Steel Sirens

by Maxx Whittaker

  We have to get up there, help him. The voices are muted, but clear, so we must only be a few feet down.

  Siri peers up, trying to find a trapdoor, some way of egress. I range down the path a bit further, and the sounds of the confrontation fade as the tunnel angles further upward. I run my hands along the roof, between thick patches of algae, searching. There must be a seam, something.

  There. A perfectly square crack in the stone ceiling, almost invisible, creating and opening big enough to squeeze through. Siri appears next to me, crouched. The tunnel is so low now that I can’t stand upright, so it’s no surprise that she looks miserable, like a massive tree grown in a box.

  I reach up, palms flat against the stone. “Let’s move fast, catch them by surprise,” I whisper. “Sounds like three or four.”

  She nods, matching my stance, and together, we push. Tired, beaten muscles strain, and I grit my teeth, trying not to wheeze with pain. The duskwort still numbs the injury in my leg, but it’s still an intense burn that I can’t ignore. Siri doesn’t look much better, and the black spiderweb of cracks at her chest and arms deepens as she heaves.

  We only rested a short time in the tunnel after the bubbling pit, stolen moments where I drifted into sleep, only to jolt awake with panic or pain, over and over. After an hour, something mutual passed between us, and without words we stood on shaking legs and set off, ready to be done with this place, to see the sun again.

  The stone doesn’t move, and I redouble my efforts, try to find some hidden reserve of strength. Siri's corded muscles stand out like dusky stone as she trembles with effort, but it’s no use. The door’s been in place too long or has too much growth on top of it.

  I reach for our bond, for a quick burst of power needed to dislodge the stone. But our connection, as thick as a powerful rope, is elusive, almost slippery. I can’t quite grasp it. My brow furrows as I concentrate, reach harder.

  Siri's hand on my shoulder stops me, snaps me alert. “No,” she says. “You’ve used it too much. Too much risk, to you. And me.”

  “You?”

  “Every time you use the gifts, you draw power from us, take strength from our bond with Cailleach. You are raw, uncontrolled, and your need is like a torrent. A raging river. That is why it kills you, tears your body apart.”

  I didn’t realize, though now that I think of it, I should have. These gifts don’t exist inside of me, don’t live in my spirit. The power must come from somewhere. When we’re out of this, when we have time, I’ll have to learn.

  There’s more laughter from above. We need to hurry. “Then what?”

  She smiles, looks exhausted. “Let me. I can control it in a way you can’t.”

  I worry, that it’s too much for her, but despite looking like she’s about to dissolve into her axe, there’s confidence in her eyes that’s unfeigned.

  “Do it. I’ll be ready.”

  I back away a step, drawing my bow. Siri stands taller, bracing her shoulders against the stone, head bent low. When she heaves, I feel our bond vibrate with effort, so tight it feels like it’ll snap.

  She can’t do this long.

  Her body strains, and silt drifts from the edges of the door. Sweat weaves little trails through the dirt and blood of her face, her chest, as she closes her eyes and pushes again.

  For long moments, the stone shakes, trembling above her, before finally dislodging. Siri roars as it explodes upward, raining dirt and pebbles around her.

  Sunlight fills the passage, momentarily blinding, but I’m already moving. Chasing Siri, who shoves the stone aside and leaps after it in a final, impossible display of strength.

  I’m only moments behind her, clearing the lip of the pit. The stone wasn’t deep, only a handspan wide, but above it is a thick lattice of roots and vegetation, double the thickness of the door. Some of the dense rooting is so intertwined that it seems impossible Siri tore through it.

  Gods. She’s incredible.

  Then I’m past, taking in the scene. Siri stands a few feet away, axe before her defensively, and just past her are the enemy, black armor gleaming in the morning. Myranda’s men.

  At least twelve of them.

  Shit.

  The chamberlain, a bald wisp of a man, lays curled in the middle of three of them, moaning. The soldiers are just turning, eyes wide, taking us in. The dark stench of their magic, of death, is stronger now, settling over me like rotten oil.

  The soldier’s surprise doesn’t last. These are professionals, dangerous men, and in less than ten beats of my heart they’ve formed up, defensive, a bristling square of swords and spears.

  All but one. He stands over the chamberlain, sneering. “Well, well. Got us a couple of badgers, boys! Sprung right from the ground?” His eyes narrow, take us in, barely linger on Siri's ridiculous size. I know what he’s seeing, what he’s thinking. We look like a stiff breeze would blow us over. “Maybe not badgers,” he sneers, taking a step forward. “Look more like mice, eh boys?”

  They laugh with him, though at least a few of them are eyeing us uneasily. Especially Siri's axe, which hangs in the air, gleaming, crimson death.

  Enough of this. I’m not sure if we can take them all, but there’s no escaping, not in our state. Not when they have our horses. I raise my bow, but don’t draw yet. “You have thirty seconds to throw down your weapons and walk away, or we kill you.”

  The leader howls with laughter, turning his back to us, and raising his hands to his men. “You heard him, boys! Time to pack it up and head home!”

  “Aww, come on, Cap! Can we at least keep the big one?” One jeers, but I shut it out.

  I move sideways, clearing my line of sight so Siri isn’t in the way. I send her a warning: Go with this.

  She grunts, isn’t happy, wants to leap into the fray and attack. But I can feel her weakness, and if we can get out of this without fighting… “Twenty seconds.”

  The captain turns, humor falling from his face like water beading off a leaf. He stalks toward me and I keep my bow trained on his head, and his soldiers come with him, lockstep a few steps behind. “Look, you little shit,” he says, then stops, eyes narrowing. “Well, well,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Found you, village boy.”

  Damn. So much for bluffing out of this. If Myranda’s spread word of my face to her men, if they know me by sight… Well, so much for fighting.

  Still, I have to try. “Ten seconds,” I say. He’s so close I can see dark pockmarks of some past disease where they crater his face, see a dark nick on his throat where he cut himself shaving. He’s huge, though not as imposing as Siri, and despite his mocking he moves with perfectly terrifying grace in his dark armor. A veteran.

  He notices me take him in, grins. “Put it away, little boy. Mistress wants to have a...word...with you.”

  His men laugh, a low ripple thick with impending violence. “Stop playing with him, cap! Put him out of his misery!” One jeers.

  The captain takes another step forward, an onyx mountain looming over me. “What’re you gonna do? You don’t even got an arrow strung.”

  Don’t need one. I signal Siri. “Time’s up.” I draw and release.

  My arms strain and my aim is terrible, but the captain’s too close to miss. An arrow of light pierces his eye, exploding, detonating his head and even his shoulders in a spectacular spray of blood and brain. It rains over his men, a grotesque hail that spatters their armor wetly, painting it crimson.

  They stumble back a step, eyes wide in disbelief as their captain’s body falls.

  Siri doesn’t hesitate, uses their surprise to unleash spinning death in their midst. She melts into them, turning, cutting, and before the last droplets of the Captain’s impact the earth, three of them are dead.

  I turn, track, fire again. My arms scream in protest, and my draw is shallower than before, but it’s enough. Another magic bolt lances forward, impacting a dark breastplate with shattering force. It’s not enough to punch through, but it does something terrible
to his insides. He gurgles, wailing, choking on blood as he falls, dropping a spear meant to stab Siri's back.

  She turns, takes another’s head in a wide swing, but a blade impacts the back of her leg. It doesn’t pierce her blood-spattered skin, and I’m not sure anything can, but a dark lattice erupts where the blade hits, and Siri grunts in pain. She goes to one knee, and her arm lances out, taking the guard by the throat, and she pulls him forward onto her axe, planted in the ground. It buries vertically in his face, crunching deep into bone, shattering teeth.

  Siri stands, staggers, but hauls herself upright, the solder’s body still hanging in her outstretched arm. His blade falls from lifeless fingers, and she turns to the remaining enemy where they’re huddled together, eyes wide. I move next to her, bow not drawn, but ready. Five of them left. Surprise and ferocity have seen us through so far, but we have nothing left. I’m not even sure I can draw the bow again.

  Maybe intimidation is all we need. Siri holds the body high with what must be her last bit of strength, and she grins at her enemy, teeth stained red with blood. “Who’s next?” She taunts and tosses the corpse into them with a tiny burst of her gift.

  The broken soldier falls, tumbling them like children.

  When they stand, they leave their weapons on the ground. I don’t blame them. Watching Siri stalk toward them, I almost want to surrender, too.

  Siri passes them as I keep my bow trained. “Over there,” I say, motioning away from the carnage. “On your knees.”

  They comply, clattering past me in a procession of clanking armor and hate filled glances. But watching their captain’s head erupt like a fountain has shaken them, and more than one stare at the long length of my bow with open fear.

  Siri returns shortly after with the horses and two Braemar soldiers, still rubbing at wrists that must have been bound before she cut them free. “Sirs, if you’ll take watch,” I say, barely able to hold my bow up.

  One of them nods and they take up fallen swords. I let my bow drop, grateful beyond words. I could lay down right here amongst the gore and severed limbs, and not care, sleep for a week.

  But not yet.

  I fall to my knees next to the chamberlain. He’s sitting, arms ringing his knees, gasping wetly. His face is a mass of bruising on one side, and as I put a hand to his frail back, he spits. A tooth hits the ground, bouncing off a rock.

  “I’m so sorry we weren’t faster,” is all I can think to say.

  He raises grateful eyes, taking me in, then glances at Siri, towering behind me. “Entirely understandable. It appears you ran into trouble of your own.”

  “You could say that,” I say, slapping him lightly on the back. He winces, looks like I feel.

  “Apologies. The passage you took hasn’t been used in some time.”

  Some time. I want to laugh, but don’t have the strength. “Thank you, sir, for waiting.”

  “Bixby,” he says, and I help him stand, his stork legs barely holding his weight. “And it’s no trouble.” He opens and closes his mouth, and his jaw cracks so loud it sounds like it breaks. “Well, some trouble,” he amends. “But you saved Braemar, saved those girls. It was my honor to help.”

  I shake his hand and Siri steps forward, frowning darkly. “I did not have time to tell Straithe but make yourselves ready. If the Inquisition is as widespread as they say, they won’t take losing one of their member lightly. They will send another.”

  “Not to worry,” Bixby says, bowing. “The general’s installing a new ruler as we speak. She’s frighteningly intelligent, resourceful, and she’s very, very angry.”

  “Oh?” I say, interest piqued, despite us needing to mount up and escape.

  “Yes. The late duke’s sister.”

  I gape. “His sister? She was part of his...Collection?”

  “Indeed. The duke didn’t make her subject her to the indignities that the others suffered, but he still painted her. Once. Perhaps it was her beauty that made him take her. Red hair, long and curled, like no other in the kingdom.” He nods to my bow. “Her preferred weapon, too. She’s rather spirited.”

  “I remember,” I say. The girl in the forest, from the painting in the duke’s study. “I saw her portrait.” I shake my head. “Speaking of which, what will you do with them?”

  The chamberlain grins, face lit through his pain. “The Duke has already burned them all. Last night, while you and the, ah, lady,” he stammers, eyeing Siri and looking away, “...were...occupied.”

  Siri's face doesn’t change as she moves away to see to something, but I can sense her amusement. Along with something else that makes my heart race. “Ah, yes. Anyway. Thank you again, sir. Please be safe making your way back.”

  The chamberlain nods and turns away. Through the bond, Siri calls to me, and I trail after her, dread rising in my gut.

  I think I know what comes next.

  The siren stands, and before her are arrayed the last five soldiers, kneeling, hands bound behind their backs. Their helmets have been removed, and their faces are turned up, expressions ranging from defiance to abject terror. One, a boy of no more than seventeen, weeps openly.

  “What do we do with them?” I ask.

  “They are the enemy,” Siri says, pitched low so only I can hear. “The decision is yours, Ewan. But if you let them live, they will tell her. What happened here, where we went.”

  I shake my head, taking in the blood-spattered battlefield. “I don’t think they’ll have much difficulty unspooling this story.”

  “True,” she rumbles. “But we have other advantages, intelligence Myranda is not privy to, not yet. Your bow. Me. Which direction we leave by. All of which they know,” she says, nodding to the prisoners.

  I swallow. Before my village burned, I’d never killed someone. Had never been in more than a fistfight. Now, what seems like an eternity later, I’ve taken more lives in battle than I can easily remember. I feel no remorse over it, not anymore. These are the people that took my life away, that have chased me across Glaerhanig, that would have made me a slave. Their end was justice.

  But this is different. Executing unarmed men? Taking their lives as they kneel before me, helpless?

  If I do this, what kind of man will I be, then?

  Siri waits, an ocean of patience, as I turn it over in my mind. “Ewan,” she says. “Remember what I said. This is another battle. Your enemy does not rush you with blade or bow, but they are your enemy nonetheless, and if you let them live, you will kill them later. Or, risk them killing you. Mark me. They would not hesitate. And remember, every one of them agreed to take part in Myranda’s dark rituals. They gave themselves over willing inly.”

  The agony of indecision seizes me. Moments ago, these men jeered as their captain kicked a defenseless man half to death. Would have taken me and killed Siri. Or worse. I remember the men in the glade, how the soldier’s eyes roamed Emeree’s naked body with hunger, how they threatened to pass her around after they subdued me.

  Something hardens in me. My sister, my brother, my family and village. Everything that’s happened since. The duke, and his collection, his depravity.

  The world is more complicated, more despicable, than I ever knew. And if I want to survive, to see this to the end, I cannot hesitate.

  I close my eyes, nod.

  Siri passes something to me, a dagger. I don’t know where she found it, probably among the dead men. She holds another, identical. “Quick pass along their throat. Go round with the cut, take their vital arteries. A quick death, more than some of them deserve.”

  The soldiers are shouting now, begging, a hailstorm of terror that I shut out. A few of them try to shuffle away, their knees scraping furrows into dark soil destined to drink their blood, but the herald’s escort stands guard behind them, and pushes them back into place with rough kicks.

  Siri stands back, understands that I must take the first of them. I approach the one on the end, and old man of at least fifty summers. His face is a thicket of scars, and
his teeth are broken, most of them missing, the remainder jutting like blackened grave markers from his mottled jaw as he sneers at my approach. “Gonna play man now, little boy?” He taunts, as if I hadn’t just helped Siri slaughter over half of them.

  I don’t respond, lay the dagger across its throat. It’s length gleams in the sun, so sharp that beads of blood dot his skin despite me applying no pressure.

  “You won’t do it,” he promises. “I see the weakness in your eyes. Just a little boy, playing at being a man, sheltered in your forest. You should have never left.” His eyes are startlingly blue, staring from the wreckage of his battle torn face, wide with hate.

  I stand for a moment longer. This is also a battle.

  I take a deep breath, and then I cut.

  The blade bites deep, cutting through flesh with obscene ease. Blue eyes widen further, disbelief, as warmth pours over my hand, fountaining forward in a dark torrent, his lifeblood falling into Ora’s embrace.

  He dies, on his knees, as I stand over him.

  I feel sick, want to vomit. But I don’t feel regret.

  Siri's hand falls to my shoulder, heavy, and I feel her probe. I don’t hide my emotions.

  She grunts. “Good. If you felt nothing, you’d be like them.”

  The soldiers and Siri do the rest of the dark work, the only hitch being the boy sobbing so hard it takes a moment for them to wrestle him into place. Then we stack the bodies, burning them with flint and tinder from our packs. An agonizing process that will give away the location of the battle, and takes precious time, time we need to escape.

  But we can’t risk them reanimating.

  We bid the herald and his men goodbye, weathering another round of thank you’s. Then they’re gone, and it’s just Siri and I.

  “Ewan,” she says, sagging to the ground the moment they pass out of sight. “I… Cannot…” She hesitates, fearsome pride and exhaustion warring across her beautiful face. “I cannot go further, need to retreat to repair.”