Horace flagged down a private, one he recognized from the swamp expedition. “Excuse me, can you tell me what’s going on? I’m looking for Lieutenant Ross and—”
“I remember you. The yafanai from the swamp.”
Horace forced a smile. “Horace Adair, Private…”
“Carter. Lieutenant Ross isn’t here. Shouldn’t you be at the temple?”
“Why?”
“There’s a rumor that the boggins are going to attack Gale.”
Horace could only stare. Who would have started such a rumor? The boggins? Before he could ask, someone else called for Carter, and Horace turned back toward the temple, not knowing what else to do. Maybe the Storm Lord would be too busy to look for the person who’d intruded on his mind.
The wind picked up, and Horace shivered, realizing just how late it had become. The lamplighters were passing down the street in the early evening, lights blooming from streetlamps in their wake.
In the tail of a long shadow, someone blocked his path. He stopped, reaching out with his telepathic powers and pulling back as he sensed Natalya.
“Where have you been?” she snapped. “There’s an attack.”
“I know. I’m headed to the temple.”
She stepped into the light and glanced over his shoulder. “Were you at the Paladin Keep?”
“Why?” He tried to walk past, but she grabbed him in a psychokinetic vise. His voice cut short, and he grunted, unable to move.
“First you were acting strangely at the temple, floundering around with your power, and now you’re spending time with the paladins?”
She’d never liked the soldiers, thinking them arrogant and unnecessary in the face of the yafanai, but this anger sounded deeper, as if all her emotions had been augmented with her power. She moved her face to within inches of his, as if she could peer into his brain. “What are you hiding?”
He lashed out, subduing her abilities. She put a hand to her head and stumbled, releasing him. He kept his power waiting, wanting to see what she would do, but she sagged against a wall, clutching her skull.
“Horace?” she asked around a sob. “What’s happening to me?”
Pity overwhelmed him, and he soothed the little hurt he’d done. “I don’t know, Nat, but I will help you figure it out.”
When he stooped to put an arm around her, she threw him away and stood on her own, eyes blazing. “I don’t need your help, boy. Get back to the temple. I’m going to the palisade to meet the Storm Lord.”
She marched away, and he stared after her. When it rained odd events, it poured. But he was thankful that the Storm Lord wasn’t at the temple. Maybe Simon would be there, and he could figure out what the hell was wrong with Natalya.
*
Lydia stood at the Storm Lord’s side. Many of the yafanai huddled behind them, all of them crammed onto a platform behind the palisade. She hadn’t had much opportunity to see the Storm Lord in person. He had an easy, commanding presence as he stared into the darkening fields beyond Gale. If he was worried about the boggins she foresaw, he didn’t show it.
On the way from the temple, people had crowded around him, asking what was happening. Others leaned out of doorways or huddled in clusters, talking in hushed, almost excited voices. The Storm Lord had reassured them, told them to stay in their homes, lock their doors, and arm themselves with whatever was available, just in case.
His smile assured them that these were merely precautions. The yafanai and the paladins would take care of everything. People hurried away with smiles, and Lydia wondered if they would panic knowing what she knew.
On the platform, Captain Carmichael climbed up behind them in all her armored glory, though she seemed a bit uncomfortable, as if unused to wearing so much gear. The Storm Lord had summoned her, sent for all his paladins, and now they were arrayed along the platforms on Gale’s western side.
“Are these future boggins all coming from the west?” Captain Carmichael asked. Lydia had never seen her up close either. The skepticism in her voice made it clear that she’d never visit a prophet unless forced.
“I’ve followed the futures of some of the paladins,” Lydia said. “They all assembled here.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to spread them out a bit,” Carmichael said.
Lydia sighed. What would or wouldn’t hurt was irrelevant. She’d seen the soldiers’ deployment, so that was how they would deploy. She didn’t say that to Carmichael, though. She was pretty sure she’d get a speech about being above fate or not doing things just because a fortune-teller said so.
“Can’t argue with prophecy,” the Storm Lord said.
Freddie squeezed Lydia’s shoulder, and Lydia patted her hand. Good to know the Storm Lord believed in her, but his belief also didn’t matter in the end. It just showed he knew that a glimpsed future couldn’t be changed. Well, she supposed he would know that, having created the yafanai.
“I can have someone fetch the railguns from the keep,” Carmichael said.
The Storm Lord tilted his head as if considering. Lydia had heard he’d charged all the paladins’ tech, including some older guns they’d hardly ever used, heavy artillery and the like.
“No need to bust out the big guns just yet.” The Storm Lord smiled at those around him. “We’ve got enough firepower.”
“Storm Lord,” Carmichael said, “I think—”
“Do your thinking from another platform.”
Everyone seemed to hold their breath, but Carmichael climbed down, muttering to herself.
A shrill whistle sounded off to the left. Heads swiveled in that direction. Lydia hadn’t known about the whistle—she could never hear the future—but she knew what it meant.
Freddie’s hand tightened again. “They’re coming.”
*
B46 waited for the sun to drop. She’d snuck close to the stinking nest, circling it until she stood just below the wall, on the far side from the trees. Her children would charge the other side of the nest, running in groups as she had directed, and when one died, they would all feign death. The eyes of the tall creatures would be turned toward them, leaving her to begin the real battle.
When the sun disappeared, she scrambled over the wall, her chosen mates beside her. The tall creatures’ nest was a jumble of sights and smells, but she hurried toward the scent she’d already caught on the wind: dried grass.
The tall creatures kept prey milling about, but B46 hurried past them. She loped toward a large structure reeking of grass and dung. It had a hole in the side, winking firelight coming from within where a tall creature chattered to another. One had a long stick in her hand, trapped flame dancing atop it.
B46 slipped through the shadows, her mates around her. They attacked the tall creatures together, tearing their throats out and lowering the bodies to the ground, mindful of the flaming stick. She had come prepared to make fire, but the tall ones were generous tonight.
She crept through the structure and touched her flaming stick to dung and grass while her mates scattered to other structures, using the fire-lighting sticks they had been given. The flames spread faster than an army of insects, eating and eating, with no water around to kill them all.
She ran to another structure and then another, her mates keeping pace. They burned and burned until the tall creatures began to shriek in the night. B46 chattered in glee. Her mates scattered into the darkness, looking to kill where they might, but B46 paused on top of one of the structures, staring at the beauty she’d wrought.
Now all the tall creatures would run this way, leaving her dead children to lie in the field, and leaving those living to spring the trap. The tall creatures would never see the host who waited in the trees, not until it was too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dillon admired the boggins’ bravado. Even though there weren’t many of the little bastards, they still charged, screaming at the palisade. Dillon shielded his eyes from the torches, trying to count them, but they ran in zigzagging groups, and he
kept losing track. Maybe they thought a serpentine path would make them harder to hit, but they still had a long way to run.
Dillon gestured to his torchbearer. “Give the ‘hold your fire’ signal.”
She nodded and moved her fiery brand in a pattern that was passed along the wall. He tried to see the next platform, to make out what Carmichael thought of that. She’d want to shoot the buggers, but he wasn’t going to let her claim one ounce of glory. He didn’t want war hero on her résumé when it came time to be rid of her.
“Yafanai, get ready,” Dillon said. “When they’re close enough, give them hell.”
The prophet faded to the back of the crowd, and Caroline took her place. All the yafanai had drawn brows as they stared at the field. The boggins didn’t stand a chance.
“Captain Carmichael gives the ‘ready, aim’ signal, Storm Lord,” the torchbearer said.
Dillon chuckled, though he wasn’t in a laughing mood. “Pain in the ass,” he muttered. “Just more fuel for your pyre.”
“Storm Lord?” the torchbearer asked.
“Let it stand. They can pick off any we miss.”
And maybe Carmichael had done him a favor countermanding his orders in public. Once he took care of these boggins, people would see who could protect them, who was worth following. Besides, there was no reason to cut the rest of the paladins out of the action.
The hair on Dillon’s arms stood up as the yafanai unleashed their powers. Boggins flew high into the air and crashed lifeless to the ground. One collapsed as if punched by a huge fist, dirt flying around its body. Another clutched its head and staggered, rolling to a stop in the high grass.
They couldn’t hold a candle to what the satellite pantheon could do, but they were impressive. At the end of the row, Natalya—recovered at last—leaned far out over the palisade, brow creased in concentration, and wherever she looked, boggins were torn to pieces by empty air, guts scattered over the ground. Dillon winced even as he laughed.
The crack of a shot made all of them jump. The torchbearer shrugged. “Captain Carmichael gave the order to fire, Storm Lord.”
He couldn’t blame her. This had to be the most exciting thing to happen to Gale since…him. And most of the paladins were probably loyal, and he could take care of any who weren’t once the fighting was done.
And if any boggins did manage to squeeze past the palisade, the paladins were more suited for close quarters. They’d keep the populace safe. Without worshipers, there couldn’t be a god. Best to think of it that way.
Out in the city, someone shouted, “Fire!” and the call echoed from many directions.
“What the fuck is it now?” Dillon asked.
Caroline faced the city, brow wrinkled. “I’m getting many minds thinking about a large fire at the warehouses near the hoshpi pens.”
Dillon gritted his teeth. Was it the Sun-Moon? Could it have been them spying on his mind earlier? It would be like them to wait until he was distracted before poking at his city. Maybe when they said they had an inroad, they hadn’t just meant money.
Dillon called the nearest storm, yanking on it like a blanket caught on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t as close as he hoped, but now it was on its way. “Everyone, stand back.” He waited until his yafanai gave him a few feet on each side before he charged the air. Arcs of lightning zipped between the nearest boggins, jolting them into a grotesque dance. He kept a tight rein on it, and pain built behind his eyes. After two arcs, he was breathing hard and wiping sweat from his brow. Where the hell was Laz?
“Come on. The paladins will handle any stragglers. We’re headed to the warehouses. Someone go to the temple and collect the healers. They can’t wait for people to come to them, not with a fire.”
He scanned the crowd, but maybe Lazlo had stayed at the temple with the rest of the healers. As he strode into the city, Dillon thought he glimpsed Lazlo from the shadows, but it couldn’t have been. Why the hell would Lazlo hide from him?
*
Lazlo watched Dillon disappear into Gale. He hadn’t been able to climb up beside Dillon, didn’t think he could keep himself from yelling, “What the fuck did you do?”
Dillon hadn’t even acted guilty. Even Lessan had rated a few dragging steps from him, an air of wrongdoing. Now he looked like a child at play. How could anyone commit murder and saunter away from it? With Lessan, it had been an accident, but with the mayor? Lazlo’s core rejected the idea.
Dillon had probably tried to manipulate or bully the mayor, and it hadn’t worked. The last time someone had stood up to him—on the Atlas—Dillon had run, but he’d been outgunned then. A challenge from a mere mortal wouldn’t go unchecked.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Lazlo whispered. He climbed the platform and watched the few boggins he could see in the dim light of the moon. He’d heard the calls of fire, knew Dillon had summoned a storm. Hopefully, it would arrive in time.
The torchbearer gave Lazlo a curious look, as if awaiting orders. “The Storm Lord left, sir. The paladin captain took the soldiers soon after.”
Lazlo nodded, peering into the darkness. There weren’t that many boggins, hardly enough for a rush. Why so few? He’d predicted an astonishing birthrate. When he’d first started working on them, they’d reminded him of his one anthropology course on early hominids, precursors to humans who’d existed somewhere between cavemen and apes swinging between the trees, never mind that the boggins were closer to amphibians than mammals. Given enough time, the boggins would have evolved to be at least as smart as the drushka. They’d already been using crude weapons. He supposed that should have been his first clue that they wouldn’t be docile. Maybe he should have smartened up an herbivore instead.
Or he should have left them the hell alone, should have let his reservations overrule his boredom and his need to please Dillon.
“I guess they went to fight the fire,” the torchbearer said.
“What? Oh, right. I guess so.”
One of the creatures dragged itself toward the palisade. Tenacious and single-minded. It made him shudder. Why couldn’t dead things just stay dead? Up and down the palisade, most of the soldiers were indeed gone. Torchbearers looked back and forth, waiting for a signal.
The closest one shouted, “What’s going on?”
Lazlo snorted a laugh. He supposed there wasn’t a signal for general confusion. The torchbearer on his platform shrugged. Lazlo yelled, “There’s a fire!”
“I heard. What’s going on with the—” He staggered as something small arced over the palisade and hit his upper back. Lazlo squinted, feeling with his power, but the man wasn’t hurt. He wiped something off his head and shoulders and then retched over the side of his platform.
Lazlo looked out into the dark just as something flew toward his head. He ducked, and the torchbearer yelped as she danced back.
“What is that? Oh, it stinks.” She covered her mouth and took another step away from what looked like a stomach or some other organ leaking blood and fluid. Lazlo held his own nose as he sent his power out again and detected a boggin clinging to the other side of the palisade.
Out in the fields, something screamed. Small shapes ran through the dark, the sounds of their howls echoing through the blackness. Lazlo’s senses told him they were terrified, hearts going full tilt, legs pumping, and adrenaline flooding their bodies. But what in the world were they running from?
He cast his senses further, feeling for what he couldn’t see. Long bodies undulated through the grass, large feet pounding, midsection arms reaching for the fleeing meals. Their brains lit up like reactors as they smelled the blood covering the creatures they chased. More gore had been splashed along the palisade, dripping over the people on the other side.
“No,” Lazlo whispered. He’d never seen the large predators of Gale’s swamp, the alligator-like progs, but he’d heard of them from Dillon, and he knew he was about to get a much better view than he’d ever hoped for. “You have to stop them. They’re after the smell.”
“Sir?” the torchbearer asked.
“Give the order to fire.”
She hesitated, staring at him.
“Do it!” he shouted. “Kill the boggins!”
A prog swept into the light, scooping up a boggin and swallowing it whole, not slowing its charge. Lazlo lashed out at another boggin, stopping its heart, but it wouldn’t be enough. The progs had the scent of Gale in their nostrils, and they were hungry, starving, relentless.
A lone pistol rang out, some Paladin who’d stayed on the line, but the progs just snatched up the easy meals and kept coming. For one moment, Lazlo thought they’d smack into the palisade, their charge finished, but a fifteen-foot prog leapt for him, its front feet clinging to the wall as he staggered back. The torchbearer screamed and fell. The prog’s back legs scrabbled at the wood, a horrid splintering sound, while its mid-arms reached forward, seeking to pull it up and over. Its glassy black eyes fixed on him, nostrils working like a bellows as its blood-stained teeth snapped for him, foul breath gusting, robbing him of reason.
An invisible hand slammed into its snout, driving it over the wall where it fell with an animal scream. A hand grabbed Lazlo’s shoulder, and he flipped over to see Samira on the ladder behind him. “Come on!”
He stood and took another look into the dark. The sound of the prog scratching at the wood below froze his heart, but not as much as what he saw out in the darkness: a sea of boggins flowing soundlessly toward Gale. They must have been waiting in the trees, waiting for others of their kind to get close enough to throw the bags of blood so that still others could lure the progs to the palisade. Astonishing birthrate indeed.
He nearly leapt down the ladder after Samira. All along the palisade, progs were clambering over the wall, and wood cracked and splintered in the distance as a larger prog smashed through.
“Are you all right?” Samira asked.
“We have to get out of here.” The palisade was overwhelmed with progs scattering into the city, carrying screams in their wake. “We have to warn people. More boggins are coming.”
Paladins of the Storm Lord Page 23