by Amy Hopkins
They stayed low, waiting until the horses pulled up to a whinnying stop before the gates. Garrett could tell the men outside were trying to be quiet. They spoke in whispers, hushed their nags and snapped at each other for the noise they made.
However, an army of soldiers is not an easy thing to keep silent. Without even sticking his head up, Garrett could tell where they were.
He looked around to make sure his own men were in position. Sure enough, they lined the battlements and clustered below. In fact, Garrett realized, there were more than just the soldiers milling around the protective wall.
“Bette, what the fuck are they doing down there?" he asked in a low voice.
She shrugged. “Exactly what I would have done.”
The few nearby windows that let out the soft glow of lantern light let Garrett pick out a few of them. They were women, armed with shovels and pitchforks, their dresses tied above their knees, so they wouldn’t trip and hair in neat braids, away from hands that might grab a chunk in a fight.
“Why the bloody hell wouldn’t they train, then?" he asked.
She shrugged. “Too damn busy. Doesn’t mean they won’t be able to help.”
“Fair enough.” He knew better than to argue with her over it.
Outside, the army was becoming louder and more restless. He could hear the nasty little lordling grumbling in discomfort, and he knew exactly when they decided to attack.
The horses bolted forwards. Garrett help his hand up, motioning his men to stay down. A dull scrape on the wall was his cue.
“NOW!" he screamed, and as one, the soldiers on the wall rose. Each one multiplied, splitting into multiple soldiers and making it look like they had three times the number of people on guard.
“Bloody mystics,” Garrett snorted, glad they had come to lend a hand.
The Tahn Guard lifted spears, stabbing the men who climbed the sole ladder they had brought with them. They threw them, piercing the throats and bellies of horses and occasionally getting a man as well.
Archers sent back a volley of their own and three Tahn fighters fell, tumbling back off the battlement to the stones below. “Shields up, men!” Garrett screamed. The rough boards and tin-sheeted shields that had been hurriedly gathered were lifted, offering some protection from flying arrows.
Flames sprung up in the grass outside the wall. Horses reared and went into a frenzy. They bucked their riders off and tore away, trampling anyone who got in their way as the mysterious fire went out, leaving no sign of damage.
“Get them!” George screamed, sounding less than pleased with the resistance they had met. “Wipe those fuckers off the face of the planet! They killed my father, KILL THEM!”
“Wait,” Bette asked, suddenly beside Garrett. “We did what? What the fuck did Julianne and Marcus do in Muir?”
Soldiers rushed to the wall, boosting each other up to reach the top, only to have fingers bashed or stabbed by those above. Some fell from the top, others buckled under the weight of their comrades.
Still, they came, piling over each other and climbing atop those who had fallen to a spear in the face, slowly gaining ground until the first men fell over the wall and into the city.
“For Tahn!” a scream came below, followed by a sickening crunch right under Garrett’s feet.
He whirled and chopped off the arm of a man attempting to scale the wall, then stabbed his sword through the eye of another.
“Do limbs count?” He had to scream to be heard, looking frantically around for the man who was taking the wagers earlier.
“Don’t be stupid!” came the shouted answer.
Cursing, Garrett debated climbing over the wall to find the owner of the arm he now held, but satisfied himself with beating it over the head of another soldier before opening his throat.
He moved over towards Bette, tripping over three dead men in a pile.
“Six.” She leaned over, hauled a man up by the scruff of his neck, and slammed the hilt of her sword down into his face. It exploded, gore coating her armor. “Seven,” she grunted.
“Oh, fuck,” Garrett muttered. He waited for another head to pop up and when none came, he peered over to see the crowd below him had moved on already.
Further along the wall, George’s soldiers had managed to ram a part of the wall hard enough that it bowed inwards. “They’re about to breach the wall!" he yelled to those nearby. Then, he added to himself, “If I run out of people to kill, I’m fucked!”
He eyed the low lip of the wall, the only thing between him and the army outside. “Only one way to fix it. LOOK OUT BELOW!" he screamed, then vaulted over the wall.
He landed on his feet, planting solidly into the ground. Three soldiers looked up, startled. One grinned. “Looks like they’re making it easy and coming to us,” he sniggered.
“Aye,” Garrett grunted as he took down the first one. “Easy for me, that is.” A duck and a swipe spilled the second man’s guts, and a fast thrust left the sniggering soldier on his knees, watching the battle as he died.
“Four, five, six,” he counted, trying to remember if he had seen the armless one at the bottom of the wall. He would have to go and check later. He couldn’t leave a kill uncounted, after all.
“Ready yerselves, bastards, I’m coming for ye!" he hollered before dashing into the mass of enemy soldiers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Marcus spurred his horse on, briefly looking back to check the others were keeping up.
Julianne was behind him, urging her horse on next to Madam Seher. The theatre leader had met them on the road and insisted on leading some of her people to the battle for Tahn.
Behind the women, Mathias, a green-eyed nature magician and a man with the black eyes of a physical user followed. Marcus knew the nature mage was keeping the horses going, while the other was dampening the sound of their hoofbeats.
They weren’t bringing an army, but Marcus hoped they would be enough. They had passed the rest of the theatre troupe on the road, hurriedly speaking with Lord George who was still dazed at the events.
Unable to crack his mind, Rogan had eventually locked him up. Rogan had convinced anyone who asked that they had just seen Lord George a few minutes ago, or earlier that day. His absence wasn’t noted, and the lord himself had failed in all attempts to escape.
Seher’s people had rescued him, sneaking into the manor and releasing him from the dungeon right by Julianne and Marcus. She still hadn’t explained how that had happened. Surely, she would have noticed him when she had used her magic down there?
How far? Madam Seher sent to him.
He used the trick that let Julianne through his thoughts so she could read his answer. He thought about the trip they had made, and the road they would need to ride down to return to Tahn.
Good. Seher had read his mind, then, was satisfied they were close.
Grimly, Marcus ducked his head to avoid a low branch. Speed was of the essence. George Junior was too far ahead for them to warn Tahn he was coming, but they could still join the fight.
Tahn would be at battle by now, and Marcus wouldn’t miss it for the world. A familiar old battle lust crept through Marcus’s bones. It wasn’t a want to kill—he hated that as much as Julianne and her mystics.
This was a craving for fast, precise movement, danger that heightened the senses. The noise and confusion that would melt away as he found his center, like all good fighters, and embrace the years of training he had gone through.
Hearing a low rumble ahead, Marcus yanked on his reins and his horse skidded to a stop, the others halting beside him. One hand up, he gestured for them to listen.
“Battle,” Julianne said softly.
Despite her hate for a wasted life, Marcus could see the flush of excitement on her cheeks, even under the washed-out colors of the moonlit night.
“I’ll race you,” he said.
Before he could move, her horse bounded onto the road ahead of him, kicking a cloud of road dust up in his face.
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“Oh, you’re on, mystic!” he muttered. With a wild grin, he set off after her.
By the time he had caught up, she had already met with her first opponent. A clean swipe with her staff felled the surprised soldier.
It’s getting hairy up there, Julianne sent to Marcus. Garrett is trapped near the wall, south of the main road in. See to him. Stupid rearick.
Nodding, Marcus peeled off in a southerly direction. He could easily make out the cluster of soldiers who had separated from the rest of the army, bunched up beneath a glossy white wall.
Where the fuck did that come from? Marcus wondered as he headed towards it. Just as he pulled back to slow his horse, a loud, warbling cry erupted from the middle of the pack.
“Garrett!" he yelled, just as an armored fighter was thrown back form the others. Marcus aimed his magitech rifle and pressed the button on the side. It landed square in the back of a man trying to reach over his companions with a lance.
Marcus’s target crumpled, his armor now sporting a deep, crumpled indentation surrounded by scorch marks.
The blinding flash was enough to catch the attention of the other soldiers. Some turned, and Marcus whacked the nearest across the jaw. He, too, fell to the ground.
Pivoting to avoid a sharp sword aimed for his throat, then darting away from a lance, Marcus yelled again. “Rearick?”
“Don’t ye fucking DARE steal my kills, ye piss-born son of a donkey-faced prostitute.”
How does he have the breath to swear like that? Marcus jabbed at another fighter, then shoved him back with a boot planted in the chest.
He debated tossing his weapon—it wasn’t suited for close combat, it took too long to recharge. Still, he didn’t relish being on the other end of it.
Using the blunt, useless weapon to punch a man in the balls, Marcus took a running jump. He leaped over the bent-over soldier, used him as a platform, and threw himself towards the wall.
He landed, fell forwards and tumbled to his feet.
“I fucking told ye, fuck off!” Garrett panted. He stabbed his sword, disemboweling one soldier while Marcus throat-punched his neighbor.
“Juliane sent me over. Said you’re trapped. And stupid.” Now back to back with Garrett, the two started inching their way out of the cluster of fighting and away from the pile of bodies Garrett had amassed.
“Aye, that’s likely ta be—here, take that to the face, ye boil-faced pimple licker—true. Never was known fer me brains.”
“You gonna tell me what you were doing?” Marcus asked.
Garrett stopped and looked at him, kicking a heavy boot at the knee of a man who got too close. “I’m counting me kills, ye dumb twat! Make sure ye take note of yer own, I don’t want Bette thinkin’ I cheated!”
“Right.” Realizing what was going on—some kind of rivalry between the two—Marcus focused on the fighting. There were only four men left now.
Marcus’s weapon whirred, and he shot it again, this time annihilating a man’s face. A moment later, another soldier burst into flames.
“What was—ahh, FUCK! I was just about to kill that one! Who the fuck did that? I’ll fucking kill him.” Garrett looked around, wild-eyed, as the three remaining enemies looked at each other, then bolted for the safety of the army. He threw his arms in the air. “And now ye fucking scared the pussies away.”
He took off running after them, Marcus hot on his heels. Soon they were joined by a third man—Francis.
“If that were you setting me targets on fire, yer dead when this is over,” Garrett gasped. He stumbled to a stop, and Marcus and Francis looked at him in alarm. Hands on knees, he took three gasping breaths, then shot off again.
“Not me. I couldn’t do that, not in a million years!” Francis protested.
“Must be Jakob,” Marcus said. He eyed Francis, the only one of them that wasn’t almost blue from lack of air.
“Who the fuck is Jakob?” Garrett asked. “Never mind. He’ll be dead Jakob when I’m done.”
They slammed into the main fighting force again, then scrambled back as three wolves leaped in beside them.
“The fuck?” Marcus asked.
The wolves ripped into George’s soldiers, sending globs of flesh and blood into the air.
“Oh, Bastard,” Garrett moaned. “The dogs are on our side, aren’t they?”
“Seher brought a nature magician with her, so… I hope so?” Even Marcus was feeling a little green.
“We need to get to the wall,” Francis said. He couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from the gory sight ahead. “They were climbing through the gap. That’s why I came to get you, rearick.”
“Yeah,” Garrett murmured. “Let’s be moving on, aye?”
CHAPTER FORTY
Julianne struck a solider with her staff. He grunted and doubled over in pain. A moment later he toppled, collapsing into a sleeping heap as Julianne’s eyes cleared.
I’m coming for you, August. She sent the words to all the sweating, panting, heaving souls around her. August wouldn’t hear it—he would be blocked, for sure. It would scare the shit out of anyone who could, though, and fear like that was infectious.
More than one man looked up, hackles raised as the whisper filtered through the battle rage.
I’m coming, and I will crush you and all who follow you.
She grabbed the mind of a man nearby and made him stop fighting. He stood, watching and feeling as a Tahn fighter slit his throat.
She stole the will of another, and he jumped out of her way. Then, another. Like a parting of the seas, Julianne walked through the battle untouched as men scrambled to make way for her.
She knew where he lurked on the other side of the battle, tucked in amongst his posse of mind-fucking mystics, all bonded in groups of three to reinforce their shields.
She couldn’t sense them, but that little pocket of impenetrable nothing in the middle of the press of minds was conspicuous in itself.
When I find you, will I let the dogs tear your face off? Will I give you to the birds to strip clean?
She had heard the dogs and seen Mathias’s glowing green eyes. Perhaps the soldiers had, too. One dropped his sword, looked around in a panic, and ran.
“Was that one you?” Madam Seher asked quietly.
Julianne shook her head minutely. The old woman was shielded tight and invisible under a spell that would force people not to notice her. She kept close to Julianne, out of the way of the soldiers.
I’m here, August. It’s time. Time to face your sins.
The last few men scrambled out of her way without any nudging needed. They saw her eyes, heard her words. None were willing to stand against this beacon of justice that was coming for their corrupt leaders.
One man stood between her and August. A mystic, his eyes white and stance steady. The only man willing to face her.
Julianne lifted her staff and brought it down on his head and he folded to the ground.
A burst of magical energy, assisted by a whispered phrase, sent the surrounding soldiers running in terror. Black hands clutched at their hearts, ripped at their dreams as they stumbled away, weeping and screaming.
“August.”
All that remained were four mystics, August, and a white-faced, sniveling Lord George. The Third, Julianne amended silently. What little she knew of his father made her wonder how his prodigy had turned out so poorly.
August fell back, trembling. “You can’t touch me,” he said. “You can’t break my shields.”
“A shield.” Julianne launched forwards, slamming her staff on the shoulder of a woman in blue. “Is only.” She whipped sideways, winding another. “As good.” Jabbing forwards, she cracked the ribs of a man. “As its owner.” In a final whirlwind, she struck the last man in the head.
Hearing a swish, Julianne glanced back to see Madam Seher removing a thin dagger from the throat of the soldier who’d tried to sneak up on her. She nodded her thanks.
August yelped, realizing his shield wa
s no longer reinforced. “George? George, I demand you help me. Kill her!”
“A shield is only as good as its owner,” George said, baring yellow teeth in an evil grin. Julianne dropped the compulsion, and he sank to his knees, shaking. “Oh, fuck, she’s in my head!” he whimpered. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Clearly, George had been relying on his innate ability to shield for some time, and hadn’t realized how fragile it really was.
“August, you stand charged with tyranny, despotism, and the complete disregard of Temple stricture. How plead you?”
“I didn’t… he made me do it!” August trembled, and he sucked in a sharp breath, phlegm catching in his throat.
“Rogan never visited Tahn. Don’t blame him for your actions there. How do you plead?”
“I didn’t—” August’s clothes erupted into flames. He screamed, clutching at the fabric and dropping to the ground, kicking in agony as his hair caught fire. The stench of burning flesh filled Julianne's nostrils, and she cut the sensation off.
“Who was that?” Seher snapped.
Francis stepped out of the watching crowd, one had raised as he twisted his fingers in a tight circle. Heat billowed as the flames flared blue. August’s cries dissipated as his body cooked.
No one spoke until he was nothing but a charred pile of bone and ash, toothy skull staring up with an eerie grin.
Francis walked over and stomped on the blackened head. It crumbled into dust. “He killed my Danielle.” He turned to Julianne. “It wasn’t my place, but I won’t apologize.”
“I am not your ruler,” Julianne said. “I am not judge, nor jury. It was not my place to decide his fate. You are the voice of this town, and the people he hurt. It was your place, and your right.”
Francis looked to the sky, where smoke still trailed from the extinguished fire. A tear slid down his cheek. “I did it, Danielle. He won’t hurt anyone again.”
Then, he walked away into the city, disappearing behind the bright, white wall.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE