The other two lunged forward, determined to not be picked off. One wielded a sword, the other reached out with hands that sucked away the light from the air around them.
I don’t want to find out what that does first-hand. First Sentinel stepped sideways, away from the dark hands, and when the swordswoman reached out, he swung into her blow, sending the blade across to block her compatriot.
First Sentinel shuffled forward and pulled the swordswoman by her cloak, sending her tumbling into the dark hands. He watched the warmth drain out of the woman’s face, paralyzed by pain. She didn’t even have the energy to cry out, as her life was drained away in an instant. Dark hands was lost in ecstasy, his face flush.
Not wanting to risk suffering dark hands’ power, First Sentinel pushed past the two of them and kept going. Just a little farther. he jumped and climbed up another ladder, seeing the blades thrusting down the hole at the bottom of the next level. This’ll be interesting.
Yema’s voice rang clear through the wide expanse of the room, and a shiver rushed all the way down First Sentinel’s body. Not good.
His vision blurred into a mass of red, and the ladder crumbled in his grip. First Sentinel fell, spinning, the emerald rushing up towards him like a long-forgotten lover.
Don’t die yet, old man.
First Sentinel shook off the daze and reached for his grappling gun as his longcoat whipped around him, threatening to tie him up into a straightjacketed corpse-in-waiting.
Fifty feet above the emerald, then forty, thirty. The gun came up and First Sentinel fired at the far side of the ramparts, praying for his luck to hold. The hook found purchase, though First Sentinel’s arm threatened to stay behind as his trajectory curved down and away from the emerald.
Not fast enough. The rope tore, or was cut. First Sentinel didn’t know, couldn’t tell. He fell again, but instead of the gem, the ground reached out to catch him and he collapsed in a cracking crashing roll.
First Sentinel snapped his head up even though his vision was still shaking, his head pounding. He thought he’d sprained his ankle, maybe fractured something in his once-good leg. His grappling gun had clattered to the floor out of reach, his legs were useless, and the warlocks were right there, Yema laughing behind them.
The warlocks closed, but Yema called them off. They formed a circle, surrounded the two men with a wall of steel and magic. Yema strode through the crowd and stepped into the circle.
“If only the rest of them could see you like this. Broken, beaten, useless.” Yema smiled again, revealing ivory-white teeth with sharpened canines. “Well, perhaps not useless.” he reached into his cloak and pulled out a jewel-encrusted dagger with permanent bloodstains in all colors marbled up the edge of the blade. The pommel was ruby, carved into the shape of a heart.
He’s not just going to kill me. He’ll take my heart and use me against the other Shields, a puppet, a powerless witness to the betrayal he’ll force upon me.
A burgundy thread unfolded from Yema’s cloak, reaching out for the Shield, trying to slip through the weave of his threads: Gold threads for his brother and sister Shields, a broad thread of brass reaching out towards the City Mother, supplicant, dimming strands of hope flailing for anything to hold onto.
First Sentinel’s mind raced as his heart screamed in fear, feeling the thread of domination reaching out.
I can’t. I won’t. Not them, not my friends. Not my son. Not Selweh.
The guilt of aria’s death and his folly weighed on him, threatening to flatten him with its weight as the burgundy thread fought its way through the weave of his emotions, seeking purchase.
I’m sorry, Aria. I’ve held onto this guilt like a drowning man and his last broken plank. I couldn’t help you without breaking us, and then I failed you again. But if I die here, Aegis and all of the others will be next. I promised, and I won’t fail you again.
First Sentinel sloughed off the guilt like a snakes’ skin, felt it fall away from him, freeing his hand and his heart.
He reached out for the burgundy thread, tore it from Yema’s chest, and tossed it aside to wither and die. Yema recoiled, clutched his chest.
“What? I thought you…”
It had been nearly thirty years since the last time he used his powers to save aria. To lose aria. His heart raced, blood pumping so fast he feared he would burst. He’d inadvertently pulled out several other threads as well, and saw them squirm on the floor, shriveling up like sun-stained grubs. It still works, but I’ve as little control as ever. Focus, old man.
Yema cried out in wordless rage, and then reached forward for the Shield again, stabbing the dagger at First Sentinel’s throat. They tumbled to the floor.
We’re just two puppet-masters vying for control of the soul of a city. Two sorcerers, two leaders. Two stubborn old men, refusing to give up, incapable of yielding.
They struggled over the dagger with wordless snarls and grunts. As First Sentinel grabbed hold, he pushed the dagger towards the thick braid of threads linking Yema to the distant building where the warlock Guard’s hearts were kept. First Sentinel pushed their hands, using the dagger as a focus to saw through the threads binding the warlocks to Yema’s control, drawing again on the power he’d forbidden himself out of guilt and fear.
Threads tore by the thousand. They frayed, strained, and then snapped free, flying around the room, searching for a heart to cling to. The thickest threads were red rage to First Sentinel and the burgundy control to the City Mother. First Sentinel hacked at the burgundy thread and watched it snap along with the others. There was no going back. Not after Blurred Fists, after the Shield-bearers, after Nevri, after the Soulburner.
This has to end, now.
The shifting, shouting, waiting crowd of warlock Guards went still, enraptured. The only sounds in the room were the two men’s struggle, each scrambling for control. Yema regained the dagger and found his feet, wobbling to a shaky stand. The magister backed away and started to chant a spell. Behind him, the black-cloaked crowds murmured, some still dazed, some panicking, others yawning as if waking from a long sleep.
“Please, help me!” First Sentinel shouted. Please, snap out of it. he tried to find his footing, and then fell flat on the ground as the fracture deepened and his ankle gave way. First Sentinel reached for his belt, but Yema pounced again. He twisted away from the blade, so instead of the heart, Yema stabbed through First Sentinel’s shoulder, the edge sliding across his clavicle.
All he could do was scream. First Sentinel curled up, trying to protect his vitals, but Yema was on him, stabbing again.
City Mother, help me. This is your true son, Wonlar Gonyu Pacsa, Shield of Audec-Hal. Can you hear me? This man has held you captive for fifty years, used your power against your children. I will die here today, but don’t let him keep on controlling you. For the sake of my son, I cannot let guilt stay my hand. Yema and the others are strangling the life from this city bit by bit.
First Sentinel opened his eyes, reaching out for the City Mother. He took a deep breath, and pulled with all of his being.
He pulled himself along the brass thread he’d kept and tended for fifty years. He pulled with fifty years of fighting, hoping, and planning, his thread tended diligently and tirelessly, like the crocuses aria held dear. Every battle, every meeting, every invention, and every impassioned speech had brought him to that point, made the thread wide, the weave strong and tight.
The burgundy thread frayed an inch at a time, then faster, and faster, unraveling Yema’s power. First Sentinel hauled at the thread and it tore. He pulled once more, ignoring the pain from Yema’s dagger, ignored his screams of rage, and just pulled. He saw through the burgundy to the brilliant facets of her emerald. He stretched out and pulled with his last breath.
And something reached back. First Sentinel heard a voice in his head, cool but heartening, old but ageless.
[I see you, my son. Finally, I see you. You and your people have removed the veils from my eyes, layer by
layer over the years. Today I can see clearly. Now it is my turn to help you.]
Yema reared up for the kill, once-ivory teeth stained with blood. First Sentinel was frozen on the floor, looking up at him and at the emerald beyond, which glowed as bright as it had when he was a child. The anchorless mass of burgundy threads shifted colors, lightened. Burgundy was replaced by deep emerald, arcing out across the whole city.
I’ve done it. She’s free.
The dagger came down, but Yema’s hand was stayed by a waifish Pronai woman in a black cloak. She twisted the blade out of his hands, and she was not alone. The circle shifted, closing around Yema, and a mass of blackcloaked figures fell upon the sorcerer like a pack of wild animals, stabbing, slashing, biting, screaming their vengeance and retribution.
The frenzy continued, stretching out as First Sentinel saw the red threads of hatred twirl from the distant tower, intermixed with the emerald that bound every citizen to the City Mother, no longer choked out by the burgundy.
When they were done, the former warlocks cast aside their cloaks, piling them atop Yema’s lifeless form. They gathered around First Sentinel dressed only in tunics and undergarments. The former warlocks helped him up and the whole group walked to the emerald.
The City Mother spoke to First Sentinel again, her presence in his mind as comforting as trace memories of the womb. [Yema will never take another heart, my son. But there are others who still hold the reins of control over my children.]
First Sentinel coughed, tasting blood in his mouth. “I know. They’re next. The Smiling King, COBALT-3, Omez. I won’t stop until they’re all gone and your Senate is restored.”
[But first, you need to rest. Start now. Your friends are coming for you.]
The world went dark, but it was the comforting dark of sleep, of rest, of the last dark before the dawn. As sleep took him, he smelled crocuses, freshly-bloomed.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Aegis
The sewer passageway was coated in blood, but Aegis saw the world only in shades of red through his goggles. Blood seeped down his side from the stab wound to the gut, but he wasn’t alone in his pain. Aung was fighting on through a hundred cuts and stabs. Qazzi was a juggernaut, always pressing, always attacking. He turned the smallest advantage into the room needed to land another blow, even as the Shields laid into him again and again. Aegis’ friends had ignored his call to run, and he didn’t have the strength to protect them.
A kick to the sternum knocked Aegis onto his back, leaving him to stare up at a manhole. Aegis weighed the options. He considered the time of night, the neighborhood they’d emerge into, likelihood of patrols, and availability of escape paths. It was worth the risk.
Qazzi tried to pin Aegis to the ground with a blade through the gut, but Aegis rolled out of the way to catch the shot across his back.
“Up the manhole!” Aegis called as the blade tore through his raiment. He lashed out with a kick, then rolled up to a crouch, shield out to protect him once more. He pressed Qazzi, going on the offensive despite flagging strength and mounting wounds. He swung the shield in too-slow arcs, launching strike after strike.
Qazzi dodged a shield strike and countered with a lunge to Aegis’ face. Aegis swatted the blade away, trying to hold his ground. He gave an inch at a time, blood running down his raiment in growing streams. Without attention, he knew he’d go into deep shock soon.
Sabreslate called, “come on!” from the manhole opening, and Aegis hopped back, bending back in a body void to dodge a slash coming in under the shield. Instead of opening his intestines, there was a sharp pinch as his clothes tore and the blade grazed his abdomen.
Something loose passed over his back. He glanced up to see a grey rope hanging from Sabreslate’s animate cloak, the two above holding on. “Grab it!” she said, and Aegis reached up, wrapping his right hand around the rope.
They pulled and he shot upwards, clearing the manhole and spreading his feet to land on both sides of the top. Aegis stepped back and Aung slid the manhole cover back. The Freithin collapsed onto the manhole cover, his whole weight keeping it closed.
Aegis stepped back to look around in the night, seeing the street in red-scale. The streets were bare, the aristocracy tucked away inside their fenced and locked doors, three houses to a block. No patrols in sight. Small blessings.
Aegis heard a dull pounding from below, and the manhole cover shifted.
“This won’t hold once we leave,” Aung said.
Aegis sighed, catching his breath. “I know. And if we wait here, guards will come or he’ll come out the next closest one.”
“What do we do, then?” Sabreslate clutched the wound on her arm, gathering her raiment back up from a rope into a cloak.
“You go. I’ll hold him off and fade back to the alley.” Aegis wavered, the world bobbing without moving.
“He’ll kill you before you can fade,” Sabreslate said.
“Maybe. But you’ll get away, and the Aegis will find another guardian.”
Sabreslate shook her head. “I can’t do that. He’d kill me.”
Aegis growled. “If you don’t leave, I’ll beat him to it.”
Sabreslate managed a laugh. “Never.”
Aegis stoked the fire in his heart, showed its flame through his eyes, a mottled grey thread of frustration wrapping tight around the shining gold between them. “Go,” he yelled. “We can’t stop him, we can barely contain him. If you stay, we all die!” hot tears slid down his face.
Sabreslate’s nostrils flared, and he saw her start to argue, but she sighed, shoulders slumping with fatigue and resignation. She stepped back and nodded to Aung.
Aegis stopped onto the manhole cover, knelt down, and looked to the last of his Freithin Shield-bearers. “You’ve done more than enough. Go home and tell the tale of the bravery of your kin. The Freithin have repaid their debt to the Shields twice-over. Call on us, and we will answer.”
Aung tugged on Sabreslate’s arm, and after another moment, they left. Aegis waited on the street, holding back the manhole cover against the scrapes and thuds.
A minute later, the sounds stopped. Aegis lifted his eyes and looked around street, waiting for Qazzi to reappear.
Aegis stood in the middle of the street, throwing open his arms. “Come out, Qazzi. Let’s get this over with.”
And he waited. Countless moments passed as he scanned up and down the street, looking for patrols and wishing his friends the greatest of haste.
He turned over his shoulder just in time to see Qazzi diving down from a nearby roof, blade first. No time to bring up the shield, no time to do anything but die. Time slowed to a crawl as Aegis struggled to lift the shield. Far in the distance, a column of light erupted from the Tower of the crown, climbing higher than his eyes could see.
Father. You did it.
The world around him continued to move at a crawl, but suddenly, Aegis was free. A brilliant emerald thread stretching down to him from the Tower. She is with me. Boundless energy filled Aegis’ veins. He rose up to meet Qazzi’s blade, and a mighty fist followed it, arcing up and connecting with the assassin.
The blow hurled Qazzi back twenty feet. The assassin broke down the wrought-iron fence of an aristocrat’s yard as he fell. Aegis had never been this strong, stronger than Sapphire even.
But now the City Mother was free, and Aegis was her champion.
Aegis heard a cool voice in his mind. It reminded him of his mother’s voice.
[Selweh Aria Pacsa. I am with you, my champion. Come to the tower, your father needs you.]
Aegis looked over to the broken fence, where Qazzi should have been be, there was only the marred garden smashed between the bars. He’s gone. Aegis turned towards the tower and broke into to a run, faster than he’d ever run before. If you die on me, Father, I’ll never forgive you. You have to live to see the city reborn.
EPILOGUE
First Sentinel
When First Sentinel awoke, the Shields were gathered arou
nd him, with a pair of the Freithin Shield-bearers, all of them bloodied and beaten. The hall of the City Mother was still streaked with the signs of battle, white and emerald tiles stained and marred. There were bodies scattered around the room and the rafters.
But the tyrant’s minions were nowhere in sight. With the City Mother’s power returned, the sanctity of the tower was restored, as it was before the fall of the Senate. Only those with her blessing could enter, and none who bore ill intent would be able to cross any threshold of the tower.
We have a fortress, now. We’ll be under constant siege, engines brought in from all around the world, bought with Nevri and Medai’s money, designed to crack even the titanbone.
“Report,” First Sentinel croaked.
“The mint is gone,” Sapphire said.
Aegis said, “as is the doctor’s house, but he escaped.” First Sentinel nodded. “Doesn’t matter. Where’s Yema?”
Aegis shook his head. “He was dead by the time I got here. And everyone else was gone, save for the priestesses.” First Sentinel nodded, weak. Every inch of his body was sore or stinging, bloodied, beaten, or both. I ought to be dead, in truth. Broken ribs, twisted ankle, fractured leg, probably more. If I hadn’t freed the City Mother, I doubtless would be. Instead, the old man lives long enough to see the beginning of the next chapter in the history of Audec-Hal.
“Take me to a window. I want to see the city.” Aegis and Sapphire lifted him up, walked him down two flights of stairs through almost-empty hallways.
Sapphire’s jade thread curved around him towards Aegis, braided with a white strand of hope. And in Aegis’ thread to Sapphire, several strands in the thread were lighter, a shade closer to evergreen.
First Sentinel smile widened as they walked out onto the level below. He saw a priestess of the City Mother at the far end of the hall, bright emerald cloak catching the lantern light as she stopped and bowed. Did Yema have them locked up somewhere? A question for another time. They stopped in front of a full-length mirror and set First Sentinel down. The priestess chanted, and the mirror changed, revealing a view of the city. The Shields looked out to the top of Headtown and down the neck to the whole city.
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