Realm Breaker

by Aveyard, Victoria

  “Did we make it?” Corayne panted, fighting to be heard over the splashing hooves.

  The Shiran fanned out, snorting and tossing their heads. Their formation lost its tightness without the canyon, and Corayne felt like she could breathe again, no longer surrounded. She searched the horses, looking for riders, in the saddle or dangling from it.

  There was no one behind them but the dust cloud and, in it, the telltale flash of sun on steel. The Lion is already coming. Corayne hissed through her teeth.

  “We’re here!”

  Andry panted as he rode up alongside their mare, back in the saddle, his face streaked with red dust. Blood bloomed along his sleeve, seeping from some wound. Corayne’s eyes flickered to it.

  “One of the horses bit me,” he said, catching his breath. “Could’ve been worse.”

  Another mare joined their number, breathing hard beneath the weight of Charlie Armont. “No shit. I nearly died,” he crowed, his face purple. There were angry burns on his arms, lines from the reins. He must’ve been dragged all the way through the canyon. “I nearly lost my supplies! My ink, my seals . . .”

  Sigil rode out of the mirrored sand, her figure rippling into solid form. The horse danced beneath her. “A child could outride you, Priest,” she said dryly. “What of the witch?”

  Corayne could not say what swelled in her, an instinct or a feeling or something deeper. But she didn’t bother looking for Valtik, in the herd or on the horizon. “She’ll come when we need her.”

  Sorasa tightened under her hands, glancing over her shoulder. “I think we need her now.”

  Soldiers ahead, soldiers behind. A Spindle between them.

  Corayne looked to Dom, one hand on his reins, the other on her Spindleblade. He followed her gaze and dipped his brow. Again she saw him on the cliffs of Lemarta, kneeling on the road and begging her forgiveness. Asking me to save the world.

  The water deepened the closer they rode to Nezri, until it was up to their horses’ knees, forcing them to slow to a trot. The Shiran pranced and bucked, snorting at the strangeness in their lands. Whatever protection they’d offered disappeared as the sand mares left the herd behind.

  “Mirrors on the sand,” Sorasa murmured, the sun reflecting in her eyes. The strange water flecked her cheeks. She raised a hand to shade her gaze, inspecting the outpost ahead.

  Corayne did the same, peering around the assassin’s shoulder. The palms sparkled, jeweled with dark droplets. A column of water like a gigantic fountain spouted into the air, a hundred feet high, wide as a tower, an impossible spring exploding out of the oasis basin. It roared with the crashing of a hundred waves, raining down on the city beneath. Like the water on the ground, it had an odd gray color, like oil or corruption. Corayne could feel it on her skin, tracking dirty lines down her face and neck.

  Nezri was otherwise vibrant, but there was no one on the outskirts that Corayne could see. No citizens, no merchant caravans or pilgrims to the oasis temple. Perhaps the Spindle drove them away—or Erida’s men killed them all.

  “There are at least two hundred men of Galland in that town,” Sorasa growled, pulling her bronze sword from the sheath strapped to her saddle. “Stay fast; don’t stop. Find the Spindle and get Corayne to it.”

  Blades sang loose. An ax bit the air. A hook on a string swung in a lazy circle. Corayne felt for her stabbing dagger, somehow still at her hip. The hilt was unfamiliar, wrong in her hand, despite the little training she’d had from Sorasa and Sigil.

  Seven against two hundred soldiers of Galland, a Spindle at their backs. Impossible, but then so was everything else up to this moment. We’ve overcome impossible before, Corayne told herself, trying to believe it, trying to be brave. For her mother somewhere, for her father dead. For her friends around her, and the realm threatening to collapse on them all.

  “Dom, the sword?” she said, trying not to tremble. Her voice wavered but her hand did not, stretching across open air, her palm raised.

  The Spindleblade shone, its etchings filled with the desert sun. Again, Corayne could feel the cold radiating off the ancient blade, as if its heart were frozen and not forged. Dom held it out to her, passing it between their mares.

  Her fingers brushed the hilt, the leather soft.

  A screaming mouth full of fangs rose up between their horses, spooking them down to the bone. The sea serpent was young, its scales a cloudy white, its eyes red and weeping black. Its jaws snapped inches from Corayne’s fingers, and Sorasa yanked her back out of its reach.

  Dom changed his grip, flipping the blade through the air to take it by the hilt, swinging in the same motion. His horse reared and he missed, the Spindleblade chopping through open air instead of serpent flesh.

  The mares tossed as the water foamed and rippled, splashing not from their hooves but from the quivering mass of serpents rolling over themselves, coiling and unfurling, white and black and red, gray and green and blue, scales like iridescent crystal or slick oil. The serpents circled, more and more drawn to the commotion, their movements like hunting waves.

  There is no sound like screaming horses.

  Corayne screamed too, as fangs snapped in her face.

  The Companions broke apart, without aim, without a plan, at the mercy of their mares and the monsters beneath the surface. It was all Corayne could do to keep her seat, her arms locked around Sorasa’s waist while the assassin fought to keep the horse alive, let alone standing.

  Only Sigil had any luck, roaring the cry of the Countless again. It thrummed in the air, spurring her horse into a charge. She rode with the fury of a hurricane, ax in one hand, sword in the other, leaning back and forth to use both with abandon. Serpent heads flew behind her, their sliced necks spurting black blood to stain the waters.

  “Follow me!” she cried, cutting a path into the oasis, serpent corpses floating in her wake.

  For someone terrified of the bounty hunter, Charlie was the quickest to follow, his legs drawn completely out of the stirrups, lest a serpent catch him by the ankle. With his red face, he made quite a sight.

  “Why did I agree to this?” he howled to no one.

  Sorasa’s mare spurred to action, getting her head and her bearings. The horse sprinted in the water, kicking at anything close in her haste to reach the palm trees and the outpost city.

  The assassin chanted to her, the Ibalet language soothing the beast, calming her into focus. Water foamed around them, and Corayne swung, the dagger odd in her grip, its edge clumsy. She stabbed for a coil of serpent scale and nearly lost her balance, her stomach dropping.

  “Just stay with me, Corayne; I’ll handle the rest,” Sorasa said, urging the mare into the palm trees.

  Even flooded, Nezri looked charming, albeit deserted. The oasis was built around what had once been a placid, shining pool, the palm trees shading inviting streets. A domed and spired temple, small but intricately patterned in green paint and white mosaic, glimmered between the trees. Its prayer bell hung silent. There was a market plaza too, its stones flooded, the arches of adjoining bazaar choked with debris. Beautifully woven carpets lay forgotten, ruined in the water. As in Almasad, a causeway rose up and around the original banks of the oasis, standing on elaborate limestone columns, their crowns carved in the likeness of regal animals. It was smaller than the stone paths in the city, and abandoned.

  The sun shone too brightly for so strange a day, jarring against the gray water and the tidal wave of sea serpents twisting over the sandy waterbed.

  Corayne turned, searching for the others, but searching above all else for the Spindle. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, she cursed. Where it could be, what it looks like. Nothing.

  Sorasa maneuvered between the buildings, splashing down a narrow street to leave the serpents behind. Doors hung off their hinges, and windows dangled open, the apartments and shops long abandoned by their owners.

  A man leaned out of one, his armor good steel, his sword flashing, his tunic a hideous, hateful green. Only Soras
a’s lightning reflexes kept their heads attached to their bodies, and she yanked the mare’s reins so forcefully the horse toppled, screaming as she went.

  They fell, Corayne plunging into the water. She sputtered and fought to stand, her cloak too heavy. Sorasa growled somewhere, and Corayne whirled to find the Gallish soldier on top of the assassin, his longsword pointing at her throat.

  Corayne did not know she could move so quickly or with such force until her dagger pulled back, red in her hand, coated to the hilt in fresh blood.

  She froze, rattled, forgetting how to breathe, forgetting how to think, as the soldier fell to his knees, clutching his side. He looked at her, gasping for one last breath, spraying blood into the air.

  His face was young, unlined. He isn’t much older than me.

  I’m sorry, Corayne tried to say, but the words never came.

  “Run!”

  The assassin hauled them both, crashing through the water, toward the center of the oasis. Corayne couldn’t stop herself from looking back. A serpent, its scales an oily scarlet, swallowed the soldier whole, his eyes still open, staring without seeing.

  “Domacridhan!” Sorasa’s voice echoed, a roar, a scream, a desperate plea.

  They fought through the flood, up to their waists in gray, their cloaks floating behind them. Sorasa hunted, sword raised, watching the water for any ripple of movement not their own.

  “Domacridhan of Iona, I know you can hear me!” she yelled again, begging.

  Corayne slammed back against the wall of a stone house, panting hard. The dagger was still in her hand, her grip on it painful. The blood on the blade throbbed, brighter and brighter. Her breath came too quickly, and then not at all, her throat threatening to close as her vision spotted. The world spun.

  “Defend the Spindle. Defend the Queen!” someone shouted, his voice met with the confident roar of a dozen voices.

  The roof above them bristled with Gallish troops, their spears long and wicked. The sun burned behind their heads, turning the soldiers into silhouettes, figures with no faces and no names. Inhuman. Soldiers of What Waits, not warriors for a mortal queen. Corayne lunged and darted, trying not to lose her balance as their spears rained down. Her dagger dropped from her hand, lost to the waters.

  Something splashed behind her, crashing along the flooded street—a serpent or a soldier, she did not know. All she could do was run, Sorasa at her shoulder, fleeing in whatever direction they could.

  Until strong arms scooped her around the waist, lifting her up and out of the water as if she were only a doll. Corayne balled her fists, aiming to swing, only to find herself slung belly down over Sigil’s saddle, the Temur woman towering over her.

  “Easy, I have you,” the bounty hunter said, using her hips to guide the horse.

  The mare ran as best she could, galloping for the causeway steps, climbing up and out of the water. Her hooves clattered on stone, and Corayne’s teeth rattled so hard she though they might fall out. The causeway was meant for foot traffic and not a charging horse, but Sigil kept the mare in hand, taking sharp turns in swift stride.

  The geyser of Meer roared up alongside them, spitting gray water like rain. Corayne gaped as they galloped, Sigil holding her steady. In the heart of the geyser, something thrashed.

  More serpents, she thought at first. Until one of the things coiled into view, the mist parting to show a fat, long tentacle, its underbelly patterned with suckers, the end flat and probing. Another unfurled out of the water, gigantic, the length of a cathedral spire. They waved in unison, a sick, pale purple, snapping through the air, obliterating palm trees with every swipe. It pushed forward, outward, easing from its realm into their own.

  Still she could not see the Spindle, but even so, she knew.

  “I need the sword,” Corayne murmured, unable to blink, unable to do anything but stare. All thoughts but the Spindle­blade melted away.

  This was what Mother’s ship met on the Long Sea. This nearly sank the Tempestborn and killed her crew. Killed my mother. A monster was being born before her eyes. How many ships will it sink? How many mothers will it steal?

  These things are going to cut the Ward in two.

  “I need the sword, Sigil!” she shouted, wriggling, her voice stronger.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” Sigil growled, spurring the horse over the walkway, her hooves a rain of hailstones.

  What drew the kraken, Corayne did not know. But the arms twitched, changing direction, as more of its lumbering bulk shifted from the geyser, tentacles wriggling free. The first arm crashed down, then the second, the weight of them cracking straight through the stone walkway.

  “Sigil!” Corayne shouted as the woman kicked the horse, snapped the reins, and gave a sharp “hyah!” in perfect unison.

  As the walkway crumbled under the mare’s hooves, she gave a mighty leap, sailing through the air while the structure collapsed, sending up a spray of water. They landed hard, sliding over the flat roof of the nearest house, cluttered with empty pots and a thatched canopy.

  The poor mare collapsed to her knees, shuddering and breathing too hard, her eyes rolling in her head. Corayne tumbled onto shaky legs, every nerve in her body aflame. Sigil had more grace, stopping to give the mare a swift pat down the neck. She murmured a Temur word Corayne did not know, but she could guess.

  Thank you.

  They flew down the steps of the house, Sigil leading the way as they reluctantly plunged back into the water. Corayne finally ripped her cloak away, leaving it to the oasis as they ran.

  “Dom!” Corayne screamed, cupping her hands over her mouth. A swell of fear threatened to consume her. If the Elder could not hear her, if he could not come . . . Only death would stop him. Only death would keep him from me. “DOMACRIDHAN!”

  She tried not to think of the others, or their fates. Sorasa, on the other side of the town. Charlie, probably hiding on a rooftop. Andry. The noble squire who betrayed his country, his duty, all he ever worked for. Who left his mother to save the realm, and broke his own heart to do it.

  Andry.

  He appeared at the far end of the lane, still on horseback. His sword dripped red, his face a ruin of rage and sorrow. Corayne knew that look. She felt it in herself, in her hands, in her blade as it cut through a man’s life.

  “Corayne!” Andry shouted, his mare fighting through the water, her neck high and nostrils flaring. He stood in the stirrups, extending a hand as he rode.

  “It’s the geyser!” she heard Sigil shout, the bounty hunter’s big hands going to Corayne’s hips. With a groan she all but tossed her into the air and Andry’s waiting arms.

  He took her weight in stride, shoving her into the saddle in front of him, his arms around her. “We need the sword,” Corayne gasped, knotting her hands in the mare’s mane.

  “I know,” he answered, kicking the horse to higher ground. She picked up speed, circling the oasis town while the echo of hissing snakes and clattering steel rose to rival the geyser’s roar.

  Nezri was a simple ring, her streets fanning out, wide enough for camel caravans—and now wide enough for the roiling monsters of Meer. Corayne searched as they rode, her heart in her teeth. Her stomach flipped when she saw the river, a deluge of water flooding down the hill from the oasis, carrying with it a school of sea serpents and whatever else might burst through the Spindle. It wound over the sand in a speedy current, rushing towards the Aljer. An easy path through the gulf and into the Long Sea.

  Andry spotted the flash of gold before Corayne could, pulling the horse down an abandoned lane and back into deeper water. The mare tried to fight but he kicked her on, cursing colorfully under his breath.

  “If we survive this, remind me to scold you for that unseemly language,” Corayne said wearily.

  His chest moved against her back, rising and falling with stilted laughter. The warmth of him took her by surprise. “I certainly will.”

  They found Dom in a circle of soldiers, the Spindleblade in one h
and, his own sword in the other, both blurs of flashing steel. Corpses fell like scythed wheat, the green of Galland stained scarlet as the soldiers died. Serpents feasted, kept at bay by the steady supply of flesh.

  “Take this,” Andry forced out, gesturing to the sword sheathed to his saddle. “Swing. Smooth arc. Let the horse help your movement.”

  Corayne wanted to vomit at the thought of killing another man, but clenched her jaw, pulling Andry’s sword loose. She held it in a double-fisted grip, leaning as they rode, the steel edge already crimson.

  It curved in an arc like the crescent moon, and a head followed, still crammed into an iron helmet. She refused to look as Andry wheeled them around for another strike. The Elder hardly noticed, making mincemeat of the troops standing against him. This time, Corayne missed, but the mare didn’t, barreling down on a pair of soldiers, their bodies disappearing into the gray water foaming with blood. Behind them, Dom roared the battle cry of Iona, his language foreign to every ear. It was enough to send the surviving men scuttling away, bleeding and white-faced, terrified by the immortal mountain of rage.

  His chest rose and fell, his dark green cloak torn to tatters, the embroidered stags a ruin of thread. There was blood in his golden hair, blood in his beard, blood to his elbows. Corayne almost expected his eyes to be bloody too, but they were still that steady, hard emerald. Unchanged. His breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily.

  Numb, Corayne sheathed Andry’s sword and slid down from the saddle, her boots splashing.

  Dom stared at her, dazed, nearly overcome by the bodies piled around him. Then he shuddered, came back to himself, and held out the Spindleblade. “Your sword,” he said in a shaky voice.

  This time, no serpent came between them.

  There was only the bellow of the kraken, wet and endless, so deep Corayne felt it in her ribs, in the hollows of her chest. She wanted to fall to her knees.