by Watson Davis
“All you had to do was keep the doors open!” Simthil yelled, kicking one man in the chest, driving his axe into the shoulder of a man swinging his sword at Tordra.
“We’ll have to deal with it,” Tethan said, parrying a spearman’s thrust with a chop of his axe. “Don’t cry over spilled ale.”
“Why did you let them close it?” Simthil shouted, the cords in his neck rising with his anger.
“It’s not Tethan’s fault,” Tordra yelled back. “It’s mine. I cut the damned ropes!”
She threw her knee into a man’s midsection, doubling him over, driving him away, giving herself room to take his head with a two-handed chop of her axe. She yelled with pleasure, but two arrows, one in her throat, the other in her chest, cut short her celebration and sent her staggering backward, eyes glazing over, haft falling from her hands, her fingers scratching at her throat.
“Well, crap.” Simthil bludgeoned a man with his axe, driving him back. “Where’s the damned keep we’re supposed to go to? I’m lost with all these twisty-turny streets.”
Tethan ducked and whirled around, hamstringing another opponent facing off against Tayna, his eyes scanning the windows for the archers, finding a hint of them glinting from the windows in buildings down the street.
He ran through the melee, dodging, ducking, careening toward the door to that building, leaping over the bodies of the dead and the dying, both Onei and Shrian. Behind him, Simthil yelled, “Tethan! Get your fool ass back here!”
Killing one Shrian, grabbing another who sat on the chest of one of his Skybear kinswomen and throwing the man clear, Tethan fought his way to the building, bursting through a door never intended to stop an angry Onei.
A dagger struck him in his shoulder. He lunged forward, shortening his grip on his axe, sliding his hand up to the base of the blade, and clobbered a man in the mouth with the haft, whipping it around and ripping through the throat of another. He whirled, looking for his next opponent, but found no one.
He sprinted up the stairs two at a time and leapt into a chamber; two archers whirled to face him, screaming in their silky language words Tethan didn’t recognize. The men brought their bows around, struggling to aim their arrows, but Tethan hurled himself at them, into them, hacking at them, keeping his arm moving out of desperation, frustration, and anger.
With the grim work done, he peered out the window down at the street from which he’d come, where now only Onei stood, all the Shrians dead or dying. He surveyed the city, looking out over the tops of the buildings. To his left, a tower rose over the town.
“Simthil!” Tethan called down to the street below.
The big man turned, glaring up at him. “What are you doing up there? Taking your leisure?”
Tethan pointed toward the tower in the distance. “The king’s keep is there.”
# # #
The waiting hall of the palace of the Nayen ambassador to Shria soared up ten men high, the ceiling painted with scenes from Nayen history—of King Byi-ying and the defeat of the Witches of Ohkrulon, of the rise of the Eternal Council, stories Kalo learned in childhood. The walls were a clever series of marble columns and arches piled one on another. The hall stretched out the length of fifty men, the marble floor a crisscrossing pattern of intricate detail and design with all manner of flora and fauna depicted, and at the end of that hall, two large bronze doors emblazoned with five of the six seals of the Eternal Council marked the entry to Ambassador Chyilyu’s office.
From the far end of the hall, beside the doors, looking like ants, men and women waited for their audience, sitting in wooden seats set into the wall with black and gold velvet cushions in the seat and in the back.
Kalo stomped down that hall, Yaj Yath chasing after her, her head held high, her boots clicking on the stone, the clicks echoing in the room. The people at the far end of the room came into focus the closer she got: an older man in a snug-fitting Shrian military uniform of high rank; two Shrian women in expensive silken dresses, the silk of a high quality, and Kalo suspected she’d delivered it just this past year; an elderly Shrian man with a fierce white beard, a round belly and the thick arms and legs of a wrestler lounging in one seat; a handful of servants circulating among the people with sparkling gold trays with a few delicacies and flutes of fizzy wine.
And Mian-on.
Mian-on sat on the edge of the chair to Kalo’s right, and she adjusted her path toward him. He wore his finest tunic. He stood when he saw her, tilting his head, glancing at the people beside him.
Kalo stomped up to him, rubbing her hands together, peering around the room. “How much longer have we to wait?”
“Keep your voice down and try not to draw the incorrect attention to us, please, Captain?” Mian-on whispered. He smiled and nodded toward the Shrian military man.
“Screw those arrogant, preening cocks,” Kalo said, grabbing Mian-on’s forearm and pulling him closer. “We are his countrymen, and we should be the first in line.”
“That could be arranged,” Yaj Yath said.
“No.” Kalo raised her finger, waving it before his face. “Just… no. No more killing.”
“You know,” Mian-on said, a big smile on his face, turning his head to the Shrians who were now staring at them, bobbing his head, shrugging, “we could leave this place and head to Drethona or Gersark.”
Kalo grabbed his face, her fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing him to turn to her. “I will not have the Shrians put out a warrant for me and convict me for murder in absentia.”
With his lips scrunched together, he said, “Or we could stay here and seek our ambassador’s help to clear our name.”
The eldest lady snickered, her lips pressing together as though she’d tasted something sour, her painted-on eyebrows rising. Yaj Yath lifted his right hand, wriggling his fingers at her. She rolled her eyes, and Yaj Yath smiled, pulling his lips as far back as he could in more of a grimace or death-like rictus than a smile, revealing his teeth, filed to points. The woman coughed and spun away.
The door at the entrance of the hall flew open, the heavy doors slamming against the wall, crashing into the vases and potted plants there, shattering them, the loud noise echoing throughout the chamber.
Kalo spun, inching closer to Mian-on, her fingers digging into his upper arm, pulling him toward her.
Five men in highly stylized traditional Nayen scale armor in the green hue of Gal-nya chugged across the floor, faces covered by masks resembling the faces of demons, their arms and legs churning, their breathing heavier with every step, their boot heels clickety-clacking on the marble floor, their armor and weapons jangling.
The man in the rear called out, “The Onei are coming! Ambassador Chyilyu, the Onei are coming!”
The other petitioners remained motionless, staring at these warriors, not understanding their words.
“The Onei?” Kalo blinked, straightening. Nothing of this seemed real; none of it made sense to her. “Those aren’t real beings, are they?”
One warrior stopped before the petitioners, shouting in broken Shrian, “Run, you idiots! Run for your stinking lives! The Onei are within your gates!”
The elder lady fainted, slumping down. The military man darted to her side and caught her before she landed, the two of them tumbling to the floor.
“The Onei?” Mian-on whispered. “What does he mean? What is that?”
“Shria must be under attack,” she whispered back.
The great door cracked open; a finely groomed man in a green and gold tunic with impressive embroidery slipped out from the room behind, his wrinkled face furious, his white hair immaculate, brows pressing together, frowning, speaking in Nayen. “What’s this ruckus, then?”
The soldiers rushed to him, one of them grabbing the door to Chyilyu’s office and yanking it open. Another soldier put his hands on the older man’s shoulder, earning a glare down at the offending hands as the older man struggled to pull away. The soldier cried, “We have to get the ambassador away f
rom here before we are overrun! Grab only what you need and get to the Sunset entrance as fast as you can.”
The soldier pushed the older man to the side, and ran into the ambassador’s office, calling out, “Ambassador Chyilyu!”
Kalo wrapped her arms around Mian-on’s and Yaj Yath’s and pushed them toward the exit, with her eyes watching the door to the ambassador’s office.
The soldiers came out of the office, encircling a man—the ambassador—dressed in the most expensive silk robes Kalo had ever seen, exquisitely embroidered with silver clouds and golden dragons against a clear blue sky. Two of the soldiers ran ahead while two held the ambassador’s elbows, guiding him forward, moving him faster.
The ambassador, his face pale with fear, looked around the room, his gaze stopping and coming back to rest on Kalo. She froze, hugging Mian-on and Yaj Yath closer to her, hoping the ambassador only gazed at her because she and her mages were the only Nayen petitioners, and not because of some report of Fortesku’s murder.
The ambassador jerked his arms away from his guard and stepped toward Kalo. “Dyuh Mon? Is that you? Why have you come to see me? Is the Council sending help?”
Kalo stared at the man, blinking, wondering what he was talking about. The guards grabbed the ambassador, lifting him from his feet, and carried him toward the door, although he turned his face as best he could to stare back at Kalo.
Yaj Yath reached into a pocket, pulling out one of his oracle bones. He held it to his lips and murmured a word, but Kalo placed her hand over his. “No! No more killing people.”
Yaj Yath turned to her, scowling and hissing, but he did not finish casting his spell.
“So.” Mian-on gulped. “Your real name is Dyuh Mon?”
# # #
“Forget the soldiers,” Tethan cried out to Tayna and Makal, “Keep the damned doors open!”
Tethan ran, an axe in either hand, passing a Shrian woman dragging her children, a Shrian man carrying a chicken in each arm, a soldier who dropped his halberd to the ground. The massive doors of the gate to the central keep creaked shut, the grinding of the gears echoing through the surrounding streets.
Large stone buildings rose up from the wide street leading to the gates of the keep. Shops displaying jewels and brightly colored rugs and expensive clothes, inns and taverns, workshops of tailors and coopers lined the road, a road of slate pavers with a line of trees on either side and down the middle, with paths of gravel snaking off between the buildings. A wooden cart lay abandoned, flipped on its side, bags of beans spilling onto the road to lie by the puddles reflecting the clear sky above.
Men and women in loose brown clothing screamed, glancing back in terror at Tethan, falling to their knees, covering their heads as Tethan passed them.
The people, soldiers included, fought to force their way through the crowd, to get inside the gates, to the safety hinted at by the gap between the doors, which was growing smaller with each beat of a heart.
The people tugged and pushed, every man for himself. Soldiers whirled around, realizing they wouldn’t make it to safety, turning to face their attackers and trying to fight back.
Tethan mowed down three soldiers, their blood spraying on a civilian woman and a man, the two of them redoubling their efforts to wriggle through the crowd and make their way to the gate.
The opening between the doors grew ever smaller, with two people leaping through before a third and fourth were caught between the doors, screaming for them to stop, to open the doors, but those were crushed by the doors, their shrieks fading with their lives.
“Onei!” Tethan raised his hands, turning, catching Tayna and Makal’s gazes, screaming, “Find some other way in!”
Shrian soldiers stood atop their gates, calling down jeers at the Onei, ignoring the cries of pain from their own people, but even Tethan only caught a word here and there. He whirled around, peering down the street, finding a tall building, an inn, beside the walls of the keep.
“Follow me!” Tethan sprinted to it, in through the front door; the smell of baking bread was heavy inside, and the first room was empty. He raced up the steps to the next floor up, then down a hall, the floor creaking beneath him, Onei warriors behind him hollering their battle cries. He found more stairs leading up, and he raced up them to the next floor and into a room, an ill-kept place meant for servants, with pallets on the floor next to stinky chamber pots. Across from the door, lace curtains covered a window, the once-white lace brown with age and filth, the window shuttered.
Tethan ripped the drapes aside and threw open the shutters. The city lay before him, a maze of shingled roofs and wood frame buildings pressing together, and to his right, the walls of the keep—walls not as tall as the roof of the inn. Tethan climbed onto the roof, testing each step, balancing himself. He kicked several loose shingles from his path.
Across from him, the Shrian guards called out jests, and an archer shot an arrow that flew wide of its mark. Tethan walked the length of the roof, the platinum-blond heads of his warriors sticking out of the window, staring at him, staring down at the town so far below.
Tayna said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to open the doors of the keep.” Tethan laughed, an axe in either hand, walking to the end of the roof farthest from the keep’s wall. He ran, sprinting as fast as he could, and hurled himself through the air, arms and legs windmilling, arrows whistling past him, one glancing off his shoulder, another off his thigh. The Shrian guards fell quiet as the street passed below him, and he crashed into Shrian warriors on the wall, knocking two tumbling to the ground behind them.
The Shrians stabbed at him, swung at him, blocking each other’s strikes in their rush to get to him, but a few blades got through, slashing and slicing his arms, his chest, his ribs. He regained his balance and hacked at one guard with his axe, slamming into another with his shoulder and driving the man into one of his compatriots. He knocked one guard out of his way and sent another squealing down to the street inside the wall.
Another guard clawed at Tethan’s face, dragging fingernails across his nose, fingertips gouging into his eyes, his mouth—but an arrow flashed past Tethan’s ear, an Onei arrow, hitting the guard in the eye.
Makal’s voice bellowed, “Skybears!”
Tethan paused to catch his breath in the gap he’d cleared, and glanced behind him, expecting to see nothing but more Shrians close behind, Shrians he’d have to fight. Those Shrians were there, but Tayna, Makal, and Sinah engaged them, their axes whipping around in bloody arcs of death, their arrows flying, magic bolts exploding against their axes.
Tayna yanked one man from the ground, lifting him up and using him as a shield against a bolt of magical fire. He shrieked in agony, the flames enveloping him, consuming him. She tossed him off the wall to fall to his death.
Tethan pushed forward, knowing his clan protected his back, slashing with his axes, plowing through Shrian warriors.
The door to the gatehouse beckoned to him, and he charged toward it, kicking the door wide, revealing more warriors inside. He hacked a man’s arm off, elbowed another through the crenellations, punched a soldier in the face, and plunged into the gatehouse, finding himself free, his arms and legs moving without impediment.
Four soldiers crowded around a spindle and a system of gears and levers, swords drawn. They charged at him, each one interfering with the one behind, without discipline or order. Tethan hurled himself at them, his axes flying left and right, the guards falling to him one by one.
Panting for breath, he set his axes down and unlocked the mechanism holding the doors shut. He pulled on the wheel, his muscles straining, one foot on the wall for leverage, forcing the doors open inch by inch; down below, the joyful cries of the people of Shria echoed, mixing with the battle cries of the warriors of the Onei.
# # #
“Out fenders!” Gartan screamed, spinning the wheel, the Katydid sliding across the water toward the pier—a pier full of ships.
&nb
sp; “You’re coming in too fast!” Davina lurched away from Gartan, throwing herself against the rear mast, clutching at it for support.
Nohel led the Onei on the deck, racing to the port side, grabbing the fenders and tossing them over the side of the ship.
“Push me the other way, dammit,” Gartan yelled at Gekisha, his wind mage.
The Katydid rammed into a Drethonan merchant ship, the planks of the hulls of both ships splintering, throwing the shards into the air to rain down, thudding and plinking, against the deck. The ship skidded into the space Gartan had been aiming for, and that was close enough for him. “Abandon ship!”
“Abandon ship?” Davina asked behind him.
Gartan didn’t wait. His axe in his hand, he ran to the rail and leapt over to the front of another ship, a ship correctly docked, and then he leapt again, this time landing on the pier. He raced down the quay, raising his axe over his head and yelling, “Come on! To the keep!”
Onei swarmed over the sides of the Katydid, some hurling themselves across the gap to the wharf, others diving into the water and swimming to the pylons and climbing up.
A seaman shrieked a battle cry and lunged at Gartan, but Gartan knocked him aside, running past, leaving the man for the Onei behind him.
“Follow me!” He sprinted up the first street leading away from the dock that appeared to head toward the keep, following its twisty road, the stuccoed buildings rising up around him like canyons, opening up into a circular yard with a fountain in the middle and more narrow alleys leading off.
A woman charged toward him down one of the adjoining alleyways, her green robes flowing around her, bluish-white lightning flashing from her hands and her eyes. She whipped her arm toward Gartan, a rippling arc of power crossing the distance between them. Gartan spun away, shielding his head, the arc of energy blasting through the corner of the building behind him, ripping the stucco from the bricks beneath it, blowing the bricks into a spray of dust. She swept her arm around, growling, trying to follow Gartan’s movement, the lightning hammering into the next building, blowing a hole into the wall.