clench her teeth and keep steady, her own grasp on the saddle slipping.

  While the entrance to the canyon was a dark gash, the way out blazed bright as any star, a white column of daylight. It appeared around the next bend, and Sorasa nearly crowed in relief, her body bruised and weakening. She willed the herd to move faster, begging any god who might be listening.

  Dom and Corayne pulled ahead, their horses running in tight formation. The Elder had a foot in Corayne’s stirrup and his one hand on either saddle, with Corayne braced against his chest, her face pressed into his cloak. His back faced forward, allowing his cloak to flow around them and keep her hidden.

  It also kept him blind.

  The assassin drew a sharp, almost shrieking breath when she saw the path split around a boulder thrusting out of the earth like a dagger. The herd broke around it, maneuvering easily. But not Dom and Corayne, their mares held together, the whites of their eyes furious, both horses blowing hard. They charged, screaming, trying to pull apart, but Dom was stronger, his fingers wormed beneath the girths of both saddles.

  Sorasa was on the back of her horse again without thinking, her heels digging into the sides of her mare. The horse whinnied and bolted, outstripping the Shiran around them, a darting black arrow. If the scouts could see her, she didn’t care.

  “Reach for me!” she shouted, coming up on the Elder and the Cor girl.

  They looked up at her in shock, Dom’s face red from exertion. And now anger.

  “You’ll kill us—” he began, but Sorasa ignored him, stretching out her hand.

  The boulder loomed, closer with every second, a hammer to split them in two.

  She looked to Corayne, who raised her head, all terror. But her eyes were the same. Blacker than the night sky. The eyes of another realm.

  “REACH FOR ME!” Sorasa screamed again, already feeling the crush of rock on bone. Her fingers stretched, touching open air. Something thwipped by. An arrow, she thought idly, knowing the sound all too well.

  Then Corayne’s hand was in her own, Dom shouted, and Sorasa pulled as hard as she could, her shoulders screaming under the sudden weight. For a second, time suspended, slowed to nothing. Corayne drifted toward her, arms wide, her eyes filled with terror as the rock passed within inches. Behind her, Dom moved in a blur, kicking off one horse to land on the other, one arm thrown over the Spindleblade to keep it from falling loose.

  The rock passed between them, Dom never breaking their gaze. Sorasa felt his focus like a spear through her gut, his eyes that stormy, unyielding green. But not as angry as she knew, not as disgusted. They rode apart, weaving around the break before colliding back together, Corayne sprawling between them, the girl shuddering against Sorasa’s back.

  A shout sounded above, the barking voice of a soldier. Another volley of arrows peppered the herd, needling the horses around them. Sorasa felt the arrows as keenly as if they were embedded in her own flesh. Her heart bled for the Shiran, now bleeding for her. She loosed a curse under her breath and snapped the reins, kicking the sand mare to her limits.

  “Faster,” she hissed, to herself and the horse. “Faster.”

  The canyon opened out onto desert, the sand here whiter than the gold of the dunes. They rode with the Shiran, the great stallion pulling his herd along. The soldiers would follow. They were probably already clambering down the cliffs or signaling to the rest of their company. Whatever element of surprise Sorasa hoped to use had disappeared.

  But we are alive. And that is enough.

  The water was a few miles ahead, the gulf of the Aljer so close she thought she could smell it. After days in the desert, the salt tang of seawater was impossibly heavy on her tongue. But the oasis stood between, a dark smudge a mile ahead. The shadow whispered of palm trees, cool water, and a small outpost town for caravans and pilgrims. A blessed place, Spindletouched.

  And now Spindletorn.

  “Keep going,” she shouted, to anyone who could hear her, to anyone who made it through the canyon.

  Co
rayne’s grip shifted on her waist, the pressure fleeting but unmistakable. To their right, Dom had the sword. Sorasa nearly wept in relief, choking out a triumphant cry.

  We are enough.

  She dared not look back, lest she see the others broken or trampled.

  On the horizon, the oasis glimmered. An odd sight, like the edge of a blade laid against the earth. Steel. Silver. Mercury.

  Her breath caught.

  Mirrors on the sand. The Eye of Haroun.

  And this.

  The sand turned to liquid, her horse’s hooves kicking up water instead of dust. But the mares kept on, the Shiran never stopping, every horse plunging into the shallow layer of water laid across the harshest desert upon the Ward.

  It was shockingly cold.

  Sorasa shivered as she never had before. The merciless sun of Ibal beat down on her face while the water of Meer splashed around her, lapping up the legs of her mare.

  “I think this is the right place,” Corayne said weakly in her ear.

  31

  BLOOD AND BLADE

  Corayne

  Corayne flinched as a spray of water broke across her face, stinging her eyes and spurting up her nose. It tasted too cold, and a gray edge to the water left streaks on her skin. She tried to wipe them away, staining her hands. She’d never seen anything like this. The oasis was flooded, a new lake forming across hot sand, turning everything to sucking mud. She could barely make out the slight hills of the oasis, palm trees bending brown and green. The town nestled within, small and unassuming, its buildings blue paint and decorated white stone. She heard crashing waves somewhere, or a waterfall, or both. This doesn’t make sense, Corayne thought, blinking at the shining water, nearly blinding as it reflected the sun overhead.

  But there was no time to wonder. The Gallish soldiers guarding the canyon would pursue, and there were more in Nezri, to protect the Spindle. She leaned forward, pressing her cheek against Sorasa’s warm back. The assassin’s firm, steady heartbeat grounded her.