Steel Sirens

by Maxx Whittaker

  Winded, I release Siri's bond. Surrender drops me back to my knees. Fury drains away like water down the well of my soul.

  My hand; I only half look. It’s gloved in crimson gore. I swallow down vomit.

  Another guard stands over his fallen comrade, pocked face mottled. He shouts a war cry and rushes. This is it; I don’t know where I dropped my sword. Siri's bond has left me weak. I might be done for this time.

  The Siren slides in, cutting through the guard, shield and all. She steps over him, axe tearing a furrow through two more, buying us breathing room.

  Siri gives me a hand up. Her eyes narrow on the guard’s shattered face. “Good?”

  My body clenches, no longer shielded by her gift. But my head’s stopped spinning, my ears don’t ring. My strength is solid. I can’t believe how quickly my body tempers. “Good.”

  She nods, satisfied. Strength flows between us, washing away all but the worst of the pain. And the thread that connects us… It’s substantial now.

  Through it, the women radiate; they’re holding their own. But for how long?

  Straithe. I must find Straithe. Is he coordinating this? Sending in reinforcements? If he is, I have to end it. Put down the lead wolf. Without their general maybe the men will scatter.

  I pick up my fallen sword but hang back. This isn’t working. Emeree may have taught me enough to defend myself, but I’m no swordsman.

  The bow. I need that bow.

  Which case? It takes me a moment to spot it in the chaos.

  Arkis and Emeree dance as partners in a room forgotten. They don’t remember us or see the men around them slashing and striking.

  She blocks a blow of liquid shadow. Most of it, anyway. I feel the tremors of pain. Emeree and Siri are starting to take hits.

  Another knot of soldiers dash in, drawing back when they almost stumble over the bodies of their comrades. They take in the scene, eyes wide, before charging.

  Four of them come for me.

  I tug Emeree’s bond, and the room stills as I dash for the bow. I reach it in four thunderous beats of my heart, dancing between fallen bodies and weapons. I grasp the bow, but it’s mounted to a sturdy frame. I draw on Siri’s strength with more caution this time. The magnificent weapon pops from the brackets with an eagerness.

  I fumble it, turning. My finger slides along the string, painting an arrow of crackling light.

  No more time, not enough to fire before the gifts ravage me and leave me broken. I release the bonds and they die like the final rays of the sun falling beyond the horizon. Time surges to normal even as Siri's power deserts me.

  It’s all right. I’m ready.

  I draw. The bow’s weight and heft are perfect, as if they were made for me. I think it would be the same for anyone wielding it. That’s part of the magic.

  There’s just enough resistance to feel the power of the weapon before I loose into the first available target, a soldier who sees me coming when the shot is already away.

  It impacts his breastplate and shatters. The arrow doesn’t cut through him. Dissipating energy skitters across his armor like thousands of tiny fireflies, working into seams and joints. His eyes widen, and widen, before boiling in his skull. He spasms, twisting to the floor where he writhes until steam trails up from beneath his pauldrons.

  Gods damn.

  I draw again, and another arrow materializes. The three remaining soldiers skid to a halt, back away, as their remaining brothers, maybe a score, hear their fallen comrade and spin in place. They take in the smoking, fallen husk on the ground, the magic arrow I have strung, and then Siri, axe hefted, chest heaving as she stares murder at them.

  A tense, brief eternity passes. They sling away their weapons and run.

  Siri and I trade grins.

  “Traitors!” Arkis roars. He’s done with Emeree, levitating above us. He casts a webbed bolt at the fleeing men. They run for the door in solid form and slosh through it in a half-congealed red-black slosh. Armor pings off marble, leaving gawdy streaks.

  Arkis’s shadow sword is barely visible now. His face has changed; he doesn’t have the strength to maintain his illusions.

  “He’s weak!” I call to Emeree.

  Siri spins her axe, striding toward him. “Maintaining the blade and magic drains him.”

  Arkis throws a bolt to punish this. Siri blocks, but the bolt hits Emeree, catching her shoulder.

  She grits her teeth, grunting, face pale, but she doesn’t relent.

  I loose an arrow. It streaks so fast I’m sure I’ll catch him while he toys with Emeree.

  His hand flicks it away without a look. Only his shields of magical darkness protect him. They’re wan, thinning, but still intact.

  We’re so close. Drawing the bow so fully my arms tremble, I give Emeree a look.

  Left.

  She swings at Arkis, dodging left. Siri floods the bond for a split second. Light snaps out, and sound. I exist nowhere.

  I let fly.

  It’s not enough; not enough to kill him, anyway. But it’s enough to slice through his hand, spraying his pale face with threads of crimson.

  Arkis screams, dropping a foot or two, clutching his palm.

  Emeree lists to one side, eyes half-lidded. Siri and I flood the bond again and power her.

  She straightens, lunges, and her blade feeds into Arkis’s chest.

  Yes! Our silent cheer is collective.

  Arkis bobs above the ground, twitching. His mouth moves soundlessly. Then a rasp.

  His rasp becomes an unrepentant, choking laugh. “Look at your faces! Pathetic.”

  That’s it. We have nothing else. Our bond slackens, weighted by despair.

  Arkis raises his hands and begins to cast.

  “Emeree,” I whisper.

  She holds my eyes and nods, managing a smile. She makes a gesture at Siri, something understood only by them.

  “I’m sorry it was brief.”

  Siri nods, looking resigned.

  I realize I’ll die but, Arkis will probably find a way to trap them again. My fate might be better.

  He raises his arms, spanned by a sharp wire of dark energy.

  Briet. Keldan. Cailleach watch over my family. Make them as ice against the enemy’s fire. Make them as water to flow away from danger and burdens. Make them as the night-dark, enduring and –

  “Bellagorg! Bellagorg!”

  The voice cries out, clear and strong out on the staircase.

  No air, no sound. For a breath even my thoughts are frozen. Emeree and Siri stare at the doors.

  Arkis whips around. “Who –” He turns on me. “It’s your brat!”

  I brace for retribution.

  He throttles up and surges toward the great staircase.

  “Pella! Pella, he’s coming!” Can she hear me?

  Does it matter? Where will she run that’s beyond Arkis’s reach?

  We race along behind him. I reach the top landing and my heart falls.

  Pella hasn’t run; she’s standing smack in the middle of hall doors, arms crossed.

  “Run! Run!” we shout in unison.

  She doesn’t budge.

  Oh Pella. I draw my bow as a formality; I’m not going to stop what happens next.

  Arkis sweeps the bottom of the staircase.

  Pella rocks back a step, behind the door frame.

  Caiminae slips in front of her, raises a hand, and thrusts it against Arkis’s chest.

  He thins from solid to shade, blows past Caiminae like a cloud of smoke, and disappears in the space of a breath. A zigzag of energy runs down her finger like it’s a lightning rod and Caiminae puffs it away.

  Arkis’s ruby and black rune medallion clatters to the floor, flickering.

  I could collapse, laugh hysterically, kiss her; the consequences she’d inflict almost don’t stop me.

  She turns on me, looking like she can read these thoughts. “I said after. After, Ewan. When a thing is done, not before it happens.”

  “A
ww,” I tease, giddy, “You’re being modest.”

  “That’s not what you told me,” says Pella.

  I give her a look. “Thanks for stabbing me in the back.”

  “You had a witch,” mutters Siri, resting her axe with a clank against the marble. “You had a witch and you waited till the end?”

  “I don’t have a witch!”

  “He doesn’t have me!”

  “Fine.” Siri raises her hands in bristling surrender.

  Emeree moans, her voice low and full of banked agony. “I think I’m done for now. Ewan, mind Siri.”

  “Don’t even have to ask,” I tell her.

  “I don’t need minding.”

  Emeree manages a smile and flows into her blade. The silver channel flares and her scabbard drops into my hands.

  She’s in there, but I can barely feel her. More than any point during the battle, I panic a little.

  17

  The Emperor's Suicide

  This card depicts a tall, foolish woman and a short, pessimistic woman struggling with a revelation. A youth lays dead between them. It is associated with a failure, fortitude, and a reconciliation. Inverted, it represents harmony and the natural order. It feels cool to the touch and smells of snow. Its reverse is sky blue with an eclipsed sun and crossed blades.

  When Siri turns to claim her axe, I can see the damage she’s taken. It’s not as extensive as Emeree’s wounds, but dark lines thread her skin like savage tattoos.

  “Let’s find the girls so you can rest.”

  She shrugs at me; I don’t think I’ve earned my place enough with Siri to suggest things like this.

  “I know where they are.” General Straithe descends the wide steps.

  I raise my bow. “I bet you know where a lot of things are, general.”

  Straithe raises his hands, but only half-heartedly, to placate me. “My men are formed up in the bailey. You won’t find a single one among the dead upstairs.”

  “Maybe you did the decent thing. Or maybe you’re just clever enough to keep your hands clean now that Arundel is gone.” I saw Straithe at that table, bargaining to have Myranda set free.

  “He’s telling the truth,” says Siri, piercing Straithe with cold blue eyes. “I still think he’s half-coward, but it’s true.”

  “Arundel and Arkis had my son!” he shouts.

  “Your son is man enough,” Siri hisses back. “You let them lead you around by your nose!”

  A hostage. Everything about Brecan’s behavior makes sense now.

  “I’ve acted to help you since almost the moment you arrived.”

  I’m dubious. “You were working to help some portreeve from the hinterlands…”

  Straithe tightens and stretches to his considerable full height. “It may not seem so to you, lad, but I got to be general by knowing how to read my men and my enemies. My son has some skill at it, too.”

  Brecan, sizing us up in the great hall. I suspected he was taking notes to report back to someone.

  “I kept the Duke’s Own at heel, chased off the Inquisition outriders…”

  “But you didn’t bring your men in to help,” says Siri.

  “You’re right; I didn’t. I had no intention of losing everything if you failed.”

  Siri snorts.

  “Military politics is not romantic. It isn’t selfless. I’ve fed the resistance information for months, and I would have kept working to undermine Carven Arundel. But no failed coup, no botched assassination is worth my son.” He exhales. “You got your freedom; you didn’t have collateral still on the table. Your judgment passes over me.”

  Siri softens and bows her head, nodding.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but he doesn’t acknowledge this. “We should free the girls. I’ll take you.”

  Straithe leads us back up the stairs. We pick our way through the solar’s carnage, air stinking with the hot copper odor of blood.

  He grabs the back of Carven’s giant chair and tips it. “This isn’t the only entrance, but it’ll be the fastest with the remaining fighting. You might want to wait here; I don’t know how those girls will feel about a strange blood-painted man.”

  “We’ll wait in the great hall.”

  We start off; Caiminae doesn’t follow.

  “Coming?” I ask.

  She looks down at Straithe who’s mostly in the passageway. “Did the mage keep a witch here? Does he have prisoners in his private quarters?” she asks.

  “He has given the west tower all for himself. Even if we weren’t forbidden from going there… I wouldn’t. No one would know what he keeps or does there.”

  “The girls are no concern of mine,” says Caiminae. “I want his notes, books, letters. All the rest is your affair.” She sounds heartless but there’s a gallop to her words. There’s something bigger to worry about. Bigger than all of this? The idea turns cold in the pit of my stomach. “Orpha?” I dare, remembering Arkis’s last words.

  Caiminae rounds on me. “You may wish so, before the end.”

  Cold turns to ice in my gut.

  “Girl, can you read?” asks the witch.

  Pella points to her chest.

  “Yes you. What other girl? You read or you don’t.”

  “I read the common and the vulgate. And a little ancient Valmer.”

  Caiminae’s brows raise with each bit of information. “Useful, for a nun.”

  “Oh, I’m not a nun. I’m just stuck in that bleeding convent.”

  The witch’s eyes light. “Not anymore. Let’s go.”

  “Oh!” Pella throws her arms around me. “You were right, Ewan. Adventure found me...thanks to you.”

  I squeeze her. “When you write your book, I want to be the first to read it.”

  “Well you can’t,” snaps Caiminae. “It will be a spell book.”

  “Go,” I tell Pella. “She’s dangerous when she’s cranky.”

  “Good luck!”

  Pella runs for the stairs and the pair disappears.

  “I’m so sad,” I say to no one in particular.

  Siri rests a hand on my back, an unexpected comfort. “You were close?”

  “I never got to hear her play the rebec. I still don’t know what the damn thing sounds like.”

  “The what?” Siri and Straithe ask in unison.

  “Exactly.”

  Straithe starts down again.

  Siri and I stand close, backs to the carnage. “You’re sad to let her go. It’s all right to say so.”

  She can feel it; I can’t lie. So I shrug this off. “I knew her for two days.”

  “I don’t think that matters. You freed her. You freed me. I’ve known you for an hour. What I feel is bigger than time.”

  Finding Emeree was nothing but luck. I’d be lost in the woods if not for them. I almost tell her this. Respect and affection on Siri’s face silences me.

  I’m no warrior, and since I discovered my village destroyed it feels like I’ve done nothing but what was necessary in the moment.

  But maybe that’s enough.

  ***

  The last rays of sunlight escape a screen of western trees. Twilight turns their figures into silhouettes; to me this feels wrong. It feels like an extension of imprisonment.

  Siri and I lean atop the battlements and watch girls leave. Some won’t; one younger girl clutches a fistful of borrowed dress and hunches in the center of the courtyard, eyes squeezed shut. Two others have to coax her. When one of Straithe’s men starts forward to reassure her, the girl runs screaming into a storehouse.

  She’s not an exception. I can’t see their faces, but I see disbelief in their halting steps, how they crowd together for safety or out of habit.

  Valk emerges from the hall doors, towering over the river of women. He keeps one arm around a dark-haired girl with bronze skin who almost matches him in height.

  He turns back at the gates and raises a fist in salute.

  I answer in kind. It’s been hours since the fight, but my blood stil
l pumps hot, my fingers itch for the draw of my bow. A scent of blood lingers on me.

  The strange part? I like this. Part of me kept hidden away in the Fortingall has woken. A lust for the danger, adventure, and something more I never knew existed until now.

  You can’t hide here forever, Ewan.

  What did Briet know that I didn’t?

  I still yearn for the wood, but it’ll always be unfulfilled longing. I can never go back. Pella taught me an adventurer’s heart can’t be made small.

  Valk’s sister follows his gaze. Her slender face is drawn, eyes red but there’s defiance in her wide eyes, in the smile she gives us.

  “Can you imagine the horror?” I ask Siri. “If it were my sister...I don’t know if I could help her; I’d be so fucking angry all the time.”

  “He never touched them,” says Straithe, leaning next to me. “Couldn’t if he wanted to, but that was never his aim. Carven wanted the youth and virility he’d lost.”

  “There is no justification here.”

  Straithe nods at me. “Carven Arundel was rabid. There was no solution but to put him down. When my hate runs away with me, though, I remind myself Carven was the first victim. Lady Arundel’s never-ending dirty trickle of hedge wizards, conjurers, arcanists… The Church doesn’t tolerate rogue magic and dark arts in these lands. It was only a matter of time before she invited the wrong one in.” He looks out over the bailey. “Arkis took her son. Then he took mine, and he would have done the same to Brecan. I can find compassion when I think on this.”

  I watch the sun melt below the horizon, leaving a cinnamon band. We stand quiet while the flow of girls becomes a trickle.

  “Sirens, hm?” he says. I can tell he’s been mulling over this. “If that’s true, you have work ahead.”

  “If it’s true?” Siri bites.

  “The last Siren is said to have disappeared before I was born. It’s not real. What happened twenty years or one year ago isn’t real.” Straithe holds out his hands a gestures over the castle. “This is real. This is the only reality for those of us shut inside this last year. It will take time to change that. Right now, I just don’t have faith.”

  He stands a moment longer; I think so his parting won’t seem an offense. He disappears into the tower.