But he had no time to ask, for Flint caught his eye and jerked her chin at the wall behind him, and they began to pick their way back to Mage Halcyon. Once they were out of the blacksmith’s earshot, Flint grinned at him. “Good work, Mi. She's a little rougher than I thought you'd like, but I'll wager she's pretty without that shit all over her face.”
“Pretty?” He considered. “I dunno. Didn't really think of it. And what do you mean, 'good work?' All I did was hold up a couple pieces of wood.”
Flint gave him an exasperated look, then sighed. “Never mind.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. Well, walked wasn't quite the right term, given how the room was full of people and beds which they had to navigate through, a task made more difficult with armor and weapons. The stuffy air and scents of sweat, blood, and body odor were worse now that the doors were properly sealed. By now, several hours after their arrival, the mages had healed the worst of the injured; Sadira and Beacon now made their way through the lesser wounded. Mage Halcyon still sat with the Parsan woman.
“It's too quiet,” Flint muttered.
Milo chuckled. “Don't you know never to say things like that? It's bad luck in all the glimmer stories.”
Flint rolled her eyes at him, but her half-smile let him know it was in jest. “A little excitement wouldn't be a bad thing.”
“For us, maybe, but I think the folks here have had enough excitement.”
“Aye, I suppose so.” Flint toyed with her dagger grips.
Milo watched a pair of lanky boys escorting a third limping teen between them as they made for a free space on the far side of the room, near Rook. He looked back at the splintered doors. They were all that stood between these people and whatever trouble loomed out there. A cold feeling crept over him. The villagers had been at their attackers' mercy, just like Ged and Merti back in the Eye. How many other civilians had similar stories?
“It would be so strange to feel defenseless,” he murmured.
He hadn't meant to say the words aloud. Flint shot him a questioning look. “We're not,” she said. “We've not been for a long time. And we never will be again.”
“I know. But sometimes I forget how life used to be.”
“I don't.”
A woman's scream cut through the air. Milo drew his sword automatically and looked for his charge. There! A clump of villagers had gathered around the dark-haired mage; he caught a flash of steel and a bright crimson burst of blood. His heart lurched even as he charged forward, blood and hematite pounding through him. Flint was on his heels, sword drawn. He shoved aside a villager wielding a butcher’s knife, barely in time to stop the fellow from completely slitting the mage’s throat. As he shouted for Beacon, Mage Halcyon lay still, blood soaking her tunic. It seemed impossible that she'd been fine only a few seconds ago. The woman that she had been healing lay dead beside her, face gaunt as if someone had sucked away her insides.
Behind Milo, Flint shouted for Rook. An arrow landed in the shoulder of one of the villagers, and then another. The villagers standing above the mage whirled angrily, eyes flashing like stars.
Sweet Mara's mercy. Milo sucked in a breath and cried, “Thralls!”
Someone swiped at him with an ax; he ducked to avoid the blow, then knocked the weapon loose from the thrall's hand. Flint whirled like a cyclone, her sword striking muscle and bone. The temple echoed with the thralls' terrible shrieks. How many were there? Where had they come from? What in Tor's name was going on? Milo could not spare more than a moment to wonder, only tried to fend them off as best he could.
“Keep them back,” a lilting voice said. A flash of white beside him, then the Zhee mage appeared. She'd somehow slipped through the melee to kneel before Mage Halcyon, saying her name again and again. “Kalinda? Kali, I can heal you, but you must help me!”
Heedless of the fighting around her, Sadira pulled off her hematite torc, pressed her palms to Halcyon's neck, and shut her eyes. Her body moved with her deep, rhythmic breaths. Her face, normally the color of terracotta, paled before Milo’s eyes.
“Relah!” The urgency in Flint's voice made him look up to see a thrall—he could make out no more than that it was male—lunging for the Zhee mage, rusty ax in hand. Milo jumped upright—when had he knelt?—and batted the creature away. But the thrall returned, eyes burning bright, screaming at him in its unholy way as it thrust the weapon straight for his throat. Milo had no choice. He slammed his sword into the thrall's stomach, twisted, and the creature collapsed, still shrieking.
Another thrall surged forward: a young woman no older than he and Flint. Her tunic was bloodstained; he vaguely recognized her as one of the folks the Zhee mage had healed, but all thought ceased as she bent to grab the fallen ax. But her grasp was blundering, almost childish as she grabbed the head. The moment her hand touched the metal, she shrieked aloud, then clutched at the wooden handle before she lunged at Milo. She was fast but her movements were clumsy, like she didn’t quite understand how her legs worked. He parried her attack and flipped the ax from her grasp, but she only leaped at him once more, hands outstretched. She raked her nails across his cheek and screamed at him again.
Then Stonewall was there, wrenching her away, flinging her across the floor and into an empty pallet, where Rook waited with a nocked arrow. She drew the bow, aiming for the thrall's neck, and Milo looked away. Chest heaving, blood still running hot, he surveyed the room, mentally preparing himself for the next foe....
But the battle was over.
A cluster of Parsans huddled across the room, gaping at the sentinels. None had glowing eyes. None spoke, or even moved. Rook stood a few paces away, another arrow ready. Flint stood at Milo's back, her sword gleaming crimson and her stance hostile, silently daring any to approach. At the sentinels' feet—all around them, actually—were bodies. Milo thought he counted half a dozen, but his head spun and his insides were roiling and he couldn't be sure of the exact total.
“Kali,” the sergeant gasped, breaking through the silence. “Kali, look at me.”
“Be still, ser,” Beacon's voice was stern.
Stonewall's helmet was gone and Milo caught a glimpse of his face, pale and naked with fear. His eyes were wide. The sergeant ignored the mender at his side and dropped down to the mages, which was when Milo numbly realized that he and Flint had remained beside the two women.
Stonewall looked at Sadira, whose face was pinched with concentration. “Is she–”
“Be still,” Beacon said, sharper this time. “She's… working on it.”
The sergeant's voice was a growl. “She needs to work harder.”
“She's about done for, herself,” the mender shot back. “No, ser. Don't touch her. Don't touch either of them until Sadira's done.”
“What's going on here?” a new voice demanded. Milo looked up to see the Circle priestess striding through the door into the main hall. She froze when she saw the carnage. Her face went white as bone and her mouth opened. “Mara's mercy,” the Cipher whispered. “What have you done?”
Her presence sparked the huddled villagers to life again. “They cut down my son Del like a dog!” an elderly man cried, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pointed to the sentinels. “They attacked our people.”
The boy whose mother Mage Halcyon had been healing sobbed over his mother’s body. “The moon-blood killed my Ma! I saw her do it! I saw her use her magic!”
The priestess glared at the sentinels. “Is this true?”
An ice-cold lump settled in Milo's stomach. He looked at Mage Halcyon; the wound on her throat had healed rapidly and her chest rose and fell slowly. She was alive. The Parsan woman was a human husk. Had Halcyon’s magic truly done something so horrible?
“No,” Flint said sharply, and gestured with her sword to the fallen villagers. “They attacked our mage. They were thralls.”
“There weren’t any more thralls here,” another villager broke in. “Not after the White
water guards and those other sentinels left yesterday. Your mage murdered my daughter for nothing.”
Other, similar murmurs of distrust rippled through the Parsans as they began to advance slowly, moving behind the priestess, eyes narrowed like daggers. A few reached for the weapons the thralls had dropped. Milo caught a gleam of starlight in the corner of his eye, but it disappeared the moment he turned. He and Flint exchanged helpless glances, though Flint's grip on her sword tightened. Milo glanced over to see Stonewall, still crouched beside Mage Halcyon, clutching his dagger grips as if they were the only things keeping him in place.
“Sergeant,” Rook hissed. “We need you.”
Stonewall's jaw tightened but his body relaxed. He rose smoothly and moved to stand between the sentinels and the priestess. Though he'd released his grip on his weapons, something about him made the lot of them pause. When he spoke, he addressed the Cipher. “I swear to you, serla, our mages have done nothing to harm these folk. I swear it by the One and every god there is.”
“Then explain that.” The Cipher pointed to the shell of a woman that Mage Halcyon had been healing.
Stonewall's gaze darted to the fallen villager. “Mage Halcyon would not have attacked unless she was acting in self-defense.”
“We all had to defend our charges,” Flint added.
“Aye, and there were thralls,” Milo heard himself say. “I saw their eyes. And the screaming…” He trailed off, shuddering at the memory. “Surely you all heard it!”
“The thralls were gone,” the priestess replied. “This,” she gestured to the fallen villagers, “is a direct result of your ruthless actions.”
Milo's heart stuck in his throat. Ruthless. “We didn’t come here to hurt anyone, serla. We only came because of your message.”
The priestess stared at him. “If that is true, then what happened here? How did the thralls return to this place, unseen? Why did they only appear after your mages came?”
The sentinels exchanged looks; Stonewall glanced down at Mage Halcyon before meeting the priestess’ gaze. “I don’t know.”
“It’s the moon-bloods,” one of the villagers called. “They’re the source of this mess. We were fine until you brought them back.”
“The mages are innocent,” Stonewall ground out. “That, I do know.”
But the priestess seemed not to hear him. Rather, her eyes widened as she surveyed the nearest body: the woman that Mage Halcyon had been healing. “Gods above,” she whispered. “Are the rumors true? Are they responsible for the thralls? Is this some foul corruption by magic?”
“Don't be stupid,” Flint shot back. “The mages were helping. Are you all fucking blind? Why bother with healing anyone if they were just planning on murdering the lot of you?”
The priestess gave her a withering glare, and then looked at Stonewall again. “Leave this place. Take your mages and your weapons, and go. Now.”
What if the thralls return? Milo thought. But the expression on the priestess and the villagers’ faces made him keep the question behind his teeth. Perhaps they figured it wiser to take their chances on their own now. Or perhaps they were just going to abandon this village altogether.
The sergeant said nothing to the Cipher, only looked back at the mages. Sadira had finished whatever she'd done, and leaned forward, arms braced on the floor as if she couldn't support her own weight. She was deathly pale; with her fair hair, she looked like a spirit. Beacon sat beside her, one hand hovering over her shoulder, the other clutching her torc.
“Can they be moved?” Stonewall asked the mender.
“I believe so,” Beacon replied softly. “But not far. They're both very weak.”
Stonewall nodded. “Understood. Help Sadira, would you?”
“Aye, ser.”
Stonewall did not give the priestess or the Parsan villagers another glance. Instead, he knelt beside Mage Halcyon and gently took her in his arms. He rose and looked to the other sentinels, who still stood frozen. “Get moving.”
With that, he strode forward, past the priestess and the villagers. Beacon followed, the Zhee mage leaning against his side. Flint nudged Milo and they hurried after the squad, moving in front of their commanding officer to ensure no one would block their way. Rook brought up the rear, arrow still resting in her bow.
When they stepped outside, Milo was stunned to see that it was nighttime already. The mage moon hung high in the sky, casting the village in pure silver. Thank Mara, the carriage and their horses were unharmed. Within moments, the squad was on the move once more.
Only when the carriage was moving did he turn to look back at Parsa. The villagers stood together in a line, clutching what weapons and tools they possessed, and watched the mage carriage depart. The priestess stood before them, white and black cloak coated gray with ash.
Twenty-Eight
Eris emerged from one sort of darkness into another. One moment she was a step behind Gid, barely breathing for fear of alerting the sentinels to the passage; the next, she slipped through the gate and into a shadowed alley. The pitch-blackness of the tunnel gave way to wavering gold and orange torchlight, painting shadows upon the street beyond the alley and adding an eerie backdrop to the sounds of revelry within Whitewater City. High above, Seren glowed like a silver coin. A good omen, perhaps, if such fancies could be believed.
“Wait here while we make sure it's safe,” Gid whispered to Cai, Marcen, Adrie and the others that were all clustered behind the couple. It was too dark to make out their faces, but Eris could practically smell their fear, though it may as well have been hers.
The reality of what they were attempting had not sunk in until the moment Eris had laid eyes on the eleven other mages who'd agreed to this escape. In the relatively short time since the group had left the bastion, the weight of all their lives had settled more and more heavily upon her shoulders. Should they fail, it was not just her and Gid's lives at stake. Not to mention…
“Gid?” Drake's voice broke Eris from her thoughts. The Assembly man stood a pace away, carrying a small, glass lantern with a flickering red flame, with a long staff in his other hand. One other figure, armed with a similar lantern and staff, stood near the alley's entrance. Sounds of the citywide celebration trickled down the alley; if they were lucky, the shouts and music would drown out any sounds made by the mages and their guides.
“Drake,” Gid replied, shifting his knapsack so that he could clasp the other man's arm. “Seren's light, it's good to see you.”
“And you. Both of you,” Drake added, nodding to Eris. “We've a wagon waiting outside the gates. By now, the gate guards should be well into their cups, so I don't think getting outside the city will be a problem. Where are your friends?”
“Right here.” Gid stuck his head through the open gate and whispered to the others. Soon the mages filled the small alley, clutching their cloaks about their shoulders as they gazed toward the brightly lit street in wonder.
“Ea's balls,” Drake breathed as he stood back to allow the mages room. “A blood run. I thought they'd all been blocked off.”
His words held awe, yes, but also a trace of familiarity that set the hairs on the back of Eris' neck to standing up. She helped Adrie slip through the gate then glanced at the dark-skinned Assembly man. “How do you know what it's called?”
“And what's it for, anyway?” Gid added, a frown in his voice.
“They're very old ingress and egress routes,” Drake said, slowly. “Built when the bastions were first constructed about a century ago, only a few generations after magic first appeared. Back then, folks were still...uncertain how they felt about mages.”
Uncertain. Revulsion twisted Eris' stomach. “You mean, back when people were buried alive if someone thought they had magic?”
“It was a different time,” Drake replied, though his voice was heavy.
“It's not much better, now,” Gid said darkly.
Cai had slipped out and come to st
and near Gideon. “Do I want to know why it's called a blood run?”
Drake's voice was wry. “It's best explained over a mug of ale and a cozy fire – once we're far away from here.”
He'd still not answered Eris' question and she frowned to herself. She'd lived in a bastion since her eleventh summer and she'd never heard of blood runs. How did Drake know? But he was right. Now wasn't the time for a history lesson. Perhaps she was being overly suspicious and he was just prepared. He’d proved mostly competent, so far. So she turned her attention to the last few mages trickling out of the gate.
She helped Sirvat, a heavily pregnant mage, wiggle out of the small opening. “It's colder than I thought it'd be,” the dark-skinned woman whispered, one hand on her swollen belly. “Though I can't remember the last time I was outside the bastion.”
Eris had shared a similar sentiment not so long ago. How many other mages would say the same? “Soon the bastion will be well behind us,” Eris said, offering her warmest smile. Her heart, though, only pumped ice through her veins and she flinched at the sound of shouts and laughter from the direction of the street.
“Is that everyone?” Drake asked.
For the space of one breath, Eris allowed herself a final look at the dark maw of the passage. Kali. Her jaw clenched at the memory of her friend's anguished tears – all over a sodding sentinel. Anger at the hemie swept over her, briefly dissipating her fear. I will see you again, Kali, she thought. She refused to leave her friend a captive of those metal-blooded monsters forever. She would find a way to free Kali.
Somehow.
Gideon nodded, though his face was troubled. “I wish we had time for introductions, but we should get moving. I couldn't hide the other side of the passage as well as last time. If the hemies find it...”
He trailed off meaningfully. Drake nodded and lifted his lantern, where the bright red flame danced behind a glass globe. “My companion and I will each carry one of these, so all you have to do is follow the red lights to the city gates.”
“Red flame?” Marcen said, eyes wide. “How in the stars did you manage that? Magic?”
Catalyst Moon: Breach (Catalyst Moon Saga Book 2) Page 33