Storm

by Lauren L. Garcia

  But his words fell on deaf ears. With the horses free, the mob surged to the carriage, tipping it toward the bridge railing and trapping three sentinels in the process.

  Cobalt’s heart skidded to a halt. “Fain, Mica, Rook – get out of there!”

  Thank the One, they managed to dart out of the way before they got crushed. The driver, too, leaped from his seat and stumbled into the crowd ahead. The civilians let them pass, even going so far as to shove them out of the way.

  But Slate remained in the seat, gripping the wooden rail with one hand, his face tight with rage.

  “I don’t think they’re after us,” Stonewall said. “They just want our hematite.”

  “Over my sodding corpse,” Cobalt snarled. “Atal curse you, you stupid sod,” he called to Slate. “Get down here, now. That’s an order!”

  “Ser, you don’t understand,” the cinder cried. “I need a sodding burn.”

  Fury and fear rose like bile in Cobalt’s throat. “Get down!”

  But it was already too late. More civilians swarmed over the carriage, jostling Cobalt and Stonewall out of the way as their combined strength pushed the vehicle up and over the railing. Slate swiped his dagger at anyone who got too close, until he had to release it in favor of hanging onto the carriage sides. The weapon spiraled down into the mist as the crowd pressed forward, pushing the carriage. It hung atop the stone railing for a few seconds, the wheels spinning lazily, before the mob gave a collective heave and the carriage—and Slate—toppled over the side to plummet into the churning waters below.

  A cheer rose up from the crowd, but Cobalt ignored it for now. All thoughts went to getting the rest of his brothers and sisters in sacrifice out of the situation. He whirled, searching for Vigil and the rest; thank Mara, they were all safely out of the way and making a beeline for the city. Stonewall’s right, he realized. The dregs don’t want us. Just our hematite.

  If only the thought brought relief.

  Someone grabbed his forearm. Cobalt whirled, dagger raised, but it was only Stonewall. “Come on, ser,” the sergeant said, urging Cobalt after the others.

  Only when Cobalt was free of the pressing crowd did he take a proper breath. His steps were leaden; his body cold and shaking. His vision swam. Slate was gone. Nox guide your spirit, he thought, but couldn’t finish the litany even in his mind.

  Fain, Vigil, and the rest waited for them down the bridge, stances wary and gazes fixed on the mob, who still celebrated their victory. The moment Cobalt and Stonewall joined the others, Fain jerked his chin and the sentinels hurried back into the city proper. Lieutenant Faircloth and the other city guards scrambled over each other to let the sentinels pass.

  “Captain,” Faircloth began. “Are you–”

  “Break that up,” Cobalt broke in, pointing down the bridge at the mob. “Do your sodding jobs, for once, without us having to intervene.”

  The city guard blanched. “Yes, ser.”

  Once they were within the city, Fain fell in step with Cobalt. “That was all the hematite Argent could spare,” he said without preamble. “I’ll return at once with this…news, but it might be several weeks before we can get more from Stonehaven.”

  Weeks. Could they survive that long? Cobalt nodded. “Understood. We should…” His breath hitched but he clenched his teeth and continued. “Dredge the river. Try to recover…what we can.”

  “I’ll arrange it, ser,” Vigil said.

  Like all other sentinels, Fain wore cured leather armor dyed a dark gray and embedded with chips of hematite, but as a member of Silver Squad, he also boasted plates of silver embossed with the sentinels’ sigil: twin triangles with the tips intersecting. He paused, causing the rest to halt as well. “Take heart, Captain,” he said. “The High Commander won’t let you down, even if he has to bring a shipment himself.”

  With that, he signaled to his sentinels, who broke apart from the Whitewater group. Cobalt frowned. “You don’t want to come to the garrison?”

  “We must leave at once,” Fain replied.

  Rook had slipped closer. “But the mob…”

  Cobalt shot her a dark look for speaking out of turn, but Fain didn’t seem to mind. “They don’t care about us,” he said, echoing Stonewall’s observation. “But we’ll be careful. You do the same, Rook.”

  That was odd, but before Cobalt could question either of them, Fain and his squad slipped away, heading back for the bridge. Cobalt considered sending the burnie twins ahead to the garrison to relay the news, but decided against diminishing their numbers. Although the city was quiet here, he didn’t want to risk another incident, especially when unfriendly faces watched their progress on all sides.

  We’re their protectors, he thought, swallowing hard. We’re not the enemy. Why don’t they see that?

  As they went, Stonewall fell in step with him. “It wasn’t your fault, ser.”

  Cobalt’s stomach twisted, but he only frowned at the other man. “What’d I say about chatter, Sergeant?”

  Stonewall shook his head. “It’s not insubordination, ser, just the truth. Slate was–”

  “An addled cinder whose brain was fried long ago,” Cobalt broke in. He spotted Redfox ahead, trudging with slumped shoulders. Mica and Rook walked on either side of her, close, but not touching.

  “Maybe.” Stonewall was quiet until they reached the garrison’s gates. Everyone slipped in, breathing sighs of relief. The others hurried for the barracks, but when Cobalt made to follow, a hand on his shoulder held him fast.

  “Captain.” It was the sodding sergeant.

  Cobalt glared at the other man. “What is it now? Can’t you see I have other things to do than talk to you?”

  “I know, ser.” Stonewall hesitated, and then squared his shoulders. “Let me help you.”

  “How in the blazing void could you help me? And—more to the point—why do you want to?”

  Stonewall seemed to consider before heaving a great sigh and removing his helmet to better meet Cobalt’s gaze. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes since coming here.”

  Cobalt snorted. Understatement of the century.

  “But I want to change that,” Stonewall continued. “I want to…be better. Especially now, when there’s so much at stake. Will you let me try, ser?”

  Interesting. Cobalt studied the other man, searching for any signs of dissembling. But Stonewall held his gaze, unflinching. “What’d you have in mind?” Cobalt asked at last.

  “What task do you have the least patience for?”

  There were too many, these days, but one stood out. “The daily duty roster,” Cobalt replied. “Takes forever and gives me a sodding headache every time.”

  The sergeant nodded. “I’ll gladly take over, if you’ll allow it, Captain.”

  Not unheard of, and in truth, the thought of one less menial task made the knot in Cobalt’s gut ease a little bit. But… “Can I trust you, Sergeant?” Cobalt nodded toward the bastion. “Or is this some excuse to make it easier to see your little mage-whore?”

  Stonewall’s eyes tightened, but his reply was calm. “No, ser. And even if I wanted to do so, I’d expect you—or the commander—to look over anything I draft before it takes effect.”

  True enough. Cobalt studied the other officer, ostensibly still considering although he had made up his mind. His fury and fear had faded, leaving him numb with exhaustion; he wanted nothing more than to sleep for an entire day. “Very well,” he said at last, nodding once. “I’ll send you the last couple to use as templates going forward. Bring a fortnight’s worth to me. If I find them satisfactory, you can continue.”

  “You won’t regret it, ser.”

  “Pick another phrase, Sergeant.”

  Stonewall saluted, bowing deeply. “Thank you.”

  Cobalt rolled his eyes and turned his back on the other man to make his way for Talon’s office. Slate’s face lingered in his mind’s eye, merging with the cries and jeers of the crowd, and his every step fell like a striking fist.
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  Twelve

  Milo stabbed his pitchfork beneath a pile of dung and dumped it into the waiting wheelbarrow. Blisters stung beneath his gloves and his back ached from the constant bending. All he could smell was shit. The stables were quiet, as most horses were out on province patrol with their riders, but there was plenty of work to do.

  “Milo?”

  He did not look up at the sound of his name. “I’m not done yet, Rook. Just go on to sparring practice without me.”

  “What are you mumbling about, burnie?” The other sentinels’ voice—feminine and gruff, and definitely not Rook’s—made Milo glance up to see Redfox standing at the stall door.

  Heat rushed to Milo’s face. “Sorry, Red. You need something?”

  Redfox jerked her head in the general direction of the city. “Talon sent a message. You’re to report to her at Mara’s temple. Now.”

  Milo’s stomach dropped to his knees and he leaned some of his weight on the pitchfork. “Me?”

  “Ea’s tits, boy, do you see anyone else here?” Red swore and rubbed her temples. “Sorry, kid. It’s not your fault, but I’m about to gnaw through my gear. It’s a miracle I’m still standing.”

  She said the last few words with a note of heavy sorrow, and Milo winced. Three days had passed since the dreadful scene on the bridge.

  Milo ducked his head. “I’m sorry about Slate. I know you were friends–”

  “Slate made his choices,” Red broke in, scowling. But her chin quivered and she crossed her arms before her chest. “Besides, it’s not his fault. It’s the sodding dregs who tossed him—and our hematite—into the river. They’ll pay. They must.”

  “They’re scared and angry,” Milo said. “And they didn’t mean to hurt Slate, I think. He just…” He trailed off at Red’s dark look. “Well, thank the One the rest of us were unharmed.”

  “Aye,” the cinder echoed dryly. “Thank the One, for only the One knows when we’ll get more hematite.” She looked at Milo with interest. “You got any squirreled away, burnie?”

  “We were supposed to turn our stores over to Captain Cobalt. You should ask him or one of the menders.”

  Redfox cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Aye. Good idea. Thanks.” She leaned against the stall door frame and eyed the full wheelbarrow. “That will keep. But I’d not leave the commander waiting.”

  Milo hefted the pitchfork, scattering the remaining pieces of dung stuck on the tines before setting it aside. But as he stepped past Red, she wrinkled her nose. “Ea’s tits, boy, you stink! Why in Atal’s name did you wear your armor to muck out stalls?”

  He sniffed his arm and grimaced at the stench, but there was no time to clean his gear. “We’re supposed to be armored at all times, remember? We’re on high alert. No one’s even allowed off-duty time.”

  “Aye, well, good luck, then,” Redfox said as she backed away from him, holding her nose.

  “Will you tell Stonewall where I’ve gone?”

  She called the affirmative as she all but ran out of the stables. After grabbing his helmet and weapons that he’d stowed safely away from the dung, Milo was close on her heels.

  The moment Milo stepped out into the garrison’s courtyard, cold air ambushed him, numbing his nose and cheeks, and making him briefly long for the warmth of the stables – shit or not. Winter had fallen upon the province in earnest. The sun had crept out from behind the clouds to make a brief appearance, but did nothing to warm the world. He hurried through the courtyard, where the sounds of clanging blades echoed. His sword dragged at his side, hitting his leg with every step.

  Milo glanced over at his squad, where Red had—thankfully—stopped to speak to Stonewall. The sergeant nodded at Milo, who took heart at the small gesture. Flint, Rook, and Beacon waved; like him, they wore their helmets, so he couldn’t make out their expressions, but even the brief sight of his squad—his brothers and sisters in service—was enough to make a little of his anxiety fade.

  The feeling didn’t last.

  Milo trotted briskly to keep himself warm. The gate-guards nodded acknowledgment as he passed through, and soon he was in the Whitewater City proper. Milo hurried past the temple of the One’s wide stone steps, past bakeries and pubs, chandleries, butchers, booksellers, and money lenders; more than a few dark gazes fell upon him, but thank the One, no one offered him any trouble. Even so, he circumnavigated the Eye, forgoing the chance to savor the delicious scents from the bustling marketplace in favor of a safer route, and made his way instead to the docks, where the air smelled at once piss-foul and river-clean.

  Here was the goddess Mara’s home in this city.

  An unassuming stone building from the outside, Mara’s temple was not nearly as grand as that of the One, but the sanctuary sustained life of all kinds. Behind iron gates held open by a massive ivy, a simple fountain bubbling with clean water rested at the center of a stone courtyard. A woman and her two young children filled ewers as Milo walked up. The woman nodded to him while her children stared at him with wide eyes. Thank the One for his helmet and how it concealed his face, for he didn’t feel like smiling back.

  There were no doors on Mara’s temple, just an archway that separated indoors from outside. Doves, larks, and other birds flitted between beams of sunlight that poured in through the high windows. Potted plants—many of them healing herbs—filled the air with scents of lavender, rosemary, and sweet callia, hopefully also concealing Milo’s own odor. Several braziers filled with coals cast warmth throughout the open space. The instant that Milo stepped into the temple proper, a sense of peace settled over him: one of Mara’s many blessings. He closed his eyes to relish the feeling.

  The main room was empty, but a series of corridors extended from each side. Milo knew he should probably start looking for his commander, but it was just so nice to have a moment all to himself. He cast another look around to make sure he was truly alone, and then approached the statue at the center of the room.

  The goddess was carved from a single, massive smoky quartz; Mara’s head reached almost to Milo’s shoulders. The crystal’s inclusions caught sunlight and filled the goddess with tiny rainbows that shifted as Milo came closer. Offerings of herbs, shells, seeds, and other natural items lay at Mara’s feet. It was difficult to make out the goddess’ expression, but her hair coiled down to her knees and her hands were spread in a gesture of welcome.

  Milo knelt before her and his troubles seemed to melt away. Perhaps he ought to come here more often.

  “You must be one of Talon’s.”

  Milo jumped to his feet at the unfamiliar voice. The speaker was a man in his late forties, his hair as black as Milo and Flint’s, albeit with a few silver strands. His beard was small and neatly trimmed and his eyes were shadowed. He was tall and lean, and his white and black cloak rippled as he walked toward Milo from one of the corridors.

  Milo gave a warrior’s salute: arms crossed before his chest as he bowed at the waist. “Yes, serla. I’m Milo. Commander Talon summoned me.”

  The Circle priest nodded, his eyes sharp. “So you were one of those souls sent to Parsa the night of Heartfire?”

  “Yes, serla.” Milo glanced at the statue and winced. “I was on my way to see the commander, I just wanted to…”

  The Circle priest smiled. “No need to explain, my son. All are welcome here, at any time, in any state of body or mind.”

  Milo’s throat was suddenly and inexplicably tight. He nodded, but was unable to speak. The priest placed a hand on his slender chest and his warm voice set Milo at ease. “My name is Iban Vellis. I’ll bring you to Talon.”

  They walked down one of the corridors, emerging into a larger room that reminded Milo of the garrison’s common area. The room hummed with activity as Circle folks organized mass quantities of supplies, foods, and medicines. Priests and priestesses called to one another as crates were brought in and disseminated among the tables that filled the room. A few folks glanced at the newcomers, though no one stopped their tasks. />
  Serla Vellis glanced at Milo. “This place generally serves as a haven for the less fortunate, but as you can see, we put it to other uses when the need arises.”

  An odd feeling fluttered through Milo’s insides; not relief, not guilt, but a mixture of the two. “Do you need help, serla? I can’t heal or anything, but I’m pretty strong. I could carry…”

  He trailed off as the priest shook his head. “No, Milo, but that is a generous offer. I know your time is valuable. Come,” he added, waving Milo forward through the room. “Talon is in my office.”

  Serla Vellis led Milo through his clergy, offering words of encouragement or direction as he passed. Milo tried his best not to get underfoot, though it was difficult. He was big and bulky enough without his gear; all suited up, he may as well have been a lumbering ox. He sure stank like one. He pulled his sword close to keep the scabbard from knocking into anyone and tried not to look as out of place as he felt. Most of the Circle folks only gave him a passing glance, but some studied him curiously. A few wrinkled their noses—he couldn’t blame them—and one or two scowled. That, he’d not expected, so he kept his gaze down and tried to make himself invisible.

  “What’s all this for, serla?” he asked.

  “Relief for the poor souls at Parsa.”

  Milo’ stomach twisted. “But…there’s no one left at Parsa.”

  Serla Vellis clasped his hands before him as they walked. “Aye. But although the village itself is…empty, there are several outlying homesteads who have survived. The queen has sent soldiers to search the area and recover any survivors.”

  “Your people must take care, serla. That Cipher went to help, too, and look what happened to her.”

  “Her name was Telfair,” Serla Vellis said after a pause. “And her loss has hit us hard.” He urged Milo onward. They entered another corridor, smaller than the first, and then reached a wooden door, where Vellis ushered Milo in before him. The priest’s office was smaller than Talon’s, but not by much. A simple desk, covered with scrolls and parchment, rested below a narrow open window, where air and light filtered into the room. Wooden shelves covered two walls, each neatly stacked with books and more scrolls. A locked cabinet filled the third wall.