Screams.
But they kept coming, the archers among them firing up, arrows striking true. Killian sidestepped a blur of black fletching, but even as he killed the archer with an arrow of his own he was turning, his gaze on the darkness outside the fortress’s wall. They’re coming from behind.
“The reinforcements from Tarn are here!” The shout came from below, several of his men running toward the gate.
From behind her?
Or from behind him?
“Don’t open the gate!” Killian stumbled toward the steps, heedless of the arrows flying past him. “It’s a ruse! Don’t open the gods-damned gate!”
He was too late.
His soldiers lifted the heavy beam, and as they set it aside, the gate swung open and a man wearing the uniform of a Mudamorian officer stepped inside. In a blur of motion, he caught hold of one of Killian’s soldiers, hand around his throat, lifting him up like a shield.
“Close the gate!” Killian screamed, halfway down the steps and too far away to help. “Kill it!”
Life drained from the struggling soldier’s face, years compounding on years until all the corrupted held in its grip was the desiccated corpse of an ancient man. With a wild laugh, the corrupted tossed the body aside.
Lifting his bow, Killian shot an arrow, the metal tip punching through one of the corrupted’s flame-rimmed eyes, the creature dropping like a stone. Leaping off the side of the stairs, Killian hit the slush and mud of the courtyard, rolling to his feet. “It’s the enemy! Close the gods-damned gate!”
His men were moving, but it seemed at a snail’s pace, the only soldier near enough to close the gate staring in horror at the corpse of his fallen comrade.
The cold air burned his face as Killian ran, closing the distance.
You aren’t going to make it.
He pulled his sword as the gate flew the rest of the way open, disguised Derin soldiers surging through, corrupted in their midst.
Killian carved into the first, nearly cutting the man in half before turning on the next, parrying twice before running the man through.
It was a blur of blood and steel, the air filled with screams and smoke, the stables aflame. Men and horses careened around the courtyard as Killian rallied his soldiers, but for every enemy he killed, another sprang up in his place.
The corrupted lost themselves in the madness, most bent over victims, stealing life, their faces wild with ecstasy.
But not all.
Three hemmed Killian in, swords in hand, backing him step by step against the twin portcullises that were all that held out the horde of enemy beyond the wall.
Exhaustion bit at Killian as he fought, blood running down his face, freezing in his hair. There was snow falling now, and it whirled and gusted as he twisted and parried, trying to take the corrupted down. Trying to get past them.
He pulled a knife and threw it, catching one in the chest, but the creature only plucked the blade out and laughed, not even feeling the pain. “You’ve lost,” it hissed, even as Killian gutted one of its companions, the thing shrieking as it tried to stuff its innards back inside the healing wound.
“I don’t lose,” Killian replied between his teeth.
But his men were.
One by one, they were dropping. And if they lost the gatehouse, it was over.
“Things change.” The corrupted leapt backward as Killian swung. “The Six grow weak. Their Marked Ones grow weak.” It lunged with preternatural speed, its blade slicing against Killian’s ribs, his chain mail all that kept him from being cut in two. “You grow weak.”
Fire enveloped the scaffolding that ran up the inside of the wall, building materials raining down as the wood gave way.
Killian coughed, trying to catch his breath, and then there was a sharp crack. Blocks of stone fell from the sky, one smashing the skull of the corrupted as Killian stumbled against the inner portcullis, the overhang all that saved him from the same fate.
Swiping at his stinging eyes, he blinked back tears from the smoke and heat, his vision clearing in time for him to see the last of the men defending the gatehouse fall and the enemy force their way inside. Behind him, the inner portcullis rattled upward.
“No!” Leaping over burning timber, Killian staggered as an arrow punched through his chain mail, embedding deep in his right shoulder. Switching sword hands, he ignored the hot flow of blood running down his back and broke into a run.
The broken door to the gatehouse fell aside with one blow of his boot. In the dim light, the Derin soldiers struggled with the ancient winch of the outer gate. He killed one and was about to turn on the other when a blow caught him in the side, his ribs cracking beneath the force.
Clenching his teeth against the pain, Killian rolled, then struggled to his feet. His sword was nowhere in sight.
“Looking for this, Lord Calorian?” A corrupted stood in the doorway, Killian’s sword held in her hand.
Fumbling, hands slick with blood, Killian searched for another knife. But they were all gone. All lost in the fight.
“Mudamora will fall,” the corrupted whispered through the smoke, her eyes burning with the Seventh god’s fire. “And it will only be the first.”
“The wall is not the kingdom.” Killian coughed. “And one battle is not the war.”
Then he lunged.
His shoulder took the corrupted in the stomach, and they rolled out of the gatehouse. He could feel her hands searching for exposed skin, and he pinned her against the ground, his body screaming with the effort.
She writhed and struggled, stronger than him but unskilled. Except his shoulder was giving out and his ribs burned.
With a snarl, she jerked her arm free of his grip, her bare hand slapping against his face, her eyes burning with triumph—
Right as the outer portcullis rattled skyward.
Derin soldiers surged through the opening, fighting with one another to get to the other side. They rolled over Killian and the corrupted like a wave, snowshoes twisting and tripping them up until it was nothing but a churn of bodies and limbs.
Then a hand caught hold of his wrist, dragging him out from under the surge of men. Killian looked up to see Bercola above him, the giantess’s face streaked with soot and blood. “We need to retreat!” she bellowed. “We’re overrun!”
On the wall, his surviving men were trying to flee, but they were caught in an ocean of enemy. There was no way out.
Bercola hauled him away, cracking skulls with her staff as she went, but Killian slipped her grip. Snatching up a fallen blade as he ran, he sliced at the burning scaffolding. Over and over, his body wavering and shaking with pain until the leg of the structure splintered and cracked.
In a roar of flame and ash, it collapsed over the gate, blocking the opening.
But not for long.
There were hundreds of enemy in the courtyard. As many on the wall. And a least a dozen corrupted were hunting both friend and foe.
“Retreat!” Killian’s scorched throat could barely get the word from his lips, but the men nearest to him heard. They picked up the call, the survivors fighting their way down the stairs, flinging themselves off the wall.
They rallied around him and Bercola, fighting toward the fortress gate and then out into the forest beyond where the horses circled in panic. Above them, strange shrieks filled the air. The sound of wings.
Catching hold of his horse’s mane, Killian hauled himself onto its bare back, the dozen men with him catching mounts to do the same. “Ride,” he gasped, dispatching them in opposite directions to warn the undefended towns.
“Killian!” Bercola shouted. “Let’s go!”
He needed to go back. Needed to fight. Needed to stop this.
But the giantess stepped between him and the fortress. “Going back will be suicide, even for you,” she said. “I haven’t watched your back all these years to stand aside now.”
“Let me go!”
She caught hold of his mount’s reins. “Yo
u’re no good to us if you’re dead.”
He’d been no good to them alive.
Shaking his head to clear it, Killian dug his heels into his horse’s side. “We ride for Mudaire.”
And when he returned it would be with an army at his back.
But as they fled toward the tree line, Killian couldn’t help a backward glance at the fortress. At the wall that had never fallen.
All he saw were flames.
6
LYDIA
Lydia stared at the pages on her desk, the words blurring together no matter how hard she tried to focus.
The physician had come straightaway, attempting to dose her father for pain, but he’d only waved the man away. “It clouds my mind and my mind is all that I have left.” Then he’d motioned to Lydia. “Go see the rest of our guests out. Make my apologies for me.”
She’d gone but lingered in the hallway, listening.
Six months, Senator, the physician had said. Perhaps less. It would be well for you to ready your affairs.
Six months and then she’d lose him. Six months and she’d be alone. A singular hot tear dribbled down her cheek, and Lydia wiped it aside furiously, then shoved her spectacles back into place, intent on losing herself in her work despite her failure to do so over the last two hours.
Dipping her pen in the inkpot, she wrote a line pertaining to an issue with pestilence afflicting poultry. Then a loud voice made her jump. “You spelled chicken wrong. And your Bardenese grammar is shit.”
Indignation flooded her, and Lydia snapped, “It’s not—” before recognition hit her. Twisting in the chair, she grinned at the girl standing behind her with an expression of amusement on her dark-skinned face. “Teriana!”
They went down in a heap of arms and legs, hugging and shrieking in complete disregard of propriety. “I wasn’t expecting you,” Lydia finally said after their enthusiasm had settled, not mentioning that she’d feared Teriana had abandoned her for good.
“There’s a lot of that going around.” Teriana pulled off her boots, tossing them aside before crossing her legs, her toes glittering with a multitude of rings. Her countless waist-length braids with their wealth of ornaments clicked and rattled together as she moved, the sound as comforting as a song. “Your father keeps poor company tonight.”
Her father was supposed to be abed, not receiving guests. “Oh?”
“A young one who’s drunk on both righteous indignation and your father’s good wine. And the other…” A frown creased Teriana’s brow. “Older. Weak chin. Eyes like a pig. He seemed…” She trailed off and then gave a shrug. “Seemed not your father’s sort.”
Lydia scrunched up her face, unnerved. “The younger is my father’s nephew, Vibius.” Who was supposed to have departed with Ulpia.
“Mmm-hmm.” Teriana pulled a ring off Lydia’s finger, examining the gemstone. She was easily the prettiest girl Lydia had ever met with her rounded cheeks, arched eyebrows, and wide smile, her smooth black skin completely flawless. Half a head shorter than Lydia, Teriana was the perfect blend of muscle and curve, her long-fingered hands calloused from a lifetime of working on her mother’s ship. But it was Teriana’s eyes that captured the attention.
Like all Maarin, Teriana’s eyes appeared to be windows to the sea, the irises moving with waves and swells. And like the sea, they changed color with her temperament. Lydia had seen them shift from indigo to azure to emerald to graphite all in the space of a conversation.
Handing back the ring, Teriana asked, “Who was the other man?”
Lydia twisted the band around her finger. Once. Twice. Three times. “Lucius Cassius.”
Teriana lifted both dark eyebrows in surprise. The Maarin were well acquainted with the ins and outs of Cel politics, and Lucius’s reputation was far-reaching.
“Elections.” Lydia said the word as an explanation, though it wasn’t. Nothing explained why her father had that man in this house. “Let’s go out into the gardens. It’s cold in here.”
Taking Teriana by the hand, she led her friend out of the library and down the curving stairs, their bare feet making no noise on the tile. Except as she rounded the corner, Lydia found herself face-to-face with both her father and Vibius.
Vibius gave Teriana a scornful once-over and then turned his scowl on Lydia, eyes clouded with wine and distaste, as though a pair of rats had interrupted his evening stroll. Lydia instinctively recoiled.
Which was a mistake.
Teriana’s hand snapped to her knife hilt, and Lydia was certain that if she hadn’t grabbed hold of her friend’s wrist Teriana would’ve stuck the blade into Vibius’s guts.
Mercifully, Vibius didn’t seem to notice, and he swayed on his feet as he said, “As if you aren’t embarrassment enough, you have to fraternize with a sailor.” Then he wheeled on her father. “You indulge her.”
Her father straightened, anger seeming to wipe away the effects of his illness. “And I’ll continue to indulge her while it is within my power to do so.” Then he gave Lydia a warning nod that had her dragging Teriana around the corner before the situation could devolve further.
“That pompous prick,” Teriana snarled once they were outside. “He better watch his back, because I’m of a mind to cut off his—”
Lydia held up a hand, wary of Vibius still being in earshot. “While that’s a delightful visual, I really need you to curb your tongue in his presence.”
Teriana stared at her as though she was a stranger. “Not like you to be a shrinking violet.”
“Yes, well…” The situation felt too monumental to explain, a sudden weariness stealing over her. “He’s my father’s heir.”
Realization dawned on Teriana’s face, the color of her eyes shifting and darkening into stormy seas. “You’ll be his property when he inherits.”
Property. It was true, but Lydia hated the blasted word. Hated how it made her feel less than human.
“Any way around that?” her friend asked, though she had to know the answer.
“If I were to be married.”
Silence filled the space between them, telling Lydia exactly what her friend thought of such a solution.
Finally, Teriana said, “Surely there are men falling over themselves to gain a connection with your family?” Her voice was light, but the turbulent waves in her eyes belied her tone.
“Perhaps they would be if everyone didn’t know my father was ill. It would be a short-lived union.”
“What about someone who isn’t a patrician? A financial incentive might—”
“Enough, Teriana!”
Instantly she regretted the heat in her voice. Other than her father, Teriana was the only person who cared for her well-being, and she could hardly begrudge her friend for trying to find a solution to her problems. That she liked none of the solutions was not Teriana’s fault.
Taking a measured breath, Lydia said, “This conversation makes me feel like a broodmare. Let’s discuss something else.” She motioned to the servant waiting with a tray of refreshments to bring them forth. “Tell me of your travels. Where have you been? What have you seen? How is your family? How is Bait?”
Teriana’s jaw worked from side to side as though she was considering pressing the issue. Then she shrugged, falling back on one of the couches and pulling Lydia with her. “Bait’s probably in the Quincense’s galley crying into his cup to Polin about not being invited along with me. I swear he was half-hoping my mum wouldn’t let me visit tonight so that he’d have the chance to see you under the guise of sneaking me off the ship. In another hour or so, he’ll probably be filling the whole damned harbor with his sad poetry about your pretty face.”
Lydia’s cheeks flushed at the thought of Teriana’s very handsome crewmember doing any such thing, and she picked up a glass from the tray, trying and failing to hide her reaction. “You’re making that up. Bait would do no such thing.”
Teriana smirked, picking up the other glass and smelling the contents. “I never tell you anythi
ng but the unvarnished truth. And speaking of true stories, about a month ago we sailed into Madrascus’s harbor just ahead of a storm. Each drop of rain was large enough to drown a man.…”
Resting her head against Teriana’s shoulder, Lydia allowed herself to be swept away by her friend’s adventures on the high seas, losing herself in tales of the Quincence’s crew’s hijinks in provincial ports and the endless pranks that Teriana and Bait played in idle moments. Stories that made her forget the terror she’d felt when her father had collapsed and her helplessness over what was to come.
For hours, she and Teriana talked, and only when it was growing dangerously close to morning did they crawl into Lydia’s bed, nose to nose, the sheets pulled over their heads. But in the darkness Lydia’s fears reared their heads, and as though sensing her mood, Teriana asked, “How unwell is your father?”
A pair of tears escaped her eyes. “The physicians say his liver is failing.” The words stuck in her throat. “They have given him six months, if he’s lucky.”
“I’m so sorry.” Teriana pulled her close. “It’s not fair. It’s never the awful men who are taken before their time, and there is a great injustice to that.”
Lydia wiped her face with the sheet. “It felt like one day he was well and the next he was not, and I know his concern for me is only making it worse.”
Teriana’s grip on her tightened, silence falling over both of them. And then her friend asked, “Are you afraid?”
The air beneath the sheet turned stifling, and it was only when Teriana pushed it back that Lydia was able to let out a gusting exhale and say, “Yes. I think the day after my father passes, Vibius will sell me to the highest bidder. And if no one will pay, he’ll have me killed.”
“What if you left? What if you ran away?”
Lydia choked out a laugh, because it had been tried many times by many women. And always they were dragged back, broken and shamed, eventually married off to some minor patrician family living in the provinces. Somewhere out of sight. “To where? There is nowhere the Senate doesn’t control. Nowhere that its legions couldn’t find me.”
Dark Skies Page 4