by Matthew Cook
The men call out their agreement and rise, drawing their weapons. Those with shields settle them on their forearms. We form a column, shields overlapping like the scales of some enormous snake. Stathis is its head, and Lia and I trot close behind.
I glance back, into the men's frightened faces. Their eyes are wide; their mouths are bloodless, unsmiling gashes. Some grin, wolves baring their fangs in preparation of the coming fight. I feel my fear drop away, replaced with something else, a wild glee, and I realize that I too am grinning. I wonder, almost absently, how many of us will die here, beneath the implacable stones.
A few stragglers drift between our group and the sally port. They seem focused on the dying fire beast, and do not seem to know we are behind them. “Lia, we'll need you to make us an opening. Big enough for all to pass through."
Lia nods and begins a chant in the sibilant tongue of the air elementals. A flicker catches my eye, and I look up. Clouds roil and churn overhead, threaded with dancing lightning. I grip my borrowed short sword tight, hunching my shoulders in expectation of what is to come.
Lia's plea reaches its climax, the words sounding like the shrill call of hunting birds. I feel the hair on the backs of my arms and the crown of my head lifting. The Mor are just ahead, dark clumps of looming bodies. Lia points at the enemies before us and completes her ritual, and a moment later a bolt of lightning, branched and forked like a titanic tree, lances down.
The thunderclap which follows freezes the men in their tracks. “Hold!” I scream, hoping my voice can be heard over the rolling echoes. Lia whispers a second command, this time gesturing with both hands. Again, lightning stabs down, scattering the huge warriors like milkweed fluff.
I see them, turning this way and that, unsure of which enemy to face. A third, then a fourth and a fifth bolt streaks to earth, each one accompanied by the crushing sound of thunder.
The lightning stops. A hush falls across the battlefield. The enemy stands, swaying, stunned by the ferocity of the assault. Beside me, Lia sobs in exhaustion. I know how much such a summoning costs her.
"Run!” Stathis screams, before raising his sword and bolting forwards. I howl a wordless battle cry and follow, as the men at my back raise their voices in a savage call. Lia stumbles with us, sheltered on all sides by the screaming militiamen.
We crash into the dazed Mor like a battering ram. Stathis's sword licks out, quick as a serpent's tongue, finding the vulnerable seams in the Mor's armor. The weight of our formation pushes aside even the mighty warriors.
The sally port is closer now, but many enemy bodies block our way. I pull in tighter to Stathis's left side, striving to defend his unshielded flank, and feel the man behind me pull close as well, protecting me in kind. An enemy looms out of the shadows, and I stab out at a flailing, clawed limb. My short sword shivers against the creature's armored hide.
Then I am past, my sword swinging back, crashing into a new target. The Mor are still stunned, still milling. The lightning's glare has dazzled them, but slowly they are becoming aware of our presence. We have but moments before they react to us en masse.
I hear a shrill piping as the enemy hoots their battle cry. All around, towering forms swivel, turning to face us.
"Forward! Forward!” Stathis shouts, his sword flashing in the firelight. Incredibly, I see a Mor go down, streaming black fluid from neck joint and belly. Stathis's sword comes away slicked with its life blood.
We push, with all the strength in our legs and backs, sheltering behind our shields, but the enemy is aware of us now. Every second gives them time to move into our path. I feel the momentum go out of the charge as resistance ahead thickens. Blows rain down, from clawed forearms or from the Mor's stone weapons, ringing like hammer blows on an anvil.
Men scream all around me as the Mor claim victim after victim. We go back-to-back, pulling together into a crude circle. I hear Lia beginning a fresh chant, but one look tells me she does not have the strength to call down the storm once more.
Somewhere distant, too distant, I hear the approaching rumble of the cavalry. Horns blow. Men shout and scream and die. The fire lion howls its fury once more, but it is too far away to help us.
The Mor crash over us like a wave.
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CHAPTER FIVE
I wake to brilliant sunshine. White curtains surround me, glowing with dappled sunshine. There is a rumble in the air, a constant background hum I cannot place.
I am in a bed. Crisp sheets and a thick duvet as white as mountain snow cover me. Above, beams of pale wood stretch across the plaster ceiling.
I move to sit up, then sink back, hissing in pain. My back and side throb abominably. I pull aside the covers and look at myself. I am nude save for thick bandages, wrapping me from breasts to hip. The thick gauze is spotted with brown blood.
I hear footsteps approaching, and a moment later the curtains part. I see an older woman, her silvery gray hair cropped short. Her eyes are kindly and mild, filled with gentle wisdom. In her hands is a wide copper bowl.
"I thought I heard you stirring,” the woman says. “Good. Those bandages need changing anyway."
"Where ... where am I?” I ask. The woman pulls the sheets aside, then sits on the side of the bed. She picks up a cup from the bedside table and hands it to me. The water is tepid but delicious.
"You're in my home,” the woman replies. “My name is Lauran. You're safe."
"But what—"
"You can ask your friend all about what happened; she's been at your side all day and night. She went to clean herself. Finally. Now, may I?” She gestures to my bandages, and I nod.
Lauran helps me to sit, a process which leaves me trembling and light-headed. The ache in my side deepens, stealing away my breath. I feel something wet trickling down my ribs. From around her neck, Lauran produces a set of dainty silver scissors hanging from a blue silk ribbon. She leans forward and slits the bandages with quick, efficient snips.
I hiss as she peels the bandage away. Cool air washes across my ribs. A pungent smell reaches me, the odor of herbs and something else, some medicine, astringent and faintly acrid. I look down and see a long cut running across my side. It has been stitched shut with tight, precise sutures. The skin all around the wound is swollen and red, studded with white blisters.
"It's burned. A Mor knife?"
"Aye,” Lauran says, wiping my skin gently with a clean section of bandage. She prods the stitches gently with her fingertips, nodding in satisfaction at what she sees. “Not deep, gods be praised, or you would have been done for. Just a graze, but it notched three ribs. Fortunately, Mor blades are red hot, and cauterize as they cut. Helped with the bleeding."
I try to remember the blow and find I cannot. The last thing I recall is Lieutenant Stathis and the rest of the company, charging the rear of the Mor formation. The sally port was so close, but not close enough. I remember the fire lion, and the sound of the cavalry, rushing towards us in a thunder of hooves. Then, nothing.
Lauran wads the soiled bandages and tosses them into a basket on the floor, then pulls a jar from her apron. She opens the lid, filling the air with the same sharp smell that came from beneath the bandage. With gentle fingers she spreads the cool cream across my wound.
"Hold this,” she orders, placing a strip of fresh cloth against my side. I obey, holding the bandage until she can wrap the end around me, again and again. She sits back, surveying her work with a critical eye, then nods.
"Too tight?” she asks, when I wince.
"No. My back hurts."
"That's likely because you've been on it for a full day and a night,” Lauran says. She puts her hands on my shoulders, when I move to rise, and pushes me gently back. “And you'll be on it a while more. You need rest."
"I need the chamber pot, and my leathers. The Mor—"
"Are still at our gates. They are not going anywhere,” a new voice says. “Now stop fighting your physician and follow her orders."
&n
bsp; I look past Lauran, and there is Lia. She is clad as I first saw her, all in white silk. Her hair is up in a complex style she has not worn in months. Her skin, darkened nut-brown by weeks of hard labor done in the sun, stands out in sharp contrast to the pale cloth.
The sight of her, alive and whole, brings tears to my eyes. I hold out my hands and she moves to my side, taking them in her own. For a time, I cannot speak; all I can do is drink in the sight of her. When the urge to cry has passed, I nod to the bandages on Lia's hands. “What happened to you?"
"I fell,” she replies with an abashed grin. “I ... I tried to drive away the Mor who stabbed you. I took up your sword and thrust at it. I do not think it even noticed. It reared back to strike you again, and dealt me a glancing blow that threw me down. I cut my hands on the stones.” She touches her bruised cheek. “I suppose I am not much of a warrior, am I?"
"It was very brave,” I choke out, squeezing her hands until she flinches.
"Those bandages will need changing twice a day for a week,” Lauran says. She hands me the jar of salve. “Use this every time they're changed, until it's all gone. And be wary of the wound sickening. The young elementalist tells me you have training in the healing arts?” I nod. “Then you know the signs. Creeping redness. Pus. A sickly sweet smell. If you see any of them—"
"I will contact you, I promise,” I finish for her. She nods and gathers up the soiled bandages and her bowl, then glides from the room. I settle back into the decadently soft pillows. Gods ... how long has it been since I slept in a proper bed?
Lia smiles down at me. “You gave us all a scare, Kirin,” she says. “When they brought you in, they could not wake you. They wanted to leave you in the courtyard, with the other soldiers."
"I am the other soldiers,” I reply.
"Not to me. My family is not without influence in the City, and although I do not like using it, I felt I had no choice."
An uncharacteristic harshness creeps into her voice. Her face is stern. I ask, “Lia, what happened?"
"They ... they were going to leave you there. In the courtyard. You were so still, Kirin. So very still. And yet they were attending to men much less grievously hurt."
"Who was?"
"The priests!” she spits.
Now her anger makes sense. “The priests of Shanira,” I say. Lia nods.
"You were one of the first to be examined,” Lia continues. “The men demanded that you be seen to first. The priest, he said your wound was very serious. Then he saw your eyes.” She hangs her head, as if ashamed.
Of course. My eyes, black as sin. They have been this way ever since the night I avenged my sister's murder. Since the night I slipped into her murderer's bed and let loose the blood magic for the first time.
"Ah,” I say. “He saw them, did he? And what did he say to that?"
"He said ... he said the goddess would not heal you,” she replies, her voice hot and tight with anger. “But the goddess had nothing to do with it; the priest did not even try. Upon seeing your eyes, he hurried away, as if he saw a serpent. But do not worry; I plan to complain to the High Priest himself. I will—"
"Please don't,” I say, stopping her. “It's all right, really. The salve, and some bed rest, will do just fine."
"Kirin, no! It is not right for them to decide who is or is not worthy of the goddess's mercy and healing. They—"
"Are men, human and flawed. They think that this,” I point to my black eyes, “this is evidence of infernal influence. I have seen their reaction many times before."
"That does not make it right,” she says, folding her arms.
"No. But I don't hold it against them.” I point to my eyes. “The priests know only that this is proof of my crimes. They only do what they feel is right."
"They are wrong, and you know it,” she insists, then falls silent.
I put my hand on her arm. Lia trembles with fury. The depth of her reaction touches me. “Well, whatever you did to get me here, and to get me well, I thank you."
Her smile is more radiant than the sunlight, and as warming.
"Where's Stathis? Was he hurt badly in the fighting?” Her downcast eyes give me the unwelcome answer. Damn. “How many made it?” I ask, afraid of the answer she will give.
"Four of the men made it through the gate,” she says. “One died of his wounds in the courtyard before I could reach mistress Lauran, and a second is in the army hospital. He ... he was burned very badly, and they are not sure if he will recover."
"Was it ... did Stathis ... how did he...?” I stammer, not sure how to ask about the lieutenant.
"He died well,” Lia says softly. “Right after you were struck down, and I was thrown to the ground, the cavalry made it to us and opened a corridor. Even to the end, Stathis fought, giving us time to withdraw. I saw him kill four of them—four—before a Mor knife found his back. It was brilliant."
We hold each other, shedding tears for the fallen. For many, it is the only memorial they will get. So many have lost their wives, or children. Their mothers and fathers. All that was left for them was revenge. My sister's sadness radiates inside my breast, a black star, as she grieves with us.
I pull back, wiping my eyes with the corner of the sheet. “You'll show me where they are buried? I wish to pay my last respects. They fought bravely.” Lia nods, wiping away her own tears.
"So,” I say in a lighter tone, smoothing the spotless silk covering her forearm, “I see you wasted no time in discarding that peasant clothing."
She frowns. “I ... Mistress Lauran complained that ... they were very dirty. I was going to wash them, honestly I was, but it seemed easier to just dispatch a servant to my father's estate."
"I was joking,” I tell her, wondering as I speak the words if they are entirely true. Seeing her in the fine clothes, the shining material hugging Lia's womanly curves, jewels sparkling at her throat and in her hair, reminds me of the day we met in the ruins of Fort Azure. She saved me that day, loosing the lightning on Mor and knocking me unconscious. Afterwards, she held my head in her lap and sang to me as I woke. I remember worrying I was soiling her pristine leggings.
Just as then, seeing her attired in such splendid clothing makes me feel shabby and small. She is everything that Mother wanted my sister and me to be when we were girls: elegant; poised; wealthy in a way neither our father nor our rural neighbors could ever be.
Do not let the desires of a bitter, disillusioned woman diminish anything you've done, my sister says. Her dream killed me, but you broke free of that life, when you decided to avenge my murder. Never forget that.
"Can you stand?” Lia asks. I nod, answering her question and acknowledging my sister with one shared gesture. Lia takes my hands in hers. “I want to show you something."
I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and slide past the white curtains. The room beyond is small and spare, with plain, whitewashed plaster walls and a high ceiling. It smells of soap and clean linens. Sunlight streams in through the open window. The tiles beneath my bare feet are cool and smooth and immaculate.
My body protests as I shuffle the six steps to the window. Lia's hands grasp mine, ready to catch me if I fall. I look outside, into a marvel.
"We made it,” Lia says with a smile. “Welcome, Kirin, to the Imperial City."
Below, the jeweled puzzle box of the city is laid out for me. It stretches for miles, a maze of tangled streets, ending abruptly at the sheer drop-off of the Northwatch Cliffs. Myriad rooftops of many colors glitter like a lady's cloisonne brooch, their lacquered tiles gleaming in the sun. Further away, closer to the cliffs, the roofs change, becoming more drab, the buildings growing smaller and more crowded. A thick pall of hazy smoke hangs over the rooftops, bearing the complex scents of cooking food and animals and exotic spices.
Lia points to the left, and I see the interior walls which separate the Imperial Palace from the rest of the city. They loom over the Gold Road, the great thoroughfare that begins at the wide courtyard behind th
e Lion's Mouth, then runs south into the heartlands of the Empire.
The palace is made from white marble, shining like ice under the blue sky. Pennants of imperial purple and maroon, the house colors adopted by Emperor Berthold upon his marriage to Lady Contessa and his ascension to the throne, flutter from the walls and from the lofty clock tower which demarks the palace's northern edge. Off to the side of the compound rises the tallest structure in the city, the famed tower of the Arquis Vae.
It stands out, unique even in that fantastical landscape. It is immense, rising high above the Armitage and the other buildings which surround it. Its surface is studded with smooth domes, which swell like blisters from its walls. Doors and balconies stud its exterior in unexpected places. It is not built from wood or stone; I do not know what it is made of. Some dully gleaming metal, perhaps, as if any human artifice could smelt such vast quantities. A ring of windows sparkles at its apex.
"It is amazing, is it not?” Lia asks, following my gaze.
"I've heard the stories, but the sight of it is even more..."
"Lovely?"
"Disturbing. Confusing. My mother used to tell us the tower wasn't a building at all. It's a relic, a memorial built from one of the ships that carried us here. I remember I used to roll my eyes at her when she wasn't looking; after all, how could one build a tower from a ship? Now I feel I owe her an apology."
"They say it must have been built by a madman,” Lia muses, shaking her head. “Inside, furniture studs the walls as if they were floors. Doors which open onto deadfalls and vast, empty spaces mixed with cramped cubbyholes filled with long-dead machines. Every emperor or empress who has ever sat on the Iron Throne is entombed within, slumbering until the day they will be called upon to once more defend the empire. And at the summit, in the topmost room, is the home of Ico, the Imperial wizard.” She points to the ring of windows.
I nod. This was always one of my favorite stories as a girl, even though Mother seldom told it. Talk of wizards and forbidden knowledge, after all, was unseemly for ladies of quality such as we. “He is deathless, advisor to every emperor since we made our pilgrimage, or so my mother's stories said,” I say. “Is it true that no one living, save the Emperor himself, has ever seen him?"