They’d reached the end of the tunnel.
Horace let himself be prodded into the light of early morning and looked at a mountain towering above. The slope was covered with dark green grass and spindly trees. Off to the right, another mountain dwarfed the first one, the high peak coated with snow like icing on a fancy cake.
“Beautiful,” Horace said, awed in spite of his anger. He glanced left to get Liam’s opinion, but Liam was staring at the plains behind them. Without a word, he reached for Horace’s shoulders and turned him.
Horace fought his irritation but went along. “I’m getting tired of being gr—”
A line of fire scurried across the plains, getting wider by the moment and devouring everything in its path.
A trick of the light, reflecting off the mountains? Horace closed his eyes and opened them, but the fire still burned. And now he could smell it, the musky scent of burnt grass and the acrid sting of smoke. Two senses engaged meant it wasn’t a trick. A hallucination? Not by the wide eyes of everyone else.
If that fire kept spreading, all of humanity and their allied drushka lay in its path, except for those already in the mountains.
He’d rather be losing his mind.
“Simon,” he whispered. More names tumbled through his mind: Evan, Cordelia, Reach, Nettle, Pool, Samira, Wuran; Galeans, plains dwellers, drushka.
Everyone.
“How?” he managed.
“The Sun-Moon,” Patricia said with a snarl. “I felt them getting closer. I tried to distract them.” She glanced at him and put a hand to her mouth as if she hadn’t meant to let that last part out.
“They were the rock in your rock and hard place metaphor?” Liam asked. He glared at her, and Horace didn’t need powers to read his anger and disbelief. “You pointed them at the Galeans, and look what they did!” His finger stabbed at the flames, and Horace felt the tingle of the Storm Lord’s power again. He stepped closer to Liam, but the feeling didn’t dissipate.
Patricia waved the words away. “I just…alerted the Galeans to the Sun-Moon’s presence, that’s all. What they chose to do after that is not on me.”
“That’s utter shit,” Liam snapped.
“You don’t know anything, you selfish prick!”
They grew louder, arguing, pointing, and the Storm Lord was watching them, Liam in particular. A bit of luck at last.
Horace took a step backward, closer to where the guards had laid Jon on the ground. All the guards were watching the argument, which grew louder and louder, each movement suggesting violence. Horace tested his power, but Patricia still held it tight. He couldn’t carry Jon out of there, but Jon would tell him to run for help.
If help even existed anymore.
Well, then he’d have to be the help instead.
He scanned the surrounding terrain. They’d catch him quickly if he fled down the tunnel. He couldn’t run toward the fire, either. That left the unfamiliar territory of the mountains, but even though the mine was nearby, the territory was probably unfamiliar to Patricia, too.
Horace began to kneel as if checking on Jon. The only man who glanced at him, one of Jon’s minders, looked back to the fight once Horace knelt. Horace edged around Jon slightly, then stood again and backed up another step. He continued slowly, every instinct telling him to run, but he couldn’t afford to attract their attention, not yet. He reached a stand of trees and slipped inside, sliding out of sight.
He ran, never so happy to be underestimated. He zigzagged through the trees, stumbling over roots and loose rocks. He tried to listen for pursuers over his ragged breathing but heard nothing. All he had to do was get far enough away for Patricia to lose hold of him, then rescue Jon, get out of the mountains, and go save Simon.
And possibly, the world.
* * *
Patricia had to die first, Dillon decided. Then Jonah. The rest of Patricia’s cronies would be on him by then, but he could survive a few blows long enough to hit them with lightning bolts of their own.
He had to put her off guard first, though. She was still howling like a banshee when he noticed the gap in their ranks. “You know your captive got away, right?” he asked when she paused for a breath.
She blinked at him, and he reached for his power, but she stepped behind one of her henchmen and looked for Horace. Dillon kept his power bottled; he had to have a clean shot to make sure she fell.
When she failed to find Horace, she yelled at Dillon, at Jonah, at all her people.
“Shouldn’t have made your puppets so worshipful,” Dillon said with a sneer. “They were too busy guarding you from me.”
“Shut up.” She stalked up and down the slope and jabbed a finger at the distant fire. “You going to do something about that or what?”
He supposed he should. He still didn’t know what his plans for the future were, but it would be nice if this part of the world was still standing in case he wanted to live there.
And he had to make sure his kids survived.
Dillon closed his eyes and focused, reaching with his power. The small storm he’d called the night before had dissipated, but there had to be another one around. It was all about finding particles with the right charge.
But it had been much easier when he could see the systems from space.
He found a nice fat storm over the ocean and gave it a yank, the force making pain throb behind his eyes. He charged the particles in the air between ocean and mountains, and the storm followed along like a dog after a ball.
When he’d completed a road for it to follow, he opened his eyes. The sky to the south was already darkening, but the change in wind direction would blow the fire right at them. Dillon quickly shut his eyes again and tinkered with a pressure system he detected over the mountains, calling it southward. That would slow down his storm, but the clash of winds would also slow the fire. When he opened his eyes, the sun disappeared behind a wall of clouds.
“Happy?” he asked.
“No.” She had her own eyes shut, but Jonah had taken up a spot in front of her, watching Dillon. “I can’t get a fix on Horace, and if he gets too far, I’ll lose my grip on his power.” She smacked her fists against her hips. “I can feel Naos poking around, blanketing this area in power. She probably knows we’re here, and she’s fucking with my senses.”
“And if you reach too far, you’ll bump into her.”
She barked a laugh that told of nothing but fear. Her expression said she knew she was in over her head.
Dillon waited, letting his own power fade and leaving him with his headache. If the circumstances were right, maybe he could feed Patricia to Naos as a sacrificial lamb. “Now what? Unless I miss my guess, Laz and the others are on the other side of that fire. The whole ‘defeat Naos’ plan isn’t going to work with just the two of us.”
“I can call the breachies up from the mine,” she said distractedly. “They’re not much, but they were aboard the Atlas. They’re better than any of Simon’s yafanai.”
“My yafanai,” Dillon mumbled. At least, they had been.
“And the Sun-Moon are no doubt on this side of the fire, too.”
Dillon’s gut burned. “Those assholes? No way!”
She muttered something about beggars and choosers, and he almost blasted her right then. Of all the goddamn indignities he’d had to suffer lately, working with the stuck-up former bridge officers was the absolute limit. “I’d rather side with Naos against them,” he said. “Maybe if we feed them to her, she’ll leave us alone.”
Patricia rounded on him. “She’s never satisfied; don’t you get that? Even when I was with her, first she wanted this body, then followers, then Celeste. If she’d had gotten it, she would have wanted the world.” She hugged herself like a little kid. “She’s hungry because I was always hungry. I wanted to be a fleet admiral someday.”
Dillon choked back a laugh. From copilot to top brass? Only some pretty sweet connections could move a person from the front of the bridge to the command chair
. Patricia would have needed even sweeter ones to go from a ship to a big shiny office.
But with the tenacity he’d seen in Naos, maybe she could have made it.
When she sat on a boulder looking dejected, he sat beside her. “You’d have had an easier time switching over to field duty,” he said. “Running logistics for ground missions, then working your way into a lower level office, planning missions behind the scenes. The office was always more willing to promote from within rather than take grunts from the ranks, whether infantry or ship.”
“I didn’t want to go planet-side,” she said. “The idea never excited me, not until I got away from…her.”
Thinking back, he chuckled. “I always got sick on missions; some parasite or another would make a meal of my insides. I’d have to pound back meds so my troops wouldn’t catch me barfing my guts out.”
She coughed a laugh, and he reminded himself that she could be useful when controlled. “Not anymore,” she said. “That body is used to everything this planet has to throw at it.”
Reminding him that he owed her. Nice. He didn’t respond.
“We don’t have a choice, Dillon,” she said. “Standing here reminiscing or yelling won’t do any good. Our best chance is to take Naos out before she pelts us with more asteroids, and the only people nearby who can help us are—”
“The goddamned celestial duo.” He put his head in his hands. “I hate them so much.”
“She doesn’t like them either.” Patricia nodded to the north when he glanced at her. “Maybe we can take out all three of them while they’re trying to destroy one another.”
That was an appealing thought. And unless the Sun-Moon just attacked on sight and barreled through the blocks Patricia put in his head, they wouldn’t know who they were really dealing with.
He stood. She ignored the hand he offered and stood on her own. Smart but frustrating. She couldn’t know how easily he could chuck her down the slope. No matter. He could deal with her in good time, maybe even convince Horace to come back and give his friend the mayor a hand.
* * *
By the way the army began to settle, it was clear that the Sun-Moon meant to snag a few hours’ rest on the slopes of the foothills. Lydia didn’t know how they could possibly do so with the fire spreading below them, but no one seemed concerned.
Fajir stared at the fire one moment and her gods the next, even after the Sun-Moon dismounted their geaver and became lost in the crowd. Her brows were drawn together in sorrow. Lydia didn’t know whether to comfort her or give her space, and indecision wasn’t the only thing that held her back. She didn’t want Fajir to blame her, couldn’t bear to hear it. And she didn’t think Fajir would take comfort in the fact that soon she’d sport a look of steely resolve and put her sword to the problem.
Or had it been resolve? Lydia had thought so after her vision, but it could easily have been stoic acceptance or unfeeling shock.
Lydia caught Nico’s arm as he strode past. He gave her a disdainful look, then glanced at where she touched him. She pulled back, hoping he spoke enough of the plains language for her to get her point across.
“How can you sleep after that?” she asked, pointing toward the fire.
He frowned but answered slowly. “The Lords will keep the smoke and flames away.”
She barked a humorless laugh. “I’m not asking how you can be comfortable. Your Lords have lit the plains on fire! What about the plains dwellers, the Galeans? It could spread to the swamp and the drushka. It could reach your own people!”
He shrugged, and she’d never wanted to hit someone so much in her life. “The Lords will stop it before Celeste, our people.”
“And who cares about the rest, right?” She was yelling, attracting attention, forgetting Fajir’s plan to act like good little captives until they could sneak away. And she didn’t give a shit. Someone who shrugged in the face of so much death deserved to be yelled at, deserved to be punched.
Nico faced her fully now, one foot forward, elbows slightly bent. His dark eyes raked over her calculatingly, and his compact, stocky body seemed poised. He could take her down in an instant, but she’d scream at him until then.
But how to yell a conscience into someone?
A touch on her arm made her spin around, hands raised to slap or punch or gouge for all she was worth, but Fajir caught her wrists effortlessly and lowered them gently.
“Nico,” Fajir said, stepping so that she faced him at Lydia’s side. “This is not right.”
He frowned hard and said something in the Sun-Moon language.
“No,” Fajir replied. “Such faceless death shames us all.”
“You didn’t care so when we killed the plains vermin,” Nico said after a contemptuous glance at Lydia. “Only your killing is without shame?”
“I admit to those deaths. I looked in all their eyes. Even in the grip of rage, I would never have done this.”
She didn’t seem as remorseful as Lydia might have hoped when talking about the people she’d killed. It turned Lydia’s stomach, but this Fajir was miles away from the creature Lydia had first met. That one had pleaded to either be killed or be set loose so she could continue her murder spree. Lydia had a vision again of Fajir’s hands around her throat, even while the slump in Fajir’s shoulders made her want to take those same hands in a gesture of comfort.
Nico shook his head and looked around as if searching for words, his face a mask of disappointment. “Seren, are these your words or hers? This fire could cleanse all the vermin, even the killer of Halaan. It can do what you could not, and then…” He gestured as if embracing the future. “All will be well!”
“Sure,” Lydia said. “Once every single one of your enemies is dead, all will be well. Except you’ll never kill all of them, or the fire will kill people who had no grudge with you at all. Then those people will pledge to kill you or your people, and maybe they’ll drag in others, and it will go on and on and on until we’re all dead!” She shouted the last few words, her breath coming in heaving gasps. If Fajir would have grabbed her at that moment, she would have fought like a grelcat just for the chance to strike someone.
Maybe she understood this rage violence more than she thought.
Nico eyed her warily, but his look of contempt turned a bit thoughtful. Or maybe that was just her desperate imagination.
“We must go to the Lords, Nico,” Fajir said calmly, “and ask them to stop.”
So, Fajir wanted to ask, even though she knew that wouldn’t work. She wanted to try to change the future. Lydia tried not to be hurt. Everyone did it. But Lydia knew this would only be stopped by the sword. She took a few deep breaths. It would stop. She could afford to be calm, but anger wouldn’t leave her. If the Sun-Moon hadn’t done something so utterly cruel and stupid, she would never have seen it in a vision, and her feet would never have been set on this path.
And Fajir would still be a murderer, and Lydia would still be an ex-prophet hiding from her powers on the plains.
Nico seemed to consider Fajir’s words, but all too soon, he shook his head. “I thought you couldn’t be found, Seren, but I was wrong to stop trying. I won’t stop now. Once the plains vermin are dead, you’ll feel better.”
Fajir put a hand to her sword. Nico’s eyes went wide, but he rested his hand on his own weapon.
A cry rose from the side of the camp. Lydia stepped away from Nico and looked in that direction, thinking someone had seen these two squaring off.
She spotted figures running through the rocks and trees of the hills, humans darting in and out of the shade, their clothing blending with the terrain. The Sun-Moon worshipers had caught sight of them, too, and were forming into ranks. Arrows began to whistle from the trees and land among the camp, several finding targets who shouted in agony.
The Sun-Moon weren’t even bothering with their shield anymore, it seemed.
Leaving their power free for other things.
A great swath of the hillside heaved, rocks and t
rees and dirt folding over several attackers like a wave. That had to be the Moon’s doing. Maybe the Sun was too busy tending the fire. More of the hillside archers fired, and several worshipers returned the shots, but most were crouching behind bundles of supplies.
“We should take cover,” Lydia said, but Nico and Fajir didn’t move, hadn’t shifted from their threatening positions. No arrow had reached this far into the camp yet, but the fight was just getting started.
And the Sun-Moon were distracted by it, their power directed elsewhere.
“Fajir—” Lydia started.
She couldn’t tell who drew first, maybe both, then their bone swords clacked together, both of them feinting and striking, ducking and weaving, two masters of a brutal dance.
They split apart for one second, and Lydia felt her power trembling, but she clamped it down. She knew who’d win this fight, would have known even without her power. Nico was weeping, and Fajir’s face was still. A small advantage was all she needed.
A battle between former friends should have lasted days, maybe weeks, like something from a story, but it was over in moments. Fajir’s sword rushed past Nico’s guard and plunged into his chest. Lydia clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. No one else had noticed with the fight going on, but Lydia ached enough for all of them. She’d hoped Fajir would only wound him, even for all his stupidity, but he hadn’t given her the chance.
Fajir caught him as he fell and lowered him to the ground. His eyes had already glazed, his life fled at once. She stood without ceremony, without whispering any final words. When she stood, her gaze caught Lydia’s, and her head tilted before she smiled softly, her own eyes filling with tears.
“You care for this death, too?” Fajir asked. “Even though he would have killed you gladly?”
Lydia felt her own tears but couldn’t stop them. “I can’t help it.”
Fajir’s arms went around her, comforting her and moving them both under cover, the height of efficiency. “He is with his partner maybe and happy.”
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