Angles. Velocities. Directions.
A banner fluttered in the wind. The gun flew back to his hand and he shot the clips that held it to the pole, timing it with the wind so that the flag fell directly onto the beast.
It accomplished what direct attack had not: it slowed it down. The monster roared and thrashed, losing its grip on the wall for a moment and even plummeting a few feet. Then two hands ripped through the cloth – man's hands. The berserker began to tear it away, even as the beast began to clamber blindly upward.
But Arrow was already moving, himself. He drew and reloaded his crossbow in the blink of an eye, and now aimed it – again at the wall, but this time higher. He fired.
And jumped over the side of the wall.
The explosion didn't make the creature lose its grip on the wall at all. But the explosion sent hundreds of pounds of stone flying out, and dropped a huge piece of masonry directly on the creature's head… and that did it.
The thing bellowed, and tumbled into free-fall. Harder when Arrow hit the top of the stone as well, driving his own weight into the top of the thing. He couldn't see the beast below the stone, but in the short moment of free-fall, saw the berserker's fingers tear at the lip of the stone, seeking him, seeking his blood.
Arrow had already fired again.
Angles, variables. A thousand possibilities in a second, and my fingers know what to do.
The arrow hit the wall below and to the side of the fall, and another explosion slammed into them. The creature below roared as it absorbed the majority of the blast, and the madman's fingers disappeared from view.
The energy of the explosion also knocked the creature sideways – along with the stone upon which Arrow stood. The creature, the berserker, and the stone slammed into the side of an outcropping on the tower, a minor turret with a wide window that could be used as a lookout or vantage point. The beasts and their burden slammed into the side, but Arrow –
(angles possibilities making them all come together)
– was able to throw himself through the opening, crashing into the window, rolling to a stop against a bookshelf.
He was cut, he was bruised. But he was alive. And that – he hoped – was more than he could say for the things that had come after him.
Sword!
The thought drove him back to his feet, neverminding the bits of glass that glinted in his hair and skin or the abrasions from smaller bits of stone throne up by the explosions. He ran. Looked. Saw.
"No!"
Then he looked away – he had to – and the only way he could think to look was down. The place where the monsters had fallen. Where they should have died.
Instead, he saw the creature stand and, with a bellow, hurl the berserker bodily at Arrow. The madman flew up the impossible height, well over a hundred feet, and slammed right into him. The weight of the man and the force of his propulsion drove him back through the ragged gap he had just created a moment before, then to the floor beneath the snarling, flailing arms and feet of the berserker.
The madman looked at him for a long moment, with those eyeless eyes that saw nothing and everything and fell into the insanity that lay between them both. He smiled.
And bit down on Arrow's neck.
15
Sword was several rods' length away from the old man in the armor. Enough room for time, for planning.
And then thought disappeared as the old man – rushing faster than a waterfall, flowing with more crackling energy than the lightning Cloud had called – was upon her.
Her weapons were in her hand, as always. Too close for javelins, but a rope dart – a glowing length of bright light with a heavy blade of flame affixed to the far end – appeared in her hand, and she cast it toward the armored juggernaut.
She had thought she knew the one man who could withstand her attack. Armor had been a Greater Gift like her, her one-time father figure ever kind, ever gentle… until called upon to fight. Then he became physically invulnerable to attack by any weapon.
But even he eventually succumbed. Even he eventually died, at her hand.
This thing, though. This armored beast.
The dart flashed, the rope wriggling behind it like a viper made of something far more deadly than flesh, though with a bite of infinite fatality.
The old man raised his armored arm and simply batted it aside. The contact made the armor sizzle and smoke, and for a moment Sword thought she saw it blacken slightly. The armor was already a mix of grays and deeper grays, gears grinding within it, the light of the faith symbol at its brow giving it an eerie, demonic appearance, so even that momentary singeing could have been nothing but her imagination. Indeed, it probably was, because it was certain that in the next moment not a mark marred the suit. It continued unburned, unbroken.
Impossible.
She twisted her wrist, and the rope dart snapped, changing direction suddenly and thrashing its way back toward her enemy. This time he –
(no!)
– simply caught it. A snap of his wrist this time, and suddenly she found herself lurching forward, stumbling, off-balance for a moment.
A moment too long.
The old man had been moving forward this whole time, never slowing or so much as breaking pace, and now her shambling fall forward combined with his lumbering run to bring her into his range.
His fist swung at her, and again she was reminded of Armor, of the tall man who became so physically imposing when in the throes of his Gift. She remembered what happened to flesh, to wood, to solid stone when he collided with it, and somehow knew that being hit by this iron fist would be far worse.
She dove out of the way, barely avoiding being brained by the huge creature.
A laugh came from within it, and now she knew what to listen for she could hear the undertones of the old man's real voice. But a voice distorted, made frightening by what he wore.
"Good," he said. "I worried this would be over too quickly. A worthy foe makes a worthy fight."
She clapped her hands. Her swords appeared – katana and wakizashi. One long, one shorter, both dancing with the flame of which they were made, but both still possessed of blades stronger and sharper than any other.
The old man saw them, and laughed again. He reached for her.
She ducked under his hand. Slashed, slashed, stabbed – three movements too fast to follow by any but her, perhaps Arrow if he had been watching.
Arrow. Be alive. Be safe.
She drew away from the armored form, expecting to see its metal arm – and the softer arm of flesh within it – fall away in a shower of sparks and blood.
It was whole. Again, perhaps a slight mark for a moment that quickly faded.
The old man laughed appreciatively. "You are quick."
Then he attacked in earnest. His fists swung fast, he danced and flowed from one side to another with speed she thought should be impossible – until she saw that he wasn't stepping, but gliding. The fires at his back and feet flared with every movement, pushing him in the direction he chose much faster than otherwise possible. And in doing so, they added a loud noise, like the breath of the Gods, to the fight. Barely possible to think with the crash of the gears, the bellowing wind at the old man's back.
She dodged his attacks, dancing away when she could, blunting them with her swords when she could not. Each came within a hair's breadth of her, the very wind of his fists passing almost close enough to steal her breath.
This can't go on.
Her weapons had no effect.
And so they were gone – or rather, changed.
Instead of swords, she held a glowing net with barbed hooks around the edges. She waited until the terrible fists came at her again, then threw herself away from them even as she threw the net at her attacker.
It worked. First one hand, then another tangled in the mass of brilliant, blazing threads.
She used the moment to conjure another weapon – nothing so sophisticated or subtle as her favorite katana. A war
hammer appeared in her hands, so big it weighed nearly as much as she did. But as with all her weapons, in her hands it was light as a sparrow, and flew as fast.
The old man roared from within his armor, twisting his hands and arms in the netting. Pings and pops sounded, and Sword realized with a start that the strands of her conjured net were actually starting to part.
Not possible. It can't be.
She swung the hammer. Blades had had no effect, so perhaps it was time for simple, cruel, ugly force.
The hammer slammed into the side of the suit of armor, and she was glad to see the beast skitter to the side, taking several stuttering steps before the fires on its back flared and it righted itself.
The old man screamed. Wrenched. One hand free.
Did I hurt him? Did that get through to what was inside?
She had no way of knowing – his screams could be of rage at being imprisoned, or pain from her blow, or both.
She swung the hammer again. This time the man was ready, and his fires brightened before the impact, making of him an immovable rock. The hammer bounced off him with a shower of bright sparks and afterimages of flame that burned her eyes and made them water.
The old man roared again.
She slammed the hammer into him. But this time she transformed it in mid-swing, creating a battle axe nearly as heavy as the hammer had been. The blade hit the armor.
It bit. Not far, but her heart stuttered as she saw one of her weapons affect the iron -
(only no not iron too strong what is it what is he?)
– for the first time. She had aimed it at the joint between hip and leg – a slight indentation to allow for freedom of movement. The old man shifted at the last second, though, and the blade hit his thigh instead. Still a good, killing blow in any other circumstance.
Not this one.
The axe bit an inch into the armor – clearly not enough to penetrate to any flesh beneath. Then the old man jerked his leg again, and the axe was yanked out of Sword's fingers before fizzling to nothing.
She was on the move. A lariat in her hands now, she threw the loop over the head and neck of the helm. She didn't try to overbalance the huge creature – at twice the height of a man and broad in proportion, that would have been a fool's errand.
Instead, she climbed. Knowing instinctively that at the current range it was only a matter of time before the monster's hands found her.
She had to go inside.
She yanked herself up, and suddenly was spider-scampering up the side of the armor, yanking her way to the shoulder. A fiery dagger appeared in her hand, and she slammed it into the area between shoulder and arm, another pivot point.
The dagger sank in. Still not as far as she hoped, but farther than the axe had gone in the thing's thigh. Something ground in the shoulder, the sound of a gear unable to move.
The old man roared again, and yet still she could not tell if she had managed to injure or only antagonize him.
She kept climbing. Yanked her way up higher. Another dagger in the neck, more clanking, more grinding.
She saw the symbol on the head. The sign of faith. The light.
She aimed her dagger for it. She would cleave the beast's head. Save Arrow. Return all to order, and to the rebuilding of an Empire long floundering in sickness and corruption.
Her hand plunged. And the old man caught her. Both hands finally free of the net, he caught one wrist in each, yanking her off his side and slamming her to earth so hard she heard something crack inside her and wondered if – after so many Turns fighting as a Dog, after all her battles as assassin and revolutionary – she was finally going to discover what death felt like.
She wished she could have seen Arrow one more time.
The old man let go of her for a moment, aimed his arm at the palace. Light shot out… and a huge hole gaped in the palace wall. Big enough that the wall began to sag. She heard screams from within, then they silenced as that part of the palace simply folded in on itself and what had been walls and rooms and people with lives became nothing but rock and ended dreams.
Sword screamed. Agony for them, agony for her.
The arm pointed at her face, the metal voice spoke. "Move and I will make a graveyard of this place."
Sword believed him. She held still.
There was a click, and when the voice came again, it was much louder. "Wahy! La'ug!"
A moment later, out of the dust that now shrouded what was left of the palace, the little girl came – again holding her woolly. The simpleton appeared beside her, eyes again vacant, following like a puppy behind its master.
He held Arrow in his arms. And Sword could not tell if he lived or not. Only that blood caked his body, his dust-covered face. His closed eyes.
The old man's voice came again. "Malal! Come out, you cur! Come out if you are man enough, or I will kill everyone within these walls." His arm dropped to point at Sword, and light blossomed from the tube on its side. "Starting with her."
For what seemed a long time, there was nothing. No movement, no sound other than a few coughs from people within the dust cloud.
The helm swiveled to her. "He is not coming. I am not surprised."
Sword grinned. "Will an Emperor succumb to the orders of a madman?"
Now the voice sounded tired. "No madman. Mad, yes, but not a madman." The tube glowed brighter. "But mad or not, I never lie."
Sword closed her eyes.
16
"Stop!"
Sword opened her eyes and jerked her gaze toward the sound of the voice. Knowing what was happening, but powerless to stop it.
"No," she said. But the hand above her slammed down, a fist the size of her head pounding the sense from her mind.
She was only out for a moment, and opened her eyes again almost immediately. Fast enough to see Malal floating through the air. Not roughly as Sword and Arrow had done while with Cloud. He floated regally. Majestically.
He looked like an Emperor.
Behind him came Wind, obviously the one providing the flight. Scowling, unhappy to be doing what she was, but still doing it.
Malal touched down in front of the armored man, his arms crossed. "I am here. What do you want?" he said simply.
The old man didn't answer. Not with words.
His arm pointed at Malal. A trio of darts shot out of hidden sleeves under his gauntlet. They found their way to Malal's neck.
The Emperor grabbed at them. Gagged. Then fell to his knees.
"I want you there," said the old man. His helm flipped back, his aged face visible and his own voice the one that said, "I want you on your knees."
Wind's face grew wrathful. Her hands raised, and again Sword felt that change in air pressure. She had seen Wind call the air to batter enemies, to crush them in invisible grasps.
The old man didn't bother replacing his helm. He just stared at her. "The darts are poisoned," he said. "You have a few moments to get him in the palace. Perhaps you have a Patch there who can help him." He shrugged, and the helm slammed back in place. "Or you can spend that time fighting me. Personally, I'd almost prefer that."
His hand pointed at Sword again, and the other aimed at Cloud's still-unconscious form, lying on the ground nearby. Tubes on the old man's arms glowed. "But first these two will die as well."
Wind looked at Malal, at her brother, at Sword. Her mouth opened and closed in wordless anguish.
Malal gasped. He fell facedown in the dirt.
The old man contemplated the Emperor. "I was told this will cause quite a bit of suffering." He looked back at Wind. "It will be interesting to see what happens, don't you think?"
He gestured at the girl and the big man – La'ug and Wahy, he had called them. They came toward him. The big man dropped Arrow in the dirt beside Cloud. He laughed, a simple laugh utterly free of malice, the laugh of a child who has just played with friends and had a fine time of it.
The armor on the old man whirred and shifted. Rods emerged from the sides, a serie
s of straps. The girl and the big man climbed on the rods, strapped themselves to the armor.
The fires on the old man's back flared, and his feet left the earth. About ten feet up, he turned to look at the body of Malal, twitching on the ground. "I hope you can cure him. A quick death would be far too merciful for him."
Then there was a roar, and the trio flew into the sky and were gone from sight in only a moment.
Sword felt air cradle her. Felt it pull her to her feet. The movement was quick, jerky – not the graceful control Wind usually exhibited. She saw why: Wind was concentrating on Arrow; her brother; and, most of all, on Malal, keeping the three unconscious men steady in the air as she flew them toward the palace.
Foam was coming from Malal's mouth as whatever poison had been on the darts seared through his system. As Sword watched, blood began to trickle from his ears.
They took to the air, just as had the assassins. But without the roar of flame, the air of triumph. They took to the sky in silence, as beaten dogs.
They flew through a window in the part of the palace that was still whole and unblemished, and Sword began calling for Patches to attend them before they were even through.
Imperial Guards were waiting for them, clearly having seen the whole thing and waiting only because they had been ordered to stay away by the Emperor. Now, though, they moved as one. There was no need to hold Malal – he was still borne aloft on a cushion of air – but they filed in around him. Sword thought it looked disturbingly like the honor guard around a funerary carriage.
Wind cast a look over her shoulder as she ran with the Guard. I'll tell you as soon as I can, the look said. Then she disappeared down the hall, the bodies of Arrow and Cloud trailing after her.
Sword nodded, and let them go. She could do nothing now.
Only wait.
The nearest room was some sort of study or minor library: desks, some books. Sword didn't much care which it was, only that it had a chair she could slump in for a moment. She could still hear people moaning elsewhere in the palace, other sounds of people who thought they were completely safe only to discover that safety was nothing but illusion, and that illusion part of the danger itself.
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