Windwitch

by Susan Dennard

  Bone tore through flesh; the man screamed.

  This was only the beginning. With the man’s arm angled in a way it was never meant to be, Aeduan thrust the limp elbow toward the man’s neck. The jagged tip of bone that had erupted outward now pierced soft throat.

  The man’s beard was instantly red, and with a soft flick of his wrists, Aeduan pushed the body over.

  After that, everything was a blur of shaking earth and screams and blood. Of terror that expanded in men’s pupils when they realized that they were going to die.

  Six more men. Aeduan killed each one in less time than it took him to tie his boots. But the last man, the leader who stank of broken knuckles, Aeduan took his time with that one.

  Or that was the plan, but as Aeduan pinned his knee in the man’s back, the creek lapping over the gravel around his face, as he grabbed the man’s hair and snapped back his head to expose a pocked chin speckled with open sores, the human filth began to speak.

  “The king,” he rasped, “is waiting for us.”

  “I doubt that.” Aeduan unbuckled a knife. The first weapon in this fight, and he rested it against a pressure point just behind the ear.

  The man shivered, though not with fear. A monster like this had no capacity for fear, and Aeduan could smell pleasure pulsing in the man’s veins. He seemed to relish how the knife tip slowly pierced the skin, how it buried into a cluster of nerves that sent pain shrieking through his entire body. “The king … in the north. Ragnor.”

  At that name, Aeduan’s blade stilled.

  “Ragnor,” the man repeated. “He’s … the Raider King, and he’s waiting for us. For our cargo.”

  A long moment passed. The mountain bat was coming this way, kicking up wind and leaves and branches.

  Yet Aeduan stayed still, watching the slaver’s blood slide down his neck to mix with the creek.

  Then Aeduan shoved the knife in all the way. One puncture, in and out. Blood spurted. The stench rushed over him.

  Before standing, Aeduan carefully wiped his blade on the man’s back. The darkness in his gut was colder now.

  Run, my child, run.

  Aeduan glanced at the sky, sheathing his knife. The mountain bat was headed this way, its membranous wings almost transparent.

  It shrieked, setting Aeduan’s teeth to chattering. But he couldn’t run yet. Not without the child who’d drawn him here in the first place.

  Aeduan spun for the tent. The girl—for that was what he sensed amid the roses and the lullabies—was inside.

  The space within was cramped with supplies and crates. Tucked behind one such box was a tiny figure curled into a ball. Her Nomatsi-pale hands were tied, a sack wrapped over her head.

  Aeduan dropped beside her, his fingers flying to release his smallest blade. While he cut the ropes at her wrists, he spoke to her in Nomatsi. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help, Little Sister.”

  Overhead, the mountain bat screamed again. Wind billowed against the tent, shaking the sides with rhythmic beats, as if the creature hovered directly overhead.

  It wasn’t attacking, though, so Aeduan ignored it.

  The girl’s flimsy sage-green gown was soaked from the muddy floor. Her skin was ice, her bare toes almost blue. She shook, but didn’t fight as Aeduan turned to the sack tied over her head.

  She was even younger than he’d expected—and grimy too, her black hair wet and matted.

  Whatever tribe she’d come from, she had been captured by the Red Sails at least a few days before. Which made no sense to Aeduan. Surely, his father wouldn’t work with slavers. Not after everything.

  Run, my child, run.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Aeduan repeated. The language came so naturally to his tongue yet sounded so strange in his ears. “I’m here to help.”

  The girl gave no reaction. No indication that she’d heard his words at all. When he tried to guide her toward the tent’s exit, though, she let him. And when he said, “I’m going to carry you now,” she didn’t resist.

  Aeduan bundled her up and stood. She was so light, so fragile. A bird in his demon arms.

  Outside, the mountain bat’s cries abruptly ended. The tent shook less and less … then not at all.

  The creature had flown away.

  “Close your eyes,” Aeduan told the girl as they neared the tent’s flap. He didn’t want her to see the death he’d left behind.

  But she refused. Like Moon Mother’s littlest sister who wouldn’t close her eyes when Trickster betrayed them all, this little Owl kept her lashes held high.

  That was her choice then, Aeduan decided, and he stepped back into the slaughter.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Well, Merik had walked right into this trap. He’d seen what he wanted to see—the dead assassin—and sauntered directly into a room full of Royal Forces.

  In a breath, Merik counted twenty soldiers blocking him from the bar’s exits, with at least as many blades among them all.

  Excellent odds. For the soldiers.

  But Merik had one advantage: his magic. A single breath, and the heat was alight. A second breath, and he was moving, spinning into a backward kick at a cup of ox tea steaming on the nearest table with burst of winds, of rage, the boiling alcohol launched through the air.

  A hissing rain of ox tea seared into the oncoming soldiers.

  One man was clearly ready for this trick. He had dived low and was now zooming in close, ready to tackle.

  Merik let him come. When the man collided, Merik rolled onto his back and grabbed tight. They somersaulted, the man’s momentum carrying them over … Where Merik instantly fishtailed on top.

  One punch to the nose. Blood erupted. A second punch to the ear with Merik’s winds looping in along for a wind clap. The man’s eardrum ruptured; he screamed.

  Good. The word tingled in Merik’s fingers as he snatched the officer’s cutlass free. This felt good. Vicious. Vengeful.

  Merik turned. His blade arced up and clashed against a matching naval sword. He swiveled his pommel around this new soldier’s wrist. A single tug, and the man tumbled down. His cutlass fell, and Merik retrieved it easily.

  Now he had two swords. His odds were improving.

  Except, of course, for the crossbows that several soldiers now aimed his way.

  Down charged Merik’s foot. Crack! went a table, toward the floor, and out flung two more cups of ox tea. Then Merik dropped behind the overturned table as bolts twanged loose. The table crunched, flagons shattered, and a flash of heat and light ignited.

  One of the candles had fallen off the chandelier, sparking nearby ox tea. A wall of fire would soon erupt between Merik and the soldiers.

  Which meant now would be a good time for Merik to dive for the bar. He dropped both cutlasses before flipping behind the counter, just in time to feel the heat and hear the sound as true fury let loose.

  In seconds, the Cleaved Man was aflame.

  Squinting against the smoke and the fire, Merik searched behind the bar for any sign of Garren. In the corner of the Cleaved Man, the dark door still called to him. Shadows still sang.

  At that thought, the full expanse of Merik’s power awoke. Air funneled in, carrying sparks. He launched out from behind the bar. As fast as muscles and magic could carry him, he dove toward the four soldiers, all that stood between him and the door at the back corner.

  One solider tried to run. Merik snapped his winds like a whip. Two men toppled over.

  Merik’s odds improved again. He couldn’t resist grinning, sending thick, scorching air down his throat. Light, smoke, flame—these were his elements. His friends. He’d been born from them, a creature of half flesh, half shadows. And to these elements he would return.

  Sharp as any edge.

  The last two men charged, firing their crossbows. Too fast for Merik to dodge, the bolts hit his stomach, his thigh. But in a flash of power that rippled through him, shadows coalesced in his veins.

  Merik had just enough time to think, No pain,
before he yanked out both bolts and kept moving. Then he strode through the corner door, made almost impenetrable by fumes and fire.

  The Fury was coming.

  * * *

  Vivia sat at her desk in Pin’s Keep, recalculating numbers she’d logged a few days before. The formerly bleak, negative totals would soon be gloriously positive. While yes, her stomach panged a bit at the thought of hiding the latest Fox shipment from her father, the warmth building in her chest quickly drowned out the guilt.

  After all, hiding supplies in the storeroom had been a massive loss in the end, so Vivia saw no reason to continue hoarding. Pin’s Keep was starving now. End of story.

  With a satisfying scriiittttch, she marked through the amount of incoming supplies. Then she wrote in the new total.

  Footsteps beat on the stairs, fast and leaping. Then Stix rushed in. “Sir!” She was panting. “I followed the boy—the Fury’s companion. You need to come. Now.”

  Vivia sprang to her feet. Papers scattered. “Where is he?”

  “Here. Inside Pin’s Keep.” She didn’t wait for Vivia to follow, and her white head shot from sight before Vivia could even scrabble to the door. By the time Vivia hit the bottom of the spiral stairs, Stix and her long legs were already almost out of the hall.

  Vivia half walked, half ran after her, catching up as Stix ducked into the kitchen. Steam and heat and the dull clack-clack-clack of knives washed over Vivia. People paused to smile at their princess, to bow or curtsy or salute. Stix wasn’t slowing, though, so Vivia didn’t either.

  They passed the billowing stoves, then the racks with the day’s supplies. Then, finally, they reached the cellar door in the darkest corner. Two soldiers stood sentry.

  “Has the boy come back out?” Stix called.

  “No, sir!” barked one, while the other shouted, “No one’s come through, sir!”

  “Good.” Stix bent through the archway. Vivia followed, the stones grazing atop her hair. Shadows blanketed her eyes.

  “The boy went down here,” Stix whispered as they crept, quieter now and slower too. “Might be we can corner him. Use him as bait for the Fury … There’s no one here.” Stix hopped off the final step. Then spun. “No one at all.”

  She was right. The square lantern-lit cellar was empty, the space too small for anyone to hide. There was nowhere on or behind the shelves sagging against the walls that could possibly fit a person.

  “I swear,” Stix hissed, more to herself than Vivia, “that the boy came down here. My men must’ve missed him.” She lurched back for the stairs.

  “Wait.” Vivia walked, neck craned, toward a shelf straight ahead. It was tipped askew, and in the crack between it and another shelf, spiders crawled. One by one. A centipede too.

  In seconds, Vivia had her fingers wedged behind the wood. She yanked. The case slid easily forward—too easily. As if small wheels were tucked beneath its pine planks.

  An archway yawned wide in the stones, water dripping from its ancient keystone. A roach scuttled out.

  “Holy hell-waters,” Stix whispered, moving to Vivia’s side. “Where do you think it leads?”

  “Darkness is not always a foe,” Vivia murmured. “Find the entrance down below.”

  “Entrance to … where?”

  Vivia didn’t answer. She couldn’t, for at the moment something burbled in her chest. Something hot that might have been a laugh, might have been sob. For of course, the answer to the under-city would be here. Right under her blighted nose—and right under her mother’s blighted nose too. All these years, they had believed the city was lost, and all these months, Vivia had wasted her time searching.

  Tears prickled, but Vivia ground her teeth against them. She could laugh, she could cry, she could feel all of this later. For now, she had to keep moving.

  “Grab the lantern,” she said thickly. Then she entered the darkness.

  * * *

  Vivia led the way, though Stix held the lantern behind. Vivia’s shadows drifted long across the limestone tunnel, which ran in a single direction: down.

  Aside from her first questions, Stix—ever the perfect first mate—asked no more, and Vivia offered no explanations.

  Each step they moved deeper, the more a familiar green glow took hold. Until Vivia and Stix no longer needed their lantern. Foxfire illuminated everything, trailing ever onward, a constellation to track across the sky. Then the tunnel ended and a stone door waited, cracked ajar.

  Hewn from the glowing limestone, six faces peered out from the door’s center. One atop the next, smoothed away, yet unmistakable all the same. Noden’s Hagfishes.

  Vivia paused here, swallowing and breathing and swallowing again, for a black whirlpool had opened in her belly.

  All she had to do was push through. Then she could have her answers. Then she could have what she’d been hunting for all along.

  A steeling breath. Vivia pushed through. The stone gritted against its frame, the faces darkened as the green glow fell away.

  Then she was there. The under-city. It spanned in the cavern before her, narrow roads radiating outward, with buildings—three stories tall—rising up on both sides. Some jutted out of cavern walls, others rooted up straight from the limestone floor. Windows and doorways gaped empty, save for the cobwebs strung inside.

  All of it was lit by foxfire. The fungus climbed cavern walls and the jagged ceiling, wound up columns, and fanned over doorways. Some even shimmered from within the empty homes.

  Empty. Habitable. Vivia could fit thousands—tens of thousands—of Nubrevnans in here. The spinning in her belly resumed. Twice as fast. A happy pain that swelled in her lungs and pressed against her breastbone.

  Stix clapped a gentle hand atop her shoulder. “What is this place, sir? It’s as big as Hawk’s Way.”

  “It’s bigger.” Vivia gripped Stix’s hand, towing her forward. “Come on.” She had to keep moving. She had to get answers.

  They explored further, passing signs of life. Footprints through dusty webs or smears in the foxfire, as if people had dragged clumsy hands through. The houses were all the same, one after the other. Tenements built identically to the oldest structures aboveground. So much space—finally, finally.

  Yet just as Vivia and Stix crept through an intersection, a clank! sounded through the city. Like iron on stone. Like an old blade fallen to a distant floor.

  Vivia tensed. Stix froze. There they waited, breaths held, while green light and cobwebs whispered around them.

  Then came a voice. Yelling and near—much too near. Vivia and Stix dove for the nearest house. Just in time, for the shouting speaker was soon dragged past.

  Vivia peeked around the ancient doorway she and Stix hovered behind. A boy, short-haired and lanky, fought against the two people who hauled him down the road. He was bound at the wrists, yet he kicked. He pulled. He spat. And over and over he hollered, “It doesn’t have to be like this! It doesn’t have to be like this!”

  Vivia met Stix’s eyes in the dark. “Is that the boy?” she mouthed.

  Stix nodded.

  One of the men, a bearded beast of a Nubrevnan, finally lost his patience with the boy. He gripped him by the collar and punched him hard across the nose.

  The boy coughed—and coughed some more, but it quickly melted into a frenzied laugh. “You’ll … regret this,” he said between gasping chuckles.

  “More like you’ll regret it,” the beast snarled. “Comin’ back here was the stupidest thing you could’ve done, Cam. He’ll make you pay, you know.”

  “That’ll be fun to watch,” said a second voice. Female and gruff. “This time I doubt he’ll let you leave.”

  “Who are you working for?” the boy demanded, all laughter gone. “Who hired you to kill the pr—”

  Crack! The boy’s voice broke off. A thump sounded, as if his knees had given way.

  “Be a good girl, Cam,” the enormous man said, “and shut your blighted mouth.”

  No response, and when Vivia peered o
ut once more, the huge man was hefting the limp girl onto his shoulder.

  Vivia waited until they were out of sight before turning to Stix, who murmured, “Did you notice something about their hands?” At Vivia’s pinched brow, Stix wiggled her left hand. “No pinkies.”

  Vivia’s forehead relaxed. “Just like the corpses the Fury killed. I guess the Nines are back.”

  “Or,” Stix said pointedly, “they never left. They might’ve been hiding here all this time…” She trailed off, eyes widening. More voices approached. More light too, orange in the way that only lanterns’ fire could produce.

  People. Lots of them. In Vivia’s city, and presumably working with the Fury.

  So Vivia made a decision. She scooted close to Stix. Close enough that no one else could possibly hear as she said, “Go back to Pin’s Keep. We need soldiers.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Nothing foolish.”

  Stix regarded Vivia, her face drawn. “I don’t believe you. You seem … different today.”

  Vivia’s eyebrows bounced with surprise—then she realized what Stix meant. She was different today. She’d been so preoccupied, so focused, she hadn’t bothered to be a Nihar.

  For some irrational reason, this made her smile. Made a strange exultation build behind her ribs. “Go on, Stix,” she nudged. “I’m just going to watch the Nines. See what I can learn.”

  “All right,” Stix said, though she still made no move to leave. Her frown deepened, as if she were trapped in indecision …

  She decided, leaning in until her lips brushed against Vivia’s cheek. The softest of kisses. “Be careful.”

  Then Stix was gone.

  For several erratic heartbeats, Vivia could not breathe. Stix had seen through her mask, yet she hadn’t run. She hadn’t judged. She hadn’t hated.

  Hell-waters, what might have happened if she’d shown her true self years ago? Maybe she and Stix could have …

  No. Vivia rubbed her eyes. No regrets. She could analyze and replay this later. For now, she had to keep moving.

  After a moment to regain her bearings, Vivia scouted onward. Alone. The noises ahead grew louder—at least ten people—as did the glare of too many lamps in one space.