by Jocelyn Fox
He straightened and drew his shoulders back. Despite the sallowness of his skin and the weight that he’d lost over the past weeks, he looked like a man who was ready to fight. His stance struck a chord of memory in Ross, and she realized that he reminded her of the way that Duke and his teammates had stood as they waited on the tarmac for the cargo plane to take them to a foreign land to fight their country’s never-ending war.
“If Corsica is murdering innocent people in my city, that makes her a monster too,” Ross replied in a low voice.
“Feeding one monster to end another is not a new strategy,” Ramel said grimly.
“But I can’t just let it go,” she said. The thought of more bodies showing up in alleyways drained of blood turned her stomach. Her mind quickly traveled down that possible future: media outlets framing the story as a gruesome serial killer, which would be pretty accurate, and a public panic when the usual methods of solving a crime turned up nothing. She didn’t even want to think about how wrong a confrontation with Corsica, Molly and the bone sorcerer would go for local law enforcement.
He nodded. “You are one of this realm’s protectors, in a way. I understand. But I hope you do not stand in our way.”
With his final ominous words hanging in the air, Ramel carefully walked down the front steps and joined Niall and Tyr, standing next to the Seelie knight in the growing darkness. Ross straightened and shoved her hands in the pockets of her shorts, watching the three men, so different and yet so alike, the fading light reflecting on copper, white-gold and silver hair. Her frustration hardened into resolve. No matter what the cost, she would not let their mission to end tyranny in their own world bleed over into carnage in her own. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, powered it on and began scrolling through her contact list.
Chapter 32
The cacophony of the practice yards washed over Calliea, the sounds of blades clashing and arrows punching into targets mixing with the scuffle of boots on the hard-packed dirt and scraps of sound escaping from the fighters, grunts of effort and breathy exclamations of surprise or appreciation at a well-executed movement.
“The yards are full today,” said Merrick approvingly.
“Perhaps because everyone feels the tension,” said Niamh from behind him. The Valkyrie’s wounds had finally healed enough for her to escape her mother’s watchful eye. Calliea had promised Maeve to observe Niamh closely during this first foray into the practice yards since the great battle.
“It’s a good way to blow off steam,” agreed Quinn with a grin. He wore his often-patched pants with the pattern of different olive and dust colors. Calliea waited patiently for her mind to remember the name for the pattern that he’d told her. Camouflage.
“That was not what I meant,” Niamh said.
“Do you mean it in the sense that everyone thinks we’re going to war again?” Robin asked cheerfully.
“Only you could sound so happy about that,” Moira said with a hint of chastisement in her voice.
Calliea wondered if bringing such a large group to the yards had been a mistake, but it brought back fond memories of the journey across the Deadlands. Even within the harrowing experience of war, certain moments crystallized into favored recollections, shining and well-worn by the passage of time, like a piece of glass with its sharp edges softened by a river. Even if they accomplished less than she’d like, discipline overcome by good-natured teasing and conversation, being surrounded by friends was a balm on her still-healing wounds.
“I’m happier about the fact that we could get another chance to finish the job we started,” replied Robin, raising his eyebrows with his usual impish flair.
“Perhaps this isn’t the place to talk about that,” Calliea said warningly. There were no Unseelie fighters anymore at the common practice yards, but one could only guess at what ears were listening. And Robin’s casual reference to the failed raid dampened Calliea’s anticipation of the coming sparring sessions.
“Oh, come now,” Robin said. “Such vague words won’t arouse any suspicion.”
“That’s what you think,” replied Calliea, repressing the irritation that swirled in her gut. Her side ached. She’d stopped taking white shroud altogether three days ago, and she hadn’t been sleeping well. Merrick caught her eye questioningly. He was the only one who knew anything of that struggle. She took a deep breath and smiled at him.
They found two empty practice rings side by side, though Calliea was fairly certain that the pairs of fighters who’d been occupying those rings had vacated purposefully at their approach. She wondered if she should be amused or annoyed and settled with neither, instead focusing on her first set of drills. While she always wore her whip coiled at her belt these days, she knew she needed to push herself to regain her strength with a sword. The blade felt heavy in her hand and sweat quickly slid down her back. She tried not to feel defeated when she had to rest after finishing the first set of simple maneuvers. Thankfully, no one, not even Merrick, said anything to her, absorbed in their own preparations.
Calliea wiped her brow with her sleeve after completing two more increasingly complex patterns of drills. Her side ached insistently, pulsing with her elevated heartbeat and sending threads of pain into her chest with each breath expanded by the exertion. She hoped grimly that she wouldn’t embarrass herself in the ring. Niamh and Moira stepped into one of the circles. If Niamh had been the fighter she was before the battle, Calliea would have bet on her with no question. Now, she felt a little nudge of anxiety as she watched the two women raise their blades.
“They’ll be fine,” Merrick murmured to her as he walked past and pointed to Robin. The red-haired fighter grinned and traipsed into the other empty circle, bowing to Merrick with a flourish. Calliea felt vaguely relieved that she had more time to rest before her first match, and then she felt guilty at that relief. She took a deep breath and let it out in measured calm, forcing herself to release the tangle of emotions tensing her muscles.
Quinn stepped between the practice rings, both hands raised parallel to the ground. The two pairs of fighters watched each other but Calliea knew they were also waiting for Quinn’s signal. The big tattooed man dropped his arms, instantly igniting a whirlwind of motion.
Calliea focused first on the match between Niamh and Moira. The Valkyrie fighter had certainly lost some of her blinding speed during her long convalescence, but she looked surprisingly limber and quick as she danced around the ring, darting glancing blows at the other fighter. Moira clearly still respected Niamh’s fighting ability and didn’t throw herself headlong into a foolish charge as Calliea had half expected. In the past weeks, Moira had clearly trained hard, putting on more muscle and looking surer of her footwork than Calliea remembered. If she caught Niamh in a close blade-lock where physical strength counted most, she’d almost certainly win the sparring match. The two women circled one another warily, darting in for blows that tested the other’s defenses.
Robin and Merrick displayed no such reservations. Calliea found her gaze unwillingly drawn to the glorious spectacle of such agile swordsmen putting all their skills on display. They moved so fast and spun in such complex moves that their faces were difficult to see. She had to reference their hair – midnight-dark or robin’s-breast-red – to see which flashing form was which. Quinn offered some encouragement to Niamh, watching their sparring match with sharp, focused gray-green eyes.
Calliea stretched her arms as she watched the two matches progress, starting to feel more confident in her own upcoming match. Would Moira spar again, or would she be matched against Quinn? The mortal man had been improving his skills by leaps and bounds. She’d have to be careful not to let him catch her in a position where he could use his significant weight advantage to his benefit.
A strange cold pulse rippled through the air. It wasn’t a breeze. Moira and Niamh paused, their faces mirror images of curiosity as they straightened and turned to the east. Merrick and Robin moved too fast to give the pulse of frozen air
any thought. Calliea sheathed her blade and automatically scanned the skies. Something felt wrong. Nothing broke the clear blue of the noon sky overhead, but she caught Quinn’s eye and he nodded, moving to stop Merrick and Robin’s sparring match.
A ball of writhing darkness sailed overhead, sparking and crackling with tendrils of blue and white fire. Its shadow passed over the training yards with terrible speed. Horror constricted Calliea’s chest and then galvanized her into action.
“Get down!” she yelled, her voice cracking as her throat protested at the sudden volume. She leapt for Merrick, grabbing him and throwing them both to the hard packed dirt.
Her words were lost in the massive explosion as the oily black globe landed just beyond the wall of the training yard. The white stone wall disintegrated, shards punching outward, dust and debris raining down on them. Calliea tried to protect her head with her arms, her body curling into a ball without any conscious direction from her. A chunk of rock hit her in the shoulder, sending a shockwave through her arm and generating sympathetic pangs from her side. Her head hurt and she couldn’t hear, strident ringing filling her ears.
Her sense filtered back to her in bits and pieces, scraps of sound and ghostly images through the dust-filled air. Voices raised in pain and confusion, a few rising above the din in authoritative direction. Moira staggered over, her hair white with pulverized stone. Calliea pushed herself to her elbows and then to her knees. A hand slid under her chin. She couldn’t hear Merrick’s voice but she understood the question in his eyes as he urgently repeated himself. Her own breath rasped in her ears. Her heartbeat pounded against the strange pressure building in her head.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice strangely muffled. Merrick nodded and turned to Robin, helping him to his feet.
Another explosion, this one farther away, shook the ground. They couldn’t see the sky or the orbs with the cloud of dust hanging like fog over their heads. Calliea pulled her shirt up over her mouth and nose. She looked over in concern for Niamh. The Valkyrie was already on her feet, her face covered from the eyes down by the scarves that they’d used in the dragon hunt. They staggered as the earth bucked under their feet. Niamh said something, gesturing back toward the cathedral, but Calliea couldn’t make out the words.
She shook her head, and her ears popped with agonizing pain. Sound rushed back as she gasped and caught herself from falling to the ground by bracing her hands on her knees. It felt like someone had jammed a dagger into each of her ears. Her fingers, when she brushed one earlobe, came away dark with blood.
“We need to go to the paddock!” Niamh said again urgently, her voice muffled by the scarf.
“Yes,” Calliea said. She turned, looking for Merrick.
“Robin and I are going to stay here, see to the wounded,” he said. A shard of rock had cut his forehead. The dark streak of blood down his face stood out luridly against the white rock dust coating them all. “That first shot fell short. They’re ranging in on the cathedral. They mean to destroy the Vyldgard.”
“They,” she said. Recognition broke over her in an awful wave. “The Unseelie.”
Merrick nodded grimly. “Mab. Go. Your Valkyrie may be the most effective weapon against this attack.”
She kissed him. He tasted like blood and stone. As the dust cleared, she saw just how terrible the scene would be: at least a dozen fighters down, some writhing in pain, and the ones closest to the explosion and the collapsed wall unmoving. A few figures already worked in the debris, digging out those who had been buried.
“I’m coming with you,” Moira said. Streaks of blood painted her earlobes too. Calliea wondered if she’d lose her hearing again as her ears healed and then she pushed the thought aside. She nodded.
“Weapons ready,” she said. “We don’t know if there’s a ground attack as well.” The thought of fighting hand-to-hand with Unseelie curdled her stomach. Would she be able to put a sword through someone who looked just like her but through their fortune had been born in the court of Mab? She shivered and hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Rather than her sword, she chose to carry a long dagger. She didn’t think her arms would handle the weight of her blade for the entire run back to the cathedral and still be able to fight afterward.
They left the scene of carnage behind them, the dust cloud drifting over them like fog as they ran through the eerily quiet streets. Moira took the lead, pushing the pace with grim focus. Calliea forced herself to keep up. The Vyldgard needed her. The Valkyrie needed her. She would not fail them again.
As they neared the cathedral, another explosion rocked the city. Moira bared her teeth and peered up at the trajectory of the lightning-wrapped orbs. She veered sharply to the west, keeping the great structure of the cathedral as a shield between them and the incoming orbs. Calliea’s heart sank at the thought of the extra distance – her legs already burned with exertion, and the pain in her side was approaching white-hot intensity that she hadn’t experienced since the first days of her healing. She glanced at Niamh, saw the grim determination in the other Valkyrie’s eyes, and gritted her teeth. They needed to get to their mounts. Her throat constricted at the thought of the magnificent winged faehal trapped in the path of Mab’s deadly weapons.
They ran in the shadow of the cathedral, its walls stretching above them into the sky. Calliea couldn’t imagine the force needed to destroy such a massive structure. Finally, they turned the corner, pelting down the last stretch toward the paddocks. Clouds of white dust obscured their vision. Whinnies of terror reached their ears and then Calliea threw herself to the side as a Valkyrie mount thundered out of the debris.
“Kyrim!” she called, her shout punctuated by the neighing and snorts of the faehal galloping around her. She whistled sharply, the sound cutting through the confusion. Sheathing her dagger, she searched the cloud of dust, her eyes watering.
“Thank the stars,” said a familiar voice, and a figure appeared wraith-like out of the obscurity. Trillian thrust a harness into Calliea’s hands. Her good eye flashed. “Kyrim kicked down the gate just as I got there.”
“We need to get into the air and stop these orbs,” Calliea replied. “How many are there?”
“How many do you have with you?” Trillian asked.
Calliea’s stomach dropped. It was just them? How could that be? “Myself and Niamh. And Moira, though she’s not Valkyrie.” She made a decision. “Give her a harness and a mount. We need every fighter in the air that we can muster.”
Trillian nodded and made her way toward Moira. Calliea turned to find Kyrim standing before her, white showing around his dark eyes, his beautiful dappled coat dull with dust.
“Let’s move everyone westward,” she told him.
Niamh had found her Selaph, and together they led the rest of the mounts through the clouds of dust to the western side of the cathedral, where the great building blocked some of the debris.
“Give me a mount.”
Calliea paused in her nimble outfitting of Kyrim in his harness and looked at Gray in surprise. Gray hadn’t gone near the Valkyrie since her own mount had been killed in the dragon hunt. Then she nodded and felt her lips curve in a smile. “It will be good to fly with you again, cousin.”
They gripped arms briefly and then turned back to their mounts. Kyrim tossed his head as Calliea tightened the last strap. She felt his anxiety as he pranced and shied at her shadow. “Easy, now, easy. We’re going to go get those bastards.”
“You’ll need these!” Thea thrust a satchel at Calliea, panting. “I’ve been working on them…didn’t think they’d be needed…so soon.”
Calliea peered into the satchel and saw a dozen small orbs as big as her fist, wrapped in scraps of leather and nestled against one another like eggs in a hen’s nest. Thea reached into the satchel and let the wrapping fall away. The orb pulsed with blue light, cleverly and delicately constructed of strips of silver. A round wooden coin was set into the top of the orb at the intersection of all the bands of silver.
They all staggered as another explosion threw up a plume of smoke from the other side of the cathedral.
“Not as strong as that,” said Thea, “but you should be able to take out their firing positions.”
A rush of gratitude to the inventive smith overwhelmed Calliea. Without Thea’s devices, they would have had to attack the firing positions with arrows. And if they were within range to shoot the Unseelie, they could be shot themselves. “Thank you,” she said fervently.
“Thank me after you destroy the mad queen’s weapons,” replied Thea with a nod. The smith took an axe from her belt and hefted it in one hand. “I’ll watch over the mounts still here on the ground.”
“You could fly with us,” said Calliea. It felt like blasphemy, offering other Valkyrie’s mounts to other fighters, but the scale of this attack was unlike anything they’d encountered in the new world after the defeat of Malravenar.
Thea grinned. “I don’t do well with heights. I’ll just stay down here.”
“Bow,” said Trillian, shoving a bow and quiver at Calliea.
Calliea strapped the quiver to the side of her harness and slung the bow over her shoulder. She settled the satchel with Thea’s orbs against one hip. “Once we’re in the air, fly high enough that we’re out of range and I’ll distribute these.”
“Aye,” said Trillian. Niamh nodded, her eyes alight with battle fervor. The two seasoned Valkyrie leapt onto their mounts and galloped down the straightaway, one after the other, launching into the air with practiced ease. Gray followed on a reddish stallion, her golden hair bright even through the drifting clouds of debris. Calliea grabbed Moira’s arm. The other woman’s face was ashen beneath its coating of white stone dust.
“Trust your mount and trust your harness,” said Calliea, “but keep your balance. Guide with your knees. And remember to breathe.”