The buzzing of the Gate throbbed louder at the thought, and Sullen started to sprint before he’d even made up his mind which course he would follow.
After being mobbed and partially eaten alive by Chain-maddened cannibals two days before, Ji-hyeon would have thought she’d be glad to go back to fighting normal soldiers. Yet so far the Second Battle of the Lark’s Tongue was shaping up to be just as nasty as the first one. It had started off surprisingly well, the charging Thaoan cavalry failing to anticipate how spooked even the best-trained animals became in the presence of Gates; Singh’s riders had noticed the change in their horses as soon as they had arrived, and the chevaleresse had altered her strategy accordingly. Since Colonel Waits had not followed the proper protocols for declaring an honorable attack, the Raniputri knight had no compunctions about employing any method that would assist her employer; as well she might, considering Ji-hyeon’s hasty agreement to pay her twice as much as originally negotiated, on the spot. And so instead of countercharging the Imperials, the dragoons kept their nervous horses as still as possible, nocking their short steel bows and firing several volleys in quick succession at the Crimson riders. Despite how organized their assault began, the Thaoan charge soon descended into chaos as any horses nearing the Gate violently shied away, colliding with their neighbors as the arrows rained down. So yes, a good start, but it didn’t hold—there were simply too many Imperials bearing down on them, and not enough mounted archers to slow the flood.
Facing the stampeding line of Thaoan cavalry filled Ji-hyeon with such deep fury it was almost cathartic; she saw her second father’s stupid fat face behind every rider’s steel guard, and was no longer sad or afraid, only eager to teach the old know-it-all a harsh lesson. She couldn’t rely on Hoartrap’s promises of mystical powers to win the day, nor the strength or strategems of any of her other captains—the only way to beat back the Crimson flood was to take charge and lead her people in the defense of the valley. She knew she’d do that best by falling back to meet her infantry while Singh’s dragoons covered her escape, but the greater numbers of Crimson riders were already slipping past the spread-out Cobalt cavalry, engaging the general’s small retinue of bodyguards.
How to best fight on horseback wasn’t something Choi had taught Ji-hyeon back at Hwabun, the Immaculate Isles better suited to naval conflicts than mounted combat, but ever since they’d come out of the Raniputri Gate, Ji-hyeon had focused on little else, her Honor Guard and Captain Kimaera taking turns drilling her. Her instructors had differed on certain particulars but were in agreement that nothing could prepare her for mounted swordplay but relentless training. Kimaera had a soft touch when they sparred, but Choi was her usual merciless self. Every time the wildborn snapped the reins out of Ji-hyeon’s hand, spooked her horse, or knocked her out of the saddle, the young general had cursed her cruel tutor, swearing she’d be sorry when her ward broke her spine or dashed out her brains, and Choi had always shrugged and told her she’d have a hard time mustering sympathy for a hawk who flew into war but didn’t even know how to properly land.
Ji-hyeon wasn’t cursing Choi anymore. When the Honor Guard alerted her mistress to the pack of Thaoans coming up fast behind them, the general’s retinue abandoned their flight, wheeling their horses around before they could be struck from behind. Choi’s horse rose up on its hind legs just in time to avoid the charge of the lead Imperial, the animal seeming a projection of the wildborn’s will, and then the rearing horse kicked the rider’s helmet in as she rode past. The next Thaoan knight seemed on course to drive his lance through Choi’s armpit as the wildborn’s horse dropped back down on all fours, but Ji-hyeon spurred her mare forward in time to intercept him; the Crimson lances were a good deal thicker and sturdier than bearded spears, but the Immaculate weapons were longer. The butt of Ji-hyeon’s spear buckled against her saddle as she lodged its tip in the knight’s armpit, the shaft of the weapon exploding from the shock of the collision and showering them with splinters. The knight fell but his ankle caught in the stirrup and he was dragged past them, the scraping sounds as he bounced along almost louder than the buzzing that filled Ji-hyeon’s ears. More riders were coming in fast, and Choi whistled for Ji-hyeon; she looked over just in time to see the bearded spear her Honor Guard tossed her way, and caught it clumsily between the thumb and two remaining fingers of her devil-healed hand. Choi had an Imperial lance laid across her knee, and Ji-hyeon began to wonder if it belonged to the knight she had just unhorsed, if Choi had somehow caught the dropped weapon out of the air, but then she didn’t have time to wonder about anything, because just then a far more important Crimson lance caught her notice—the one a Thaoan rider was directing straight at her.
Then the Thaoan woman was no longer a problem, two arrows skidding off her plate armor and a third popping her just under the chinstrap of her helm. She also rode on past the general and her bodyguards, dead or dying but upright in her saddle even as her steed cantered along, and in the great tragic way of war, another three mounted Imperials took her place, and just beyond them came the clomping masses of the Crimson infantry—Singh’s dragoons had failed to even slow the enemy’s advance, and now the full strength of Thao was marching past the Gate, ready to consume Ji-hyeon’s dream like army ants falling upon a crippled salamander. The fastest foot soldiers in the Cobalt Company had finally started to appear in the midst of the stampeding horses, but that was like trying to put out a wildfire with a watering can.
For all his promises of a diabolical ritual that was so dangerous it would send the Thaoans screaming from the field and might even eliminate them as a threat altogether, Hoartrap had failed to produce so much as a parlor trick. Then again, Ji-hyeon hadn’t delivered, either, so why should she have expected any more from one of her Villains? All that was left was to make sure she wasn’t taken alive by the Imperials—she wouldn’t give Kang-ho the satisfaction. Fortunately for her, finding death on the busy battlefield didn’t look to be much of a problem.
Much as Purna loved Diggelby, she was rapidly coming to the unavoidable conclusion that if he hadn’t been packing a devilish spaniel for the entirety of their adventures he never would have made it out of the Panteran Wastes alive. No, that wasn’t quite right, he was a chum from way back and deserved the credit he was due—if not for the dearly departed Prince watching over him, Pasha Diggelby might never have even safely made it out of a bathtub. And since Digs had traded away the one thing keeping his sorry ass alive to save Purna, she was honor bound as a woman of, well, honor, to do her all to repay the mortal debt.
Which she did thrice over before they’d even gotten past the chaotic cloud of cavalry choking up the middle of the valley, deflecting two passes that would have spitted him and then blowing the bally brains out of the Imperial with the spear who had been so keen on piking the pasha.
It wasn’t that Digs was high—Digs was always high as a string of Ugrakari prayer flags. Often higher.
It wasn’t that Digs couldn’t hold his own in a fight, because while he’d never be a champion like Purna he could hold his own most of the time, if only because people chronically underestimated the ninny.
And it wasn’t that Digs had choked up in a tight spot, which would have almost been understandable, what with the deafening shouts and crashes and a great red wall of infantry nearly on top of them, riders circling all around so quickly the pair of friends barely had time to see whose side they were on before the bastards had come and gone, and most of the Cobalt foot soldiers they’d dashed out here with had sensibly drawn up short a hundred yards behind them, leaving them on their own on a battlefield clogged with hostile types. Despite all that, Digs hadn’t choked up at all.
No, the problem was that Digs didn’t choke up enough, as it were, the corpsepainted ponce leaping straight into every possible clash without the slightest concern for his own safety. Obviously having Prince around to protect him had given Digs an inflated sense of his own ability, which, while respectable, couldn’t very wel
l make him invincible the way a bloody devil could. Purna loved a good scrap as much as the next hot-blooded hero, naturally, but there went Digs, skipping ahead in his smartest woolly boots to meet the charge of a mounted Thaoan knight, even though she’d told the idiot to watch her back while she reloaded. She barely got the pistol up in time, shooting the galloping horse straight through the scale barding covering its chest, and popping its heart like a tomato at target practice (though as a rule she went for the rider, if it could be at all helped. Not that she liked horses in particular, big scary-faced brutes, but it didn’t do to hold any animal accountable for its master).
Purna knelt to reload again, unclipping another pouch of powder and shot from her belt.
“And that’s forty-five for me!” hooted Digs as he jabbed his crystalline sword into the visor of the dismounted Imperial who had almost killed him. Considering how still the knight had lain as Digs approached him the Thaoan had probably snapped his neck when his horse unexpectedly folded underneath him, but Purna didn’t debate the point. For one thing, Digs was just spouting off random numbers now, their wager officially a wash, and for another, she was too busy wondering just how the devils they were going to get out of this mess at all.
The plan had been to accompany Choi to wherever Ji-hyeon was, thereby proving their fearless devotion, etcetera etcetera, so the general wouldn’t get second thoughts about letting them go off in pursuit of Maroto. That simple plan had officially gone tits up as soon as they reached the command tent and Choi discovered her ward had left for the Gate without her, on some errand with Hoartrap. The wildborn hopped on her horse and flew off to join the general, leaving Purna and Digs with little choice but to jog after her, and by the time they gained the valley floor finding Ji-hyeon was a lost cause—there weren’t nasty clouds of smoke on the field like there’d been during the first big fight out here, but it scarcely mattered, with all the hordes of furiously fighting soldiers substantially more difficult to see through than dark fumes had been. Where the general could be in all this tumult was anyone’s guess, and even if they did find her it seemed unlikely she’d even notice their selfless assistance. No, the only thing for it was to pull back to camp and ready their things for a speedy departure, whether they got official leave or not—they’d come and fought, so if Ji-hyeon made it through she’d have to appreciate their spunk, and if she didn’t, well, then they’d be leaving in even more of a hurry.
“Digs!” she cried, hammering the ball home in her pistol and pushing her horned wolf hood back off her face. She was drenched in sweat despite the cold bite of the morning. “About face, butter bean, we’re needed back at camp!”
Purna didn’t know if Digs was ignoring her or just couldn’t hear over the strange buzzing sound that was getting louder by the moment, but regardless of the cause he wandered away toward the steadily advancing line of Thaoan infantry, waving his shimmering saber about less like a bloodthirsty mercenary and more like a child playing villain. Not having much choice, Purna followed after—he hadn’t let her foolish ass die the last time they’d come out to this field, so she had to watch out for his. How Maroto had ever put up with them she’d never know, but he had, and that was what mattered.
As she slipped through the slush and the mush after her last real friend toward a foe they could never hope to overcome, Purna figured she might have finally done the old lug proud. If only he could’ve been here to see it… but then if he were, he’d probably be running the opposite direction with Purna tossed over one shoulder and Digs the other. Either way, she wished he were still beside her.
If only Uncle Craven were here it would’ve been perfect, all three of Sullen’s problems laid out for him on the rim of what the crazy-arsed Jackal People called a Hungry God. Sullen was sorely tempted to just sit back and watch as Hoartrap the Touch was drawn into the Gate by the thin white tentacle that had grabbed his arm; after all, killing the old monster was exactly what Grandfather had urged him to do the first time they’d met. Once Hoartrap was out of the song Sullen was pretty sure he could knock Zosia in before she knew what hit her, the devil at her side looking so run-down it probably wouldn’t be able to stop him. Not that the older woman had seemed the great villainess the Faceless Mistress had made her out to be, but could he afford to take a chance, with the lives of a city so big it filled a mountain in the balance? According to every story he’d ever heard about her she was as cold as killers came, responsible for countless deaths on every Arm of the Star, and if all that weren’t enough, apparently she’d just tried to murder Ji-hyeon for no reason at all. Even without the warning of the Faceless Mistress that Cold Zosia had yet to commit her greatest crime, all that surely added up to someone the world would be better off without. To her credit, she’d kneed his uncle in the nuts, and that hardly balanced out the rest.
His boots barely touched the snow as he closed the last ten yards. If he’d thrown down on them the first time they’d met, Hoartrap on the Samothan plains and Zosia back in camp, maybe things would have played out a lot different, a lot better. Maybe Grandfather would still be alive, and maybe they could have sorted things out with Uncle Craven. Fast as he was coming in and bad as Zosia was limping as she reached out toward Hoartrap, she didn’t have a chance of shrugging off Sullen’s blow, and he’d shove her and the great big naked witch into the buzzing Gate together. No more indecision, it was time to fucking act, to settle this shit once and for all, to—
Skid to a stop on the crunchy ground and grab Zosia’s arm just as she and Hoartrap were yanked off their feet. Instead of falling into the Gate together, they simply slipped forward another foot, still being pulled inexorably forward but momentarily arrested by the addition of Sullen to the end of this chain of struggling mortals. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But throwing your enemies into Gates was what Jackal People did, fucking savages, and Sullen wasn’t a savage… and here at the edge of the First Dark, his muscles straining against whatever power pulled Zosia and Hoartrap down, he reckoned he wasn’t the sort of person to kill somebody for something they hadn’t yet done, nor was he low enough to tell himself that watching Zosia be pulled in and not trying to help was any different from giving her a push.
She looked at him and he looked at her and his foot slipped and just as it looked like he’d gotten himself dead for his trouble all the tension went out of the tug-of-war, and Sullen, Zosia, and Hoartrap fell back in a pile. They didn’t stay that way for long, Sullen and Zosia wriggling out from under the crushing weight of Hoartrap, who just lay there gasping great big mouthfuls of air and shuddering. Picking himself up and seeing Zosia doing the same on the far side of the beached-whale bulk of Hoartrap, Sullen tried to think of something fleet to say, and failing that was about to settle on a knowing nod, when he noticed that the thin white tendril was still attached to Hoartrap’s wrist, snaking across the few feet of frozen earth and disappearing into the opening of the Gate. He’d figured it had snapped off somewhere down in the dark, but peering into the Gate he could see the furry cord winding way, way down, into the bottomless depths. That he could see it at all seemed deadly queer, for the Gate in Emeritus had been impenetrable, just black as black could be, yet looking into this one was like gazing into a clear glacial pool, and he wondered if this Gate was different, or if his devilish eyes had adjusted to the First Dark, were showing him things no normal mortal could see… and there, just beyond the vanishing point of the slack, swaying rope, something very big came crawling-swimming-flying up out of the gulfs, toward the surface of the Gate.
Sullen had seen more than enough to know it was time to dip. The buzzing was deafening, now, and even as he turned to book it as far and as fast as he could the earth shuddered in anticipation, and Sullen went flying into Hoartrap just as the warlock finally clambered to his feet. They went down even harder than before, and, before they could untangle themselves a second time, the sun was blotted out by whatever god or devil Hoartrap the Touch had called forth from the First Dark as it burst from the Gate,
into the world of mortals.
Upon further consideration, Sullen definitely should have killed that fookin’ witch when he’d had the chance.
CHAPTER
3
Domingo started awake, consumed with a stark terror he had not felt since he was a boy. It was the sickening, heart-thudding panic of realizing you have overslept, that the bells are already ringing and you’re still shivering under your thin blankets when you should have been up an hour before, polishing your boots and buttons, because the inspections begin with the first bell and any cadet who isn’t spotless will spend their morning peeling turnips instead of fencing. According to Domingo’s connections at the academy, his sluggard son eventually skinned enough turnips to feed the needy poor for a year, whereas when he’d been a student Domingo had never denuded a single tuber. And yet the fear was always there, yes it was. The one recurring nightmare of his life was being ten years old and still abed back at the academy in Lemi, and hearing the dreaded tolling of his doom…
Except that nightmare was far, far preferable to this unthinkable reality—some maniac in his command with an obvious death wish had signaled the attack, and without even bothering to wake the colonel. The bugles were distant, too; they’d actually left him back at the camp, going on the march without their leader! Domingo’s groggy head ached, and furious as he was with whatever usurper had seized control of his regiment, he was even angrier with himself for letting this happen. He should have seen it coming, but who could it have been? Who would dare? Certainly not Shea, she was better than that, and Wheatley didn’t have the avocados to pull off a coup, so—
Cheaper, tinnier horns sounded closer than the bugles, and Domingo relaxed back onto the cot, returning fully to the waking world and all its pains and indignities. He was injured—maimed, really—and a prisoner of war in the Cobalt camp. He had failed everyone, himself most of all, and was too hurt to even pull himself out of bed; Zosia herself had removed his chains, that’s how toothless he’d become. The man King Kaldruut had once honored by referring to him as “the Lion of Cockspar” had first lost his mate, then his cub, and finally his pride, leaving him little better off than a lame old house cat, so harmless he could be trusted alone with an open cage of songbirds.
A Blade of Black Steel Page 24