Doors banged below. Voices shouted out. Whoever approached would quickly work their way through the two lower levels — there was nothing for them to find there.
Ezekiel stepped back from the bed, his expression falling in fear. He placed his weasel to the floor — it scurried under the bed — and Ezekiel held his staff up, like a talisman. If it was powerful enough to save Erin’s life, might it also be able to take it from others? If so, it was imperative he not use it, else endanger Jerine.
“Do not do ... anything rash, or sudden.” Tilirine measured her breaths to the Rhythm of Atmah. “They will hold Jerine hostage ... Sirath and Portilla. We cannot risk ... their safety.”
Boots charged up the staircase. Soldiers with mail and drawn swords rushed in. “We’ve found them!”
Tilirine stepped back, her hands out for Flowering Lotus. “Ezekiel, do nothing. Do not — ”
She was thrown to the floor. Then kicked in the ribs. She rolled the pain about her body to no longer feel it. She needed to remain calm and aware. Without knowing what happened downstairs, she did not dare act. Not unless forced to.
Ezekiel yelled as he was grappled down with a thump. More soldiers entered the room — she counted a dozen pair of boot-falls.
Lightning flashed again, and thunder rumbled loud.
A figure stood over her. “These are the three. We only need their heads. Bring the ax, and the sack.”
The soldiers held Jerine, but she would not be kept captive. This was an execution. Inaction was now the greatest peril. Tilirine fell back within herself, open to the Song of the World.
Even with the Koulakhin, the Way of Water, she could not tackle so many. She had used it when robbed on the road from Castea, and had barely survived against fewer and less-skilled men. Here she would be cut down as she danced. Her only hope was to reach out for Khalaki. But she had not had the chance to attempt that since Portilla’s revelation. If Tilirine failed yet again, she would be left helpless, and useless. Unable to save herself, or her sister.
A heavy ax was dragged along the floorboards toward her head. Rough hands pulled her hood back, and her veil was snatched away. The soldier before her recoiled at the sight of her burns. Tilirine stared past him. “Leave ... if you want to live.”
The soldier’s face reddened. “Execute that one first!”
The room fell away, became distant. Tilirine lay nestled against her mother’s chest. A sense of calm and comfort was upon her. Then her mother drew back into darkness. Tilirine cried out in anguish. The world filled with fire. She stepped back, afraid — then stopped. The flames were no longer her enemy, but tamed rage. She hesitated, then stepped forward and dared to embrace them. The fire did not burn her. The flames changed from orange, to gold, silver — then to a white light that filled her being.
Tilirine opened her eyes. She was back in the room. But her body felt far away. And the world had slowed almost to a stop. Soldiers stood frozen in mid-action. The one in front had spittle floating from his mouth.
She felt that she should be on her feet. She turned aside from the weight at her back, every movement like pushing water. She leaped, and it was though she floated, slowly rising.
The Song of the World thrummed through her body, the beat slow and deep. The Voice of Sindra wailed the melody.
Tilirine danced.
A foot needed to move. She willed it to kick. Her muscles finally obeyed. Her leg seemed to travel on a gentle swell. Her heel touched the chest of a man raising an ax. His mail shirt rippled like mercury. He began to fall back, gentle as a feather.
A soldier by her held a sword, as if starting to strike. She stepped into his swing, and rolled out her fists. He drifted away from the floor.
She stepped up to the next soldier — walked up his thighs, then his chest. She turned over herself in the air. A trailing foot struck his face. For one long moment it was almost like strolling over the ceiling.
Tilirine danced the Khalaki.
Her fists, feet, elbows, and knees, seemed to flow in and out from her. She glided between soldiers, and left each slowly falling. But it was increasingly difficult to maintain concentration. She could see her own limbs flex, and knew they shook from effort.
The air seemed to glint and crack. Glass shards twinkled like a thousand falling stars.
It was too much of a distraction — Tilirine’s discipline broke. She landed on her feet, and the world rushed in with its normal motions.
A black figure smashed through the window, then tumbled across the floor and against the bed, where Erin slept.
Soldiers collapsed with screams of pain.
Tilirine plunged back within herself — she had not grasped the Khalaki to lose it now. Fire flashed before her mind and she grasped it. The Song of the World immersed her and everything slowed again. She returned to dance.
Her fingers touched a neck, a groin. She pushed a fist into a knee, a heel into a man’s back. A blade slowly followed her — she turned, and tapped it down to float into the soldier’s own breeches. It opened a clean cut through corded muscle. She became vaguely aware that she struck ribs, a sternum, somebody’s ear.
Spasms rolled through her body. Her arms wavered like palms in a monsoon. It was a desperate effort to maintain the dance, but she had to hold out, else Jerine was dead. She forced herself on with every last fiber of strength.
Two drops of sweat floated from her brow. They splashed against a nose, before her forehead followed through. The air bloomed red, like a flower.
Only two soldiers remained standing, near to the stairs. The dance took Tilirine to them. She lifted a foot to each groin, lay a palm on each head, and lifted herself up. Then she pushed her feet down onto the backs of their necks.
She tried to flip away in movement to the song, but her body shuddered too hard and she had long used up her breath. Her grasp of the Khalaki slipped away and she stumbled to land on her hands and her knees. The world gushed back at her.
Tilirine sagged. Her body shook violently. Weights thumped to the floor behind her. Soldiers writhed and cried before her. She was no longer capable of action. Her lungs spasmed, desperate for air. Her muscles burned like fire. But no soldier was left standing.
A black shape rose by Erin’s bed. It had the face of a girl. And eyes wide in fear. The girl ran to the broken window. She slapped a hand to her chest — pulses of color came to life over it. Then she flung herself back through the hole with a cry.
Ezekiel was on his feet, his staff flashing in his hands. He stumbled over two fallen soldiers and headed straight for the window.
Tilirine knew the fool was about to jump. “Stop ... ” she croaked, but Ezekiel leapt out. She dragged herself to her feet, and staggered to what was left of the window — and stared out, astonished to see Ezekiel seeming to fly through the air.
Lightning flashed across the clouds. Thunder boomed and shook the room.
A hiss and a thud, and a crossbow bolt jammed into the wooden frame by her face. Tilirine turned aside for cover, still panting for breath. And below on the street, outside the old mill, a cart filled with barrels. An arrow attached to a tube had jammed into one, flaring smoke. She had seen that bright white spark before ...
It disappeared.
A second crossbow bolt jarred the wood by her eyes.
Tilirine threw herself as far across the floor as she could manage. “Jerine, down!” she cried.
A flash of lightning lit the air. A pair of bolts hissed through her robes and thudded into the floorboards. The thunder crashed after.
Then the world roared.
When the World Roars
Jerine
Jerine had to fight her terror of being killed — that the boot in her back would crush down, else the blade that pricked her neck might thrust in. Or the ax that had taken two heads already might be used on her next.
Her mind yelled that she couldn’t die here — the Goddess would ensure she survived. But her body betrayed her and trembled in fear. Her c
hin chattered, and her breath came too fast and too shallow.
Sirath lay on his stomach beside her, his eyes bulging wild, ready to die kicking and screaming. She wanted to reach out and touch him — assure him that he’d live, so long as he kept close to her. But she didn’t dare move.
Heavy boots tramped up the stairs and doors slammed as they searched. Shrill yells and shrieks followed, accompanied by banging.
They must be attacking Tilirine — and Erin, and Ezekiel. They could not defend themselves. Not against so many disciplined men, armored in mail and properly armed; veteran butchers and cold-blooded murderers. Jerine squeezed her eyes shut, fearing for her sister.
Then they would come for Jerine. If she died now her life would be wasted. Her dreams would leak with her blood to nothing. It shouldn’t be possible. And yet Sirath had had the right of it, when he’d wanted to leave. She should have listened. Everyone might now die because of her.
Lightning flashed, and thunder boomed.
Somewhere upstairs, Tilirine yelled, “Jerine, down!”
Jerine nearly laughed aloud. She was already down, restrained. She was hardly going to —
A red flash. Then a gigantic roar and whoosh of air. The floor shook. She was bounced on the tiles like a doll. A blast of glass and dust showered her. Orange light flickered and died as the lamp blew out. Shrieks of pain punctured the air. The floor shook again. A huge timber dropped from the ceiling and slammed down by her head. Tongues of red light flickered and danced in the hearth.
The echoes subsided. An eerie silence followed.
She could only wonder in shock at what might have just happened. She dared to glance aside. Everything was shadow, dust, and devastation — the common room a tangled mass of splintered wood.
There was no longer a weight at her back.
Jerine dared to rise — quickly, in case she could flee. Broken glass tinkled from her clothes. A savage heat filled her lungs. An acrid, brimstone smoke burned in her throat. She was unable to see whether danger lay in front or behind. A cool breeze enveloped her. She dared to recover her breath.
Sirath rose beside her, his face pale from shock.
Jerine could make no sense of the destruction around her. The front of the tavern appeared to be missing, destroyed, blown through by some cataclysmic wind. The street beyond started to burn. Inside, the men who had held them all captive lay sprawled, ragged and bloody on the floor.
Portilla was curled up and trembling. Jerine reached out to her.
Outside, a creak and a groan, and a sound like trees snapping. Then a deafening rattle and rumble — the mill over the road lurched straight at them. It smashed into the front of the tavern and crashed through. Jerine pushed Sirath down as the air rushed in full of splinters and mud. Timbers clattered into the wrecked common room, clanking and knocking together. Sirath screamed as the world threatened to collapse and crush them.
The noise subsided almost as quickly as it began.
Smoke and dust rolled in like a ghost and choked the air.
Jerine lay on the floor and covered her mouth with a sleeve. She felt smothered, and fought for air. Then staggered to her knees, and into the sound of wailing, coughing, and a crackle of flames. Light from a fire teased the wreckage. Portilla raised herself on her elbows, hacking for breath. Jerine stood, stumbled, and helped lift her to her feet.
Jerine nearly trod on the headless corpse of a drayman. It was covered with dirt and broken wood, and still dripping blood. She clamped a hand over her mouth as she gagged at the sight.
One of her captors lay by the body. His mail shirt and leather padding had ridden up to expose a bloody back, gouged with shards of glass. Another was slumped just ahead, badly lacerated, the back of his head stripped to the skull. He slowly crawled, like a dying turtle.
She turned, and was startled by Sirath’s dusty face and wild expression. Jerine wanted to soothe him with words of comfort. But when she opened her mouth it was so dry she couldn’t speak. She tried to wave the dust and smoke away, and wet her mouth. He uttered a squeal and she grabbed his tunic, then relaxed her grip for fear of provoking his senseless state. “Sirath ... we’re safe,” she croaked. “We’re alive!”
He shook her away. He turned to leave and stumbled.
“Don’t go!”
“Enough!” Sirath yelled. “I don’t care about the gold anymore! I don’t want to die. I ... goodbye.”
“Wait!” Jerine wasn’t sure what to say. Sirath had been right before. They’d stayed long enough. “Sirath ... we are leaving. Now. All of us. Our time in Corianth is up.” Jerine had run out of breath. However, Sirath stopped. He appeared to be thinking. Which meant he was calming — and less likely to stomp off alone. They still had a chance to get out, together. Then he continued to go without her.
She stood, dumbfounded. She wanted to stop him — but she also needed to find Tilirine, knowing they all had to escape this ruin around them. The entire front was blocked up with debris, but light grew from scattered fires outside. They had to get Erin and Ezekiel out, before the tavern collapsed, or burned, on top of them.
They needed help. She needed Sirath.
She stumbled through wreckage after him, climbed over broken masonry and timber. Flames were beginning to lick the debris. It was a struggle to keep up.
But as she approached what remained of the front of the tavern, she found him stood still.
She came alongside him, trying to meet his gaze. But he stared out, beyond the wreckage along the street. Jerine tried to see what he looked at.
Gray figures emerged from the gloom and dust. A whole host of people approached. Her heart fell, expecting another attack. Then she realized a little girl led them.
The girl walked up to Sirath. She took his hand and smiled. “The Goddess called me with a voice like thunder. You now have my protection.”
On the Wings of a Storm
Ezekiel
Ezekiel held tight to his facilitator as he hurtled through the air. This was less like flying, as much as falling — just not at the ground.
Rooftops rushed below him. Cold air needled through his robes. A light rain left him half-blinded. The winged girl danced through the air a way ahead. Beyond her, the city glowed orange from a large fire.
Ezekiel tried to keep focused on trailing her. Dim lights at her chest came from an Imperium naval uniform. Its nanonet would provide her power — and a signal for Ezekiel’s facilitator to lock onto. But he had to remain close to maintain a connection. He could only hope that she could lead him to Molric. It might be his last chance to find him.
She laughed as she flew, obviously enjoying the experience more than Ezekiel. At least those crude wings provided her with stability, while his own facilitator plunged through the planet’s electromagnetic currents, like a twig through white water rapids.
The girl arced ahead, wings outstretched. A cry of triumph blew to him. He was close enough to see her face clearly painted white and black.
And she saw him.
She banked and dropped for the rooftops. She twisted and weaved between tenement buildings.
Ezekiel dropped into a dive to pursue her.
She moved too quickly for him to follow by sight. Especially as he was rushing through the night’s darkness. He thought a command to his facilitator to keep as close to her as possible, but to ensure his flight remained safe from any hazards.
Flashes of lightning showed rooftops whoosh by. The wind chilled through his robes as he weaved between buildings. Then he found himself flying straight and up, clear of the city. He realized that she’d stopped and was hovering just ahead. He gritted his teeth, hoping this time to reach her.
Too late he realized she wasn’t in open air, but instead by the face of a tall building. He tried to physically pull back and away, but his facilitator was locked onto her. He rushed in too fast, about to collide into her or the building —
She dropped away.
He crashed through a window. He twis
ted fearfully in blackness, inside the building. He might have passed through a room, a doorway — two doorways. There was something square and gray ahead. He smashed through glass, then felt the familiar cold, night air embrace him.
Ezekiel forced his facilitator to slow to a safer speed, and descend to catch his breath. Thunder clattered above and his heart seemed to rattle with it. It was too dangerous a chase. And if he continued to trail her, she’d try and shake him off. She might not return to Molric if she thought she was followed. He would need to surprise her, even grab her, and demand where to find the Imperium commander.
It shocked him to realize the desperate lengths he considered. Simply touching her would be assault — a sexcrime. The Great Matriarchs would execute him without hesitation if they knew. Yet the fate of humanity depended upon this. He had to risk everything, no matter the cost to himself.
The weight of his situation changed his focus. He stopped fighting the wind and instead rolled with it. Somehow this made his flight more controlled. Ezekiel narrowed his eyes with determination.
He took care to keep from her view as he flew around staggered rooftops, and allowed his facilitator to track her. She moved at a predictable pace. She dropped back to seek pursuit — and found none. She slowed, flapped, and circled up toward the clouds. She floated on the wind. Looking for him.
Ezekiel weaved through dark streets of storehouses, trying to come around behind her. He dared to rise alongside one of the timber cranes. She remained adrift with her wings spread full. She stared out to where the black storm rolled in from the sea.
Lightning forked from the clouds. It illuminated a great curtain of heavy rain that swept over the city toward them.
He pushed his head down, and accelerated at her. As he drew near, he lifted a hand from his facilitator. He reached out against the force of the wind to grab her.
She turned, saw him. And dropped away.
Ezekiel caught her wrist. She spun around with a shriek of surprise and tried to fight him off. The clouds crackled white like a web. A huge strand of lightning cracked too close. The air boomed with thunder. The sound shook through Ezekiel and left him stunned. She snarled and scratched and kicked at him. Then she lunged with her teeth and bit his hand.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 35