It quickly becomes clear this is exactly what’s in store. Defending fire from the waterfront slackens, as any flicker of movement in the harborside buildings draw a devastating response from the scorpions. A pair of the galleys pull up at a long quay, strewn with bodies and studded with bolts, and at least fifty marines disembark, leaving their ungainly crossbows behind and rushing forward with swords drawn. A few fall to rebel archers, but not enough—they’re armored and moving fast, and most of the red sashes on the wall are focused on the Ward Guard infantry outside.
“Go, Grego!” Hotara shouts. “Push them back to the water!”
A hoarse war cry erupts from around the sides of our building, and rebels start pouring out of the alleyway. My guess is that these are the best fighters Hotara has, handpicked men and women, those experienced with violence. They wear mismatched leather armor and carry a variety of weapons—swords, spears, even clubs and knives. There’s not much room for tactical niceties on either side. The mass of marines, rushing toward the wall and the gate they hope to capture, turns to meet Grego’s squad in a confused mêlée in the strip of clear ground, and the mud is soon churned red with gore.
Here, at least, I can accomplish something. Opening my Kindre senses is a shock, but one I’m prepared for—fear and pain slide over me, a wave of foul-smelling scratches against my skin, but I let them pass and focus. I find the minds of the marines, their training and discipline making them easy to pick out from the wilder rebels. They’re confident, and I take that away from them, replacing an easy assurance of superiority with a spreading fear.
For a few moments, discipline holds. Then they break, one man throwing away his sword and sprinting back to the boats, the others following in an unstoppable tide. They’re scrambling onto the waiting galleys, heedless of the shouts of the officers on deck. Grego’s men go after them, wild with their unexpected victory, stabbing and hacking down their opponents before they can escape.
Hotara turns to one of her assistants. “Go and tell Grego to get back here as fast as he can. They’ll start shooting once their own people are clear.”
The boy nods and runs off, and Hotara glances at me with a dour smile.
“If that’s the best they can do, we may—”
Fire blooms on the wall, directly above the gate. As it fades into a plume of dark smoke, I can see figures in black dropping down onto the battlements, shimmering with multi-colored light.
The Immortals have arrived.
* * *
You can’t fly with Tartak. Everyone knows that, though I don’t pretend to understand why. You can slow a fall—if you’re quick enough—but you can’t lift yourself.
You can, however, lift someone else. The Immortals landing on the wall must have been hurled high into the air by comrades outside, their descent slowed at the last moment by spreading waves of pale blue force. They alight with well-practiced grace, as though stepping down from a carriage, tearing into the surprised defenders with swords and blasts of flame. Crossbow bolts from farther along the wall rain down on them, but more waves of force stop the missiles dead in the air.
I reach for them, desperately, ready to crush their minds as thoroughly as I destroyed their captain in the safe house basement. But, as at the sanctuary, my mental grip slides away, deflected by an invisible bubble. They have their own Kindre users, strong enough to protect themselves from my fumbling efforts.
Which means we are all absolutely rotted. Because the red sashes are no match for these practiced executioners, and they die in droves, bodies piling up at the black-armored soldiers’ feet or pinwheeling off the wall in sprays of blood. A man glowing golden with Rhema speed carves a crimson path through men and women who don’t even have time to raise their weapons, moving on to his next victim before the first has even fallen. Myrkai fire streams along the battlements like a living thing, reaching outward to claim fresh victims.
At the center of the slaughter, directly over the gate, three dark shapes in chain veils stand motionless for a moment. Then, as I watch, one of the trio raises an arm to point directly at me. At the same time, I feel Kindre power, tendrils of it reaching out to me. I bat them away, terrified. One of the trio speaks to the others, and then all three jump from the wall into the open space, blue energy glowing around them to slow their fall.
Grego’s squad, fresh off their victory, is retreating toward us on Hotara’s orders. A few of their stragglers spot the Immortals and halt, uncertain about these new opponents. The leader of the three—a woman, I can see now, blank-faced and anonymous in her armor—steps forward, and bright green blades ignite on each of her arms with a snap-hiss audible even at this distance.
And all of a sudden, I’m back in my dreams. Isoka stares at me, her blades ignited.
Murderer. Whore. Monster, she says. Monster, monster, monster.
Jakibsa, until now a silent presence at my shoulder, steps forward. “We have to stop them. Giniva—”
“No.” My throat feels thick. “We run.”
Everyone looks at me, even as the fighters below are screaming and dying.
“The battle…” Hotara begins.
“The battle is over,” I say. “We lost. We knew we probably would. Everyone who can, get back to the Eleventh Ward gate.”
She stares at me for a moment, then nods decisively. “Signal the retreat!”
Everyone on the rooftop is suddenly moving at once, a mad stampede for the ladders at the back of the building. The girl with the signal flags stays in place, though, raising them over her head in a frantic motion intended for the soldiers on the walls. It makes her an instant target, and a moment later the flags fall from her fingers and she’s slumping forward, riddled by a half-dozen crossbow bolts.
I glance at Jakibsa, and he offers his ruined hands to me and Giniva. We step off the roof, his power gathering around us to slow our fall, bypassing the pileup at the ladders. At the base of the building, an alley leads back into the tangled warren of the Sixteenth Ward’s streets. It’s crowded by Grego and his men, taking shelter from enemy fire and blocking the way until Hotara and the others descend.
“There!” The shout comes from the alley entrance. “That’s her!”
My blood goes cold, and my heart pounds in my chest. I’d hoped they were pointing out the rebel commanders, but—
They felt me use my power. They were waiting for it. Naga wants me in a cage. The Immortal captain’s limp features twist in my memory. “Insurance. Hostage.”
The black-armored woman stalks forward, blades humming. It’s not Isoka, it can’t be her, that makes no sense, but I still feel like my nightmare has escaped into the real world. Whoever this woman is—it can’t be—she’s a Melos adept, and Grego’s men fare no better against her than alley thugs ever did against my sister. Her blades rise and fall, carving a path of bloody ruin with casual efficiency, ignoring the terrified return blows. Swords and spears stop an inch from her body, rebounding from crackling, sparking energy. Blue bands of power emanate from one of her companions, following carefully in her wake, batting aside any attempt to surround her. The third Immortal stays close, not visibly assisting, but when I reach out with my mind that same bubble keeps me away.
Melos, Tartak, and Kindre. Three soldiers, split off from the assault on the wall to find a specific target. Me.
I feel my own fear welling up, black bile at the back of my throat, and I try to force it down. Hotara has reached the bottom of the ladder, and she stands open-mouthed, watching Grego’s men go down against the Melos adept. I have to shout in her ear to get her attention.
“Run!”
“What?” She turns to me, blinks.
“Run!”
We start running, what was supposed to be an orderly retreat turning into a rout. I stick close to Jakibsa and Giniva, with Hotara and Grego himself following close behind, along with a few red sashes. The group running alongside us splits as the alley divides, then splits again, individual fighters breaking off to try for safet
y on their own. The Sixteenth Ward seems horribly empty around us, even the semblance of life now gone.
Our small group pulls up short where the alley empties into a larger street. My chest feels like it’s on fire, and Grego is panting hard. Hotara sinks against the wall with a sigh.
“Lost them,” she says. “Okay. If we turn left and try for—”
But I’m looking behind us, Kindre senses open, and I can still feel the tendrils reaching out for me.
“They’re coming.” I sound like a scared little girl. “They’re following me. The rest of you—”
Blue bands of force shimmer into existence around two of the red sashes at the back of the group, yanking them off their feet and into the nearest wall with bone-cracking force. The three Immortals come around the corner, practically strolling, barely twenty yards away. More Tartak force lashes out at us, but this time Jakibsa responds, and a shifting mêlée of blue light plays out between us in a shimmer of sparks. He grunts, hands raised, and shifts back half a step.
The Melos adept ignites her blades and charges. The closest rebel draws her sword, but takes a sizzling energy blade to the gut before she can swing it. Grego goes at the Immortal with a roar, swinging a heavy club two-handed. It bounces off her shoulder in a coruscating shower of green sparks, and she brings both blades up in a scissorlike motion that separates his head from his body and sends it spinning across the alley.
“Go!” Hotara says, drawing her sword. “Run!”
I’m past arguing. I grab Giniva and Jakibsa and drag them after me, Jakibsa stumbling, still keeping up his fight with the Immortal Tartak adept. I can’t help but look over my shoulder, though, and I watch as Hotara and the Melos adept exchange a few blows. The Immortal deigns to parry, her energy blade carving notches in Hotara’s sword, until the steel finally loses the unequal contest and snaps in two. Hotara stares at the broken weapon for a moment, which is a moment too long. The adept spears her through the chest, the spitting tip of the energy weapon emerging between Hotara’s shoulders.
Hotara mouths something, blood trickling over her lips. Then she slumps against the other woman, hands convulsively clutching at the Immortal’s chain veil. She drags the Melos adept’s helmet free as she slumps to the ground, and I look on the face of my pursuer, the creature from my nightmares.
It’s not Isoka. Of course it isn’t. This is an older woman, her hair dead white and cut short, one cheek dark with a bubbling scar from a close encounter with Myrkai fire. She doesn’t bother to retrieve her helmet and veil, only waves to her fellows to come after us, as we duck around the corner of an alley and out of sight.
It’s not my private demons we’re running from. It’s Kuon Naga and his minions. I knew that, of course I knew it, but—
Focus, Tori!
We’re sprinting down a maze of tiny alleys, the complicated labyrinth that makes up most of the Sixteenth Ward. Somewhere ahead—too far ahead—is the gate leading to the Eleventh Ward, where allies are waiting. But the Kindre user behind us can track me—I can feel him—and they’re steadily gaining. Jakibsa may be a match for their Tartak adept, but we can’t stop their Melos user, and I’m less than useless, a stitch in my side already cutting like a dagger at every step.
For a moment I consider telling the others to go on without me. I have a knife. I can shove it into my breast before Naga’s henchmen catch us. Better to die than whatever he has in store, surely—but I know, even as I think this, that I won’t be able to do it. I don’t want to die, however twisted I’ve become, however much Isoka would hate this new Tori who kills and kisses and twists people’s minds.
If you don’t want to die, then focus. Do what you can with what you have. What do you have?
Jakibsa, Giniva. Not enough. Myself, for whatever I can do. Not rotting enough.
We skid around a corner, just as the Immortals come into view behind us. Jakibsa wards off another blue wave of force before we get out of sight. They’re getting closer.
Monster, Isoka calls me in my dreams. Monster, monster, monster.
What would a monster do? What would a monster use?
Whatever she had to.
I open my Kindre senses.
“Over there!” I gasp, as we turn another corner. It leads into a long, narrow alley, with single-story buildings on both sides, flimsy clapboard things with gray, decaying plaster walls. I point to a door, closed and barred. “Jakibsa, open it!”
He doesn’t have the breath to question. A battering ram of blue force hits the wood, splintering it inward. I skid to a halt in front of it.
“I have a plan,” I manage, straining for breath. “Can stop them. Need you. Buy time. Sixty seconds. Please.”
They can’t know I’m not simply abandoning them. But they look at one another, and nod agreement. I turn and dash into the house, taking shelter just inside the doorway. There’s a single room, empty except for a firepit and kettle, with a single window blocked by a rag curtain. I put my eye to the window, and wait.
I’m gambling that their Kindre user can’t track me that precisely. I certainly can’t track him beyond the dead zone he projects. I keep blocking his questing tendrils, hoping I’m not giving myself away.
Outside, the three Immortals come to a halt in the alley, Jakibsa and Giniva facing them from the opposite end, where it splits in a T-junction. No words are exchanged—at this point, there’s not much to say. Giniva raises her hand and sends a bolt of fire at the scarred woman, who dodges adroitly, letting the missile impact with a roar on a building behind her. Their Tartak adept reaches out, and Jakibsa blocks him. Soon those two are grappling with twists of blue force, Jakibsa giving ground, retreating around the corner and out of reach. The Tartak adept follows, while the scarred woman charges Giniva, who fires more blasts of flame before fleeing.
The Kindre user stays behind, as I’d hoped, alone in the alley.
But still—a full-grown, well-trained soldier in armor, with a sword at his belt, alert and ready. And me, a fourteen-year-old girl with a knife, already winded. Useless. Unless—
Monster, monster, monster.
I turn to the single doorway leading deeper into the house.
Most of the people of the Sixteenth Ward have evacuated. Those who haven’t—we told them to leave, we told them, why wouldn’t they listen—put their own lives at risk. I sensed four minds here, and I find them in the storeroom. A man and a woman. Two children, a boy and a girl, maybe twins, close to my age. A family. The man has a small knife, and he stands in front of the other three. His face twists as I pull the curtain aside. He expected looters, or Ward Guard soldiers. Not me.
A monster—
“W—what do you want?” he says, uncertain.
I swallow hard.
“I need your help,” I tell him. And I reach out for their minds.
The contents are no surprise. Fear, pride, despair. I crush it all underfoot, careless in my hurry, a giant trampling through a city of ants. I draw new emotions from the depths of their subconscious. Rage. Hatred. And I give it a focus, a figure in black armor and a chain veil, just outside.
A monster uses what she has to.
The girl is the quickest, bursting through the doorway, features twisted beyond recognition with an unnatural fury. The Immortal sees her coming, deflects her clumsy rush with a backhand cuff that sends her sprawling to the dirt. He draws his sword in time to cut her brother down with a diagonal slash that opens his chest in a wash of blood. But the girl is throwing herself at the Immortal’s legs, and the mortally wounded boy staggers forward another step and wraps himself around the soldier with a snarl. The parents, close behind, are next, father and mother each grabbing an arm and dragging the Immortal to the ground.
I follow, knife in hand. I can feel the man reaching out with Kindre, but I shut him down. He may be better trained, but I’m stronger, and for a few moments that is all that matters. The mother is on her knees, attacking the soldier’s arm with her teeth, and the father shoves his
son’s corpse aside to get a better grip. I kneel and pull the Immortal’s helmet and veil away, revealing a boyish face with a peach-fuzz beard and wide, scared eyes. My knife goes into his throat, under his jaw, and blood bubbles up. His body jerks for a moment, then stills. His frenzied attackers don’t notice that the object of their ire is dead, mother and father and daughter tearing at the corpse with teeth and fingernails.
I look up. At the other end of the alley, two figures in black are watching me, the scarred woman and her Tartak-wielding companion. I stare back, defiant, ready to reach for their minds if they come close enough.
They don’t. The scarred woman gives me a nod, like an acknowledgement to a worthy foe you might see in some historical drama. Then the two of them take off running, down another alley and out of sight.
I reach for the minds of the poor family, smothering the rage I granted them as quickly as I summoned it. It leaves their minds blank, featureless slates, their bodies sitting placidly beside the mutilated corpse. I don’t know if they’ll recover eventually, but I suspect not. Given what comes next, it hardly matters.
Jakibsa jogs back into sight from one alley, Giniva from the other. I walk to meet them, wearily, suddenly feeling a tremendous weight on my shoulders.
“What happened?” Jakibsa says. “Tori, are you all right? Who are those—”
“She’d almost caught me,” Giniva mutters. “And then she just stopped.”
“I’ll explain later.” I won’t. “Come on, we’re not safe yet.”
* * *
But we make it back to the Eleventh Ward gate, the latest in a stream of stragglers fleeing the disaster on the waterfront. Voliel Breta is waiting for us. She reports Ward Guard troops sweeping through the Sixteenth, defenders dead or in full flight, no resistance left.
When the stream slows to a trickle, I give the order. We close the gate, retreating across the military highway to the Eleventh Ward wall. Giniva sends up a flare, like the one that had triggered the naval assault, a burst of Myrkai fire in the sky visible across half the city.
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