A Reaper at the Gates_An Ember in the Ashes

by Sabaa Tahir

  “Waiting for more men, perhaps,” Dex says, “though their force doesn’t seem much bigger than when I saw it.”

  I send my cousin Baristus out to recon the north end of the pass to see if, indeed, more Karkauns are joining the main body of the army. But when he returns, he brings only questions.

  “Bleeding strange, sir,” Baristus says. As Dex, Avitas, and I gather in my tent, my cousin paces back and forth, agitated. “There are no more men coming in through the northern passes. Truly, it appears they are waiting, but for what I cannot tell. I thought it might be weaponry or artillery for their siege machines. But they have no siege machines. How the bleeding hells do they plan to get past the walls of Antium without catapults?”

  “Maybe Keris promised to let them in,” I say. “And they don’t yet realize how devious she is. It would be just like her to play both sides.”

  “And then what?” Dex says. “She lets them lay siege for a few weeks?”

  “Enough time for her to find a way to get Marcus killed in the fighting,” I say. “Enough time for her to sabotage the birth of my nephew.” Ultimately, it is the Empire that Keris wishes to rule over. She will not let the capital of the Empire fall. But the loss of a few thousand lives? That’s nothing to her. I’ve learned that lesson well.

  “If we rout the Karkauns here,” I say, “then we kill her plan before it draws its first breath.” I examine the drawings the aux has given me of the layout of the Karkaun army camp. Their food stores, their weaponry, the locations of their various provisions. They’ve buried their most valuable goods in the very heart of the army, where they will be almost impossible to reach.

  But I have Masks with me. And the word impossible has been whipped and beaten out of us.

  My force strikes deep in the night, when much of the Karkaun camp is sleeping. The sentries go down swiftly, and Dex leads a force that is in and out before the first flames rise from the Karkaun food stores. We hit perhaps a sixth of their supply, but by the time our enemies sound the alarm, we have retreated back into the mountains.

  “I’ll come with you for the next assault, Shrike,” Harper says to me as we prepare for another. “Something feels wrong to me. They took that attack lying down.”

  “Perhaps it’s because we surprised them.” Harper paces nervously, and I put a hand on his shoulder to still him. A spark jumps between us, and he looks up in surprise. Immediately, I let him go.

  “I—I need you with the rear guard,” I say to cover my awkwardness. “If something does go wrong, I’ll need you to get the men back to Antium.”

  Our next assault comes just before dawn, when the Barbarians are still scrambling from our earlier attack. This time, I lead a group of a hundred men armed with arrows and flame.

  But almost before the first volley flies, it is clear that the Karkauns are ready for us. A wave of more than a thousand of them on our western side breaks off from the main army and surges upward in orderly, organized lines that I’ve never seen in a Karkaun force.

  But we have the higher ground, so we pick off as many as we can. They have no horses, and these mountains are not their land. They don’t know these hills the way we do.

  When we’ve exhausted our arrows, I signal the retreat—which is when the unmistakable thud of a drum thunders out from the rear guard. Avitas’s troops. One deep thud—two—three.

  Ambush. We worked out the warnings ahead of time. I spin about, my war hammer in hand, waiting for the attack. The men close ranks. A horse screams—a chilling and unmistakable sound. Curses ring out when the drum sounds again.

  But this time, the drum is unceasing, a frantic call for aid.

  “The rear guard is under attack,” Dex calls out. “How the hells—”

  His sentence ends in a grunt as he parries a knife that comes flying out at him from the woods. And then we can think of nothing but surviving, because we are suddenly surrounded by Karkauns. They rise up from well-hidden traps in the ground, drop down from trees, rain down arrows and blades and fire.

  From the rear guard, we hear the unholy howling of more Karkauns as they pour down the mountain, from the east. Thousands of them. More still approach from the north. Only the south is clear—but not for long, if we don’t clear this ambush.

  We’re dead. We’re bleeding dead.

  “That ravine.” I point to a narrow path between the closing pincer of the approaching forces, and we make a break for it, sending arrows back over our shoulders. The ravine follows the river, leading down to a waterfall. There are boats there—enough to take the remaining men downstream. “Faster! They’re closing!”

  We run full force, grimacing at the screams of the rear guard dying swiftly as they are inundated by our enemy. Skies, so many men. So many Black Guards. And Avitas is up there. Something feels wrong to me. If he’d been with us, he might have seen the ambush. We might have retreated before the Karkauns attacked the rear guard.

  And now . . .

  I look up the mountain. He could not possibly survive that onslaught. None of them could. There are too many.

  He never told Elias that they are brothers. He never got to speak to Elias as a brother. And skies, the things I’ve said to him in moments of rage, in anger, when all he did was try to help keep me alive. That spark between us, extinguished before I could put a name to it. My eyes burn.

  “Shrike!” Dex screams and knocks me to the ground as an arrow cuts through the air, nearly impaling me. We scramble up and stumble on. The ravine finally appears, an eight-foot drop into the remnants of a creek. A hail of arrows comes down as we approach it.

  “Shields!” I shout. Steel thunks on wood, and then my men and I run again, years of training pushing us into neat rows. Every time a soldier is picked off, another moves to take his place so that when I look back, I can count almost exactly how many are left.

  Only seventy-five—of the five hundred Marcus sent.

  We hurtle down the path beside the falls, and the thunder of the water drives away any other sound. The path curves back and forth on itself until it drops into a dusty flat where a dozen long boats are beached.

  The men need no orders. We hear the chants of the Karkauns behind us. One boat launches, then another and another.

  “Shrike.” Dex pulls me toward a boat. “You have to go.”

  “Not until the rest of the boats launch,” I say. Four hundred and twenty-five men . . . gone. And Avitas . . . gone. Skies, it was so quick.

  The sounds of swords clashing echoes from the path above. My hammer is in my hand, and I am racing up the path. If some of my men are still up there, then by the skies, I will not let them fight alone.

  “Shrike—no!” Dex groans, draws his scim, and follows. Just beyond the entrance to the path, we find a group of Martials, three Masks among them, battling the Tundarans but being inexorably shoved back by the sheer number of them. A group of auxes supports a fourth Mask, blood pouring from his neck, from a wound in his gut, from another in his thigh.

  Harper.

  Dex grabs him from the auxes, staggering under his weight as he carries him down toward the last boat. The auxes arm their bows and fire over and over until the air is buzzing with arrows, and it is a miracle I am not hit. One of the Masks turns—it is Baristus, my cousin.

  “We’ll hold them off,” he shouts. “Go, Shrike. Warn the city. Warn the Emperor. Tell them there’s another—”

  And then Dex is dragging me away, shoving me down the path and into the boat, sharking through the water as he pushes off. Tell them what? I want to scream. Dex rows with all his might, and the boat is through the falls and moving swiftly down the fast-flowing river. I kneel beside Harper.

  His blood is everywhere. If it weren’t me in this boat beside him, he would be dead in a matter of minutes. I take his hand. If it weren’t for Baristus’s sacrifice, we’d all be dead.

  I expect to
search for Harper’s song. He is the consummate Mask, his thoughts and emotions buried so deeply that I assumed his song would be equally opaque.

  But his song is near the surface, strong and bright and clear as a star-filled winter sky. I delve into his essence. I see the smile of a dark-haired woman with wide-set green eyes—his mother—and the strong hands of a man who looks strikingly similar to Elias. Harper walks Blackcliff’s dark halls and endures day after day of the hardship and loneliness I know so well. He aches for his father, a mysterious figure who haunts him with an emptiness he can never quite fill.

  He is an open book, and I learn that he did set Laia free months ago, when we ambushed her. He set her free because he knew I would kill her. And he knew Elias would never forgive me for it. I witness myself through his eyes: angry and cold and weak and strong and brave and warm. Not the Blood Shrike. Helene. And I would be blind not to see what he feels for me. I am woven into his consciousness the way Elias used to be woven into mine. Harper is always aware of where I am, of whether I am all right.

  When his wounds have closed and his heart beats strong, I stop singing, weakened. Dex looks at me with a wild, questioning expression but says nothing.

  I adjust Harper’s head so he is more comfortable, and his eyes open. I am about to scold him, but his harsh whisper silences me.

  “Grímarr and the men who hit the rear guard came from the east, Shrike,” he rasps, determined to deliver the message. “He attacked me—would have killed me . . .”

  All the more reason to hate that swine. “They must have snuck around us somehow,” I say. “Or perhaps they were waiting—”

  “No.” Avitas grabs a strap on my armor. “They came from the east. I sent a scout because I had a hunch. There’s another force. They split their army, Shrike. They don’t have just fifty thousand men marching on Antium. They have twice that.”

  XLIV: Laia

  At first, I don’t know what to say to Cook. Mother. Mirra. I watch her with wild eyes, part of me desperate to understand her story and the other part wanting to scream out the pain of a dozen years without her until she throbs with it.

  Perhaps, I think to myself, she will wish to talk. To explain why she survived. How she survived. I do not expect her to justify what she did in the prison—she is not aware that I know of it. But I hope she will tell me why she kept her identity hidden. I hope she will at least apologize for it.

  Instead she is silent, all her thought bent on moving swiftly across the countryside. Her face, her profile are burned into me. I see her in a thousand ways, even if she doesn’t see herself. I find myself drawn to her. She was gone for so many years. And I do not wish to hold on to my anger. I do not want a fight with her like the one I had with Darin. On the first night we travel together, I sit down beside her by the fire.

  What did I hope for? Perhaps for the woman who called me Cricket and rested her hand on my head, heavy and gentle. The woman whose smile was a flash in the dark, the last joyful thing I could remember for years.

  But the moment I get close, she clears her throat and shifts away from me. It’s only a few inches, but I understand her meaning.

  In her rasping voice, she asks me about Izzi and about what has happened to me since I left Blackcliff. Part of me doesn’t want to answer. You don’t deserve to know. You don’t deserve to have my story. But the other part—the part that sees a broken woman where my mother once lived—is not so cruel.

  So I tell her of Izzi. Of her sacrifice. Of my foolhardiness. I tell her of the Nightbringer. Of Keenan and how he betrayed not just me but our entire family.

  What must she think of me, to have fallen in love with the creature whose deceit led to those dark days in Kauf Prison? I wait for her judgment, but she offers none. Instead she nods, her hands curled into fists, and disappears into the dark night. In the morning, she says nothing of it.

  For the next few nights, every time I so much as move, she flinches, as if worried I will come closer. So I stay far away from her, always on the other side of the fire, always a few yards behind her on the road. My mind churns, but I do not speak. It is as if her silence chokes me.

  But finally, the words will no longer stay down, and I find that I must say them, whatever the consequences.

  “Why didn’t you kill her?” The night is warm, and we don’t light a fire, instead laying out our bedrolls and looking up at the stars. “The Commandant? You could have poisoned her. Stabbed her. For skies’ sake, you’re Mirra of Serra—”

  “There is no Mirra of Serra!” Cook shrieks so loudly that a pack of sparrows takes flight from a nearby tree, as frightened as I am. “She’s dead. She died in Kauf Prison when her child and husband died! I’m not Mirra. I’m Cook. And you will not speak to me of that murderous, traitorous bitch or what she would or wouldn’t do. You know nothing of her.”

  She breathes heavily, her dark eyes sparkling with rage. “I tried, girl,” she hisses at me. “The first time I attacked Keris, she broke my arm and lashed Izzi to within an inch of her life. The child was five. I was forced to watch. The next time I got it in my head to try something, the Bitch of Blackcliff took out Izzi’s eye.”

  “Why not escape? You could have gotten out of there.”

  “I tried. But the chances Keris would catch us were too high. She’d have tortured Izzi. And I’d had enough of people suffering for me. Perhaps Mirra of Serra would have been willing to sacrifice a child to save her own neck, but that’s because Mirra of Serra had no soul. Mirra of Serra was as evil as the Commandant. And I’m not her. Not anymore.”

  “You haven’t asked about Nan and Pop,” I whisper. “Or about Darin. You—”

  “I don’t deserve to know how your brother is,” she says. “As for your grandparents . . .” Her mouth splits into a small smile I do not recognize. “I had vengeance on their killer.”

  “The Mask?” I say. “How?”

  “I hunted him. He wanted to die, in the end. I was merciful.” Her eyes are black as dead coals. “You’re judging me.”

  “I wanted to kill him too. But . . .”

  “But I enjoyed it. And that makes me evil? Come now, girl. You cannot walk in the shadows as long as I have and not become one.”

  I shift uncomfortably, remembering what the Jaduna said to me. You are young to stand so deeply in the shadow.

  “I am glad you killed him.” I pause, considering my next words. But in the end, there is no delicate way to ask the question. “Why—why won’t you touch me? Don’t you—” Long for it, I want so say. The way I do?

  “The touch of a child brings a mother comfort.” I can barely hear her. “But I’m no mother, girl. I’m a monster. Monsters don’t merit comfort.”

  She turns away from me and falls silent. I watch her back for a long time. She’s so close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear whispered words of forgiveness.

  But I do not think that she would feel the embrace of a daughter if I touched her. And I do not think she would care about being forgiven.

  * * *

  The closer we get to Antium, the clearer it is that trouble is nigh. Cartloads of carpets and furniture trundle away from the city, their owners surrounded by dozens of guards. Once, we see a heavily armed caravan from afar. I cannot see what they carry, but I count at least a dozen Masks guarding whatever it is.

  “They’re running,” Cook spits. “Too scared to stay and fight. Mostly Illustrians, it seems. Move faster, girl. If the wealthy flee the city, the Karkauns must be close.”

  We do not stop now, traveling day and night. But by the time we reach the outskirts of Antium, it is clear that disaster has already struck the Martials’ fabled capital. We hike over a ridge near the Argent Hills, and the city comes into view below.

  As does the enormous army that surrounds it on three sides. Only the north end of Antium, which abuts the mountains, is protected.

>   “Sweet bleeding skies,” Cook murmurs. “If that’s not skies-given justice, I don’t know what is.”

  “So many.” I can barely speak. “The people in the city . . .” I shake my head, and immediately my thoughts go to the Scholars who are still enslaved in the city. My people. “There must be Scholars down there. The Commandant didn’t kill all the slaves. The Illustrians didn’t let her. What happens to them if the city is overrun?”

  “They die,” Cook says. “Just like every other poor bastard unfortunate enough to get stuck there. Leave that to the Martials. It’s their capital; they’ll defend it. You’ve got something else to think about. How the bleeding hells are we going to get in there?”

  “They’ve only just gotten here.” Men stream in to join the Karkaun army from a northeastern pass. “They’re staying out of range of the city’s catapults, which means they must not be planning to attack. You said you could sneak us in.”

  “From the mountains north of the city,” Cook says. “We’d have to go around the Argent Hills. It would take us days. Longer.”

  “There will be chaos as they set up camp,” I say. “We could take advantage of that. Sneak through at night. They’ll have some women down there—”

  “Whores,” Cook says. “Don’t think I’d pass as one of those.”

  “Cooks too,” I say. “Laundresses. The Karkauns are horrible. They’d not go anywhere without their women to scrape and serve for them. I could go invisible.”

  Cook shakes her head. “You said the invisibility altered your mind. Gave you visions, sometimes for hours. We need to think of something else. This is a bad idea.”

  “It’s necessary.”

  “It’s suicide.”

  “It’s something you might have done,” I say quietly. “Before.”

  “That makes me trust it even less,” she says, but I can see her waver. She knows as well as I do that our options are limited.