“Never mind with that!” Marcom snapped. “Where are you going? It looks like the bleedin’ fortress is on fire!” He jerked his head back toward Seven Skies.
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. We’re in pursuit.”
“Pursuit of what?”
“The enemy, sir.”
Damn again.
He’d just assumed that, in the chaos, whoever had started this current catastrophe would’ve been long gone, lost in the multitudes.
“Dismount,” he ordered, and when Matthew hesitated, he lost all patience.
“Get off the fucking horse, Matthew.”
Matthew seemed to snap out of his daze and slid gracelessly from the saddle. Marcom thrust the flyer girl into his arms.
“Take her. Find somewhere safe and protect her with your life. Do you understand me, Matthew?”
Matthew blinked. “Yes, sir. But I—”
“Shut up and do as you’re told.”
Matthew stiffened and took the girl. She didn’t even seem to know she was being passed to someone else. She only buried her face anew in Matthew’s neck and went on crying.
Without another word, Marcom stepped into a stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. He shot one last glance down at Matthew and was pleased to see him already turning away, cradling the child and apparently murmuring into her ear. He was a good lad, really, and too young for all they’d asked of him of late.
He kicked his heels into the horse’s sides, and it started forward again, Marcom urging it on faster. He needed to catch up with the others. The beast seemed happy enough to resume the chase. Its walk rapidly progressed to a trot and then a gallop.
Buildings flashed by, and now Marcom was the one making pedestrians scatter. There was no help for it, though, and so he simply went on coaxing more out of his mount.
At first, he feared he’d lost the others entirely. Smoke and ash obscured everything, turning all the world into a dark and murky painting, made up more of textures and shades than stone and solid reality. If they’d turned down another street, he’d never find them in this mess.
But then a gust of wind swept between the buildings, tearing a bit of the smoky haze into dirty tatters, and he caught a glimpse of his men up ahead, and beyond them, the gleam of a running, armored figure.
Marcom leaned into the wind, as if by doing so he could convince his horse that it had another burst of speed left in it. He could feel its muscles working beneath him.
As the distance shrank between him and his men, Marcom watched their quarry. The man—no, the thing—was clearly toying with them. He could see it leaping high onto rooftops, down into alleys, and even slowing to taunt its pursuers before taking to its heels and all but flying down the streets once more, its cloak billowing out behind it. It wanted to be chased. But why?
The guards, like Marcom, were digging their heels deeper into their own steeds, trying to close the distance between themselves and the prey they sensed so near. Something about this was wrong.
From somewhere far away, Marcom heard the low rumble of—what? Thunder? Canons? Explosions?
The streets here on the eastern edge of the city were deserted. Most, if not all, of their inhabitants had headed north or south along the coast, toward Ravenhold or other, friendlier towns. East of Seven Skies was only wilderness, until you reached Hellsgate and the mountains beyond.
They rounded a bend, and Marcom caught sight of the enemy, standing tall and still in the center of the bridge that spanned the deep and narrow ravine that marked the eastern edge of the city. He was watching them approach, apparently unmoved. Sunlight glinted from armor that was molded to imitate muscle. Shimmering rainbow-colored bands reflected off the glass visor that covered his face. What the devil was the point of armor that could be shattered?
And then realization struck Marcom like a fist to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.
“No!” he tried to cry out, but he had no breath. All he could do was watch helplessly as the group of men—his men— charged the motionless figure on the bridge.
There were five of them, carrying swords and crossbows. They were lost to the thrill of the hunt, slaves to the exhilaration of seeing their prey within reach.
He pulled back on his reins, fighting with his horse to slow—to stop.
The man on the bridge leapt down into the ravine, vanishing from sight like a clockwork soldier dropping down through a trapdoor.
The horses’ hooves thundered for a moment on the heavy beams of the bridge, and then they were gone.
With a deafening crash, the bridge collapsed into the ravine. Horses and men screamed alike, their voices undistinguishable from one another as they plummeted to the rocks far below. A trap. A well-orchestrated one. It was like watching a bit of street magic—one moment they were there, the next they were gone, trailing their voices behind them like streamers.
Dear God…
Finally, he got control of his horse. The beast slowed to a walk and then halted, confused by the sudden disappearance of its brethren.
All at once, Marcom found his breath again. He sat astride the saddle, gulping down great lungfuls of air. He wanted to scream; he wanted to expel the horror raging inside him to the sky above, but it seemed pointless now. There was no one to hear him; there was no one to save.
All was terribly, unspeakably silent from the bottom of the ravine. How deep was it? He wasn’t sure. A hundred feet? More?
The armored figure suddenly sprang up from below beside the ragged remains of the bridge, which still jutted out over the precipice. He landed on his feet upon the street in front of Marcom, his metallic boots clanging on the cobbles loudly in the sudden silence.
Another boom rolled across the city from far off.
Marcom stared at the demon for a long moment, and it stared back. There was nothing human about it. Behind the glass shield before its face were features that were twisted and misshapen, seemingly sculpted clumsily from crumbling gray clay. Enormous, glistening black eyes studied him dispassionately, their pupils pulsating as though in time with the thing’s malignant heart. Craggy flesh gave way seamlessly to shiny metallic armor that flexed and rippled with the musculature it was apparently made to both imitate and protect.
It was hideous, inhuman, and Marcom was paralyzed with a terror that was unlike any he’d ever known in his life.
There was another thunderous rumble.
…And another…
The thing—for Marcom could no longer pretend it was a man—abruptly sprang back into action, hurtling past him and his horse and heading back the way they’d come.
The horse whinnied and shied away, clearly spooked, and the sudden movement broke Marcom’s paralysis. The fear was replaced with a hot, all-consuming fury.
He wheeled his horse around and kicked it back into pursuit.
The monster led him first down one street and then another. At times, he’d lose sight of it as it leapt impossibly high onto a rooftop or wall, but it always came back into view.
All the streets were empty now, the city turned from a bustling hub of business to a ghost town in the space of…what? An hour? Half? Streets gave way to dirt roads; the roads became alleys; alleys emptied back onto wide and cobbled thoroughfares.
The route was circuitous, but there could be no doubt where the thing was heading—back to Seven Skies—back to the fortress, Marianne, and what was left of his men.
“No you don’t, you bastard,” he breathed, hardly aware he was speaking aloud. “No you don’t.”
He turned down another side street, this one made up of only hardpan, expecting to see his prey far ahead of him, perhaps disappearing around another corner.
Instead, the hateful thing was only a few dozen yards away, standing at the mouth of a narrow alley between a shabby tavern and an even shabbier brothel that, on less eventful days, would have been crawling with sailors.
Desperately, Marcom pulled back on the reins and pressed his knees into the horse’s sides.
He reached for his sword. What good it would do against all that armor, he had no idea, but he had to do something to stop this son of a bitch.
He drew his weapon and slid from the saddle in one practiced movement, his feet already sprinting forward before they’d even touched the dirt.
And then what he was seeing finally registered with his tired, overtaxed mind.
Blocking the creature’s path into the alley was a stocky figure, clad in the colors of Seven Skies.
Marcom couldn’t see his face, but he knew who it was just the same.
“Matthew!” he shouted. “No!”
The boy had his own sword drawn, and as Marcom ran faster, he saw him bring it to bear on the hellish creature.
Marcom was sure it would only clang off the silvery armor harmlessly, but it did not. The blade sank deep into the thing’s chest as if it was warm butter—as if all that armor, molded into the shape of muscle, was nothing more than flesh and sinew after all.
There was a horrible, terrible crackling sound, and Matthew’s body began to jerk and dance spasmodically. It looked as though he were trying to drop his sword but could not. He could only cling to it as his muscles twitched and thrummed, entirely out of his control.
Blue fire erupted from the wound in the creature’s side, and Marcom came sliding to a halt as both the demon and the boy were suddenly engulfed in flames.
With a cry, Marcom shielded his eyes. The heat was incredible, singeing his hair and making his face feel raw.
The fire went out almost at once, leaving nothing but a pair of bodies on the ground—and still, that crackling sound went on and on.
Matthew’s sword lay between the remains, its blade glowing white hot, warped and twisted out of true. Even now, the blackened bones of his fingers clung to it, the flesh all but gone.
Stunned, Marcom stared for a moment, then sheathed his sword and took a few cautious steps forward. Behind him, he could hear the sound of his former mount’s hooves as the frightened animal fled. It didn’t matter. There would be no more pursuit this day.
He fell to his knees between the corpses. The stench of burning flesh was thick and overwhelming, overlaid with another smell he didn’t recognize—something sharp and acrid. Smoke stung his one good eye; it teared up, turning the pair of bodies into a quartet. He blinked rapidly, and the horrific scene snapped back into cold, unforgiving focus.
The creature was dead, seemingly burnt out from within. Charred bits of metal and what looked like bloodless arteries hung from its hollow torso. As he watched, they twitched feebly, then went still. The thing’s huge black eyes were empty and unmoving.
Marcom’s gaze shifted, apparently of its own accord, to Matthew’s body. If he hadn’t known, he could not have said to whom the burned and blackened corpse had once belonged. There was nothing left that was identifiably Matthew’s. All that remained of the boy—the brave, brave boy—was a twisted skeleton and a few strips of charred meat.
He felt the heat rising in his neck and face before the anger, as white hot as the still-smoking sword beside him, began to coalesce inside his heart.
They had done this. The Dragon’s Brood.
The crackling sound coming from the corpses ceased, and in the ensuing silence, a small sound came to Marcom. It was a soft noise, only remarkable because of the hush it disturbed.
He looked up from Matthew’s lifeless form and toward the source of that sound.
Way down at the end of the alley, huddled amongst the piles of decaying refuse and crying softly, was the flyer girl.
Marcom rose and went to her, picking her up without a word and carrying her away from the filth and scent of death.
She wept in his arms, burrowing into his shoulder, her inarticulate wails of misery in perfect company with his own black thoughts.
Guard her with your life, he’d told Matthew, and the boy had done what he was told. Oh, yes, he had done his duty—to the bloody end.
Marcom walked slowly down the empty streets toward Seven Skies, rocking the child in his arms.
He thought of the image emblazoned on the walls of Seven Skies; he thought of the picture of the burned and dying remains of the mistress etched into the old watch tower; he thought of his men—good, strong men—who now lay broken and dead at the bottom of the ravine outside of town.
He thought of Matthew.
Unconsciously, he looked north, toward Coalhaven and where the Dragon’s Brood were, even now, plotting their next move against them.
You will pay, he swore, sending the thought hurtling out across the miles.
I will see that you do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“How is she?” Marcom asked. He stood just outside the ornate double doors that led into the apprentices’ tower from the courtyard. Caireann stood before him on their other side, looking pale and drawn. Her flaming red hair, ordinarily so tidy, was a mass of tangled locks, framing her face like a pair of ragged and threadbare curtains.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she told him, brushing a few loose strands away from her damp forehead. The dark circles under her eyes were the only color in her bloodless face, and Marcom thought she looked ill. Like all the rest of them, she was certainly exhausted. Even now, the stench of smoke from the fires that had burned through the city the day before hung thick in the air.
“Has she told you her name? Who her parents are?”
“Nay. She hasn’t spoken at all.”
He let out a long, slow breath. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The girl certainly needed to go back to where she belonged, but some part of him, a part he hadn’t even really known existed, wasn’t ready to let her go. He didn’t even know why.
“Can I see her?” he asked tentatively. He wasn’t comfortable entering the apprentices’ tower—had only done so a handful of times—but he needed to see her. More than that, it felt as though he owed it to Matthew to watch over the charge Marcom had so foolishly given him.
Caireann’s face softened. “Of course yeh can, Marcom. Come on in.”
She turned, and he followed her into the dim, cool interior of the tower.
They passed a few of the girls, sitting in twos and threes. Most were silent, though a few were conversing in subdued whispers. The events of the last few weeks, beginning with the devastation at the Stay Inn and culminating in the disaster through the city yesterday had taken its toll. It was hard to imagine life ever returning to normal for any of them, least of all these fresh young apprentices.
And, of course, they’d all seen Mistress Marianne pacing along the parapets of Seven Skies, staring out at the destruction of her city. From below, it was impossible to see the expression on her face—impossible to guess what she might be thinking. Everyone had their theories, though—even Marcom.
Caireann led him up a spiral staircase that wound its way through the center of the tower, across the landing at the top, and finally into one of the wedge-shaped rooms typically reserved for apprentices.
He paused for a moment on the threshold as the realization of whose room this had likely been hit him like a punch to the gut.
As if he’d spoken, Caireann looked back over her shoulder at him.
“Yes, ’twas,” she said wearily.
“I’m sorry?” he asked, confused.
Caireann stopped and turned to face him fully. If it was possible, even more color had drained from her face. For the space of a heartbeat, they only stared at one another, and Marcom was sure that Caireann was having some sort of internal struggle. What that could possibly be about, he couldn’t even begin to guess.
“It was Emily’s room,” she said at last, looking him full in the eye. “Hers and her friend Celine’s.”
“But I didn’t say…”
“That’s right, yeh didn’t, and I’d appreciate it, Captain, if yeh went on not sayin’ it.”
She turned away from him and went to kneel beside one of the beds, and Marcom, feeling distinctly unsettled, moved to stand b
eside her.
The flyer girl was propped up against a pile of pillows, an open book clutched tightly in her delicate little hands. She looked up from the picture she was studying and smiled at the sight of Caireann.
“Well now,” Caireann said, plucking at a strand of loose hair that was stuck to the blanket. “That’s a nice book yeh’ve got there. Where did yeh find that?”
The girl looked down at the book for a moment, as if she was trying to remember, then pointed wordlessly at the other bed. Bemused, Caireann got back to her feet and walked over to the other side of the room.
At that, the girl saw Marcom standing there, and her face lit up with sublime happiness. She carefully set the book, still open, on the bed beside her with its pages down. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was written across its cover in some queer sort of script, the likes of which Marcom couldn’t remember having ever seen before. What an odd title. He’d never heard of any place called Oz. Perhaps it was one of the places that lay on the other side of the sea. He’d heard tales of strange and frightening lands from the sailors who rolled into port from the west. He supposed it had to be that. To the east, beyond the mountains, there was only hell, if the stories of his youth were true. He’d never questioned them.
She reached out for him, and Marcom only stared back at her for a moment, perplexed.
“She wants yeh to hug her, Marcom,” Caireann said, moving back to stand beside him, her words laced with a rye amusement. “It’s a sign of affection practiced by mere mortals.”
Marcom scowled at her, then shrugged and bent down to receive the embrace. The girl’s stick-thin arms slid around his neck, and she hugged him fiercely. There was more strength in those tiny arms than he’d have thought possible.
After a long moment, she let him go, and as he straightened, she patted the edge of the bed beside her. Marcom glanced at Caireann, who shrugged.
Wordlessly, he sank down beside the girl, and she picked up her book again, thumbing through the pages and apparently searching for something. After a moment, she turned it around to show him, a look of mild triumph on her face.
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