At last, Cobalt’s head cleared enough so that he thought he could speak. He met the cool gray eyes of a man about his age, mid-thirties, with neat blond hair and noble, aquiline features. When Cobalt noted the insignia on the man’s armored shoulder—a circle with two lines crossed at its center—he jerked to attention.
“High Commander,” he said, ducking his head in the best warrior’s salute he could manage while seated. “Ser, forgive me, I did not see–”
“No need for formalities now, Cobalt,” Argent said, a faint smile touching his lips. “I’m just glad to see the famed Whitewater garrison captain recovered so quickly. After Harper found you, we feared you were halfway to your next life. Whatever were you doing on the road in your condition?”
Cobalt flexed his gloved hands. Was he going to be reprimanded? “Ser, I came for you. We’ve had trouble getting hematite to the garrison, and I thought I could help–”
“You are in no state to help anyone,” Argent broke in, lifting a palm. “If you speak of the civilian’s attack on your last shipment, you need not have worried.”
Fain, who stood behind the High Commander, shifted in place. “We’re prepared to handle any of those dregs.”
When Cobalt looked around him, he realized that Argent had indeed come with plenty of reinforcements. Besides Fain and the rest of Silver Squad, another two sentinel squads waited on the road nearby, watching the way ahead and behind them. There was no mage-carriage in sight, but each sentinel’s saddlebags bulged with what Cobalt hoped was hematite.
Heat crept to Cobalt’s cheeks. “Ser, I meant no disrespect.”
“I know,” Argent said. “It is unfortunate that the situation in Whitewater City has deteriorated to the point where brave sentinels like you are driven to desperation on such a night.”
“It’s…been difficult,” Cobalt managed. But hope stirred within him at the certainty in the High Commander’s voice. “How much do you know, ser?”
Argent’s mouth was a thin line. “Enough. The Heartfire incident alone was cause for my intervention, although I was occupied with matters in Lasath. But your commander’s mishandling of the mages’ escape was…sloppy, to say the very least.”
“Ser...about Talon.” Cobalt took a shaking breath. “I think she’s hiding something with the First Mage, Foley Clementa.”
“Something like what?” Argent frowned. “Another romance?”
“No, ser,” Cobalt replied, though he wondered how much Argent knew of Stonewall’s history. “But she…trusts him, and I cannot fathom why, after what’s happened in the bastion this past year.”
The High Commander regarded him a long moment before he said, “Promoting Talon was a mistake I’ll not make again.”
There it was. Cobalt could not find sympathy for his commanding officer, only relief. His blood sang with energy and strength, and the High Commander’s words stirred a renewed conviction in his heart. He had made the right choice. He ducked his head again in a deep salute. “As you say, ser.”
Argent glanced over his shoulder, where a female sentinel with a mender’s bag waited. “Nelse, we need to move out. You only gave the good captain a half-dose, yes?”
“Aye, ser,” the mender replied. “He’ll be fine for the next day or so. A proper dose after that should set him to rights.” She nodded to Cobalt. “A full dose now would be too great a shock to your system. It’s best to ease back into hematite once you’ve not had any for some time.”
“There.” Argent smiled at Cobalt again, and more of Cobalt’s tension eased. “You see? Everything is under control. Now, then.” He got to his feet in one fluid motion. Cobalt did the same. Argent was taller and broader than him, and his armor gleamed silver in the first hints of starlight.
The High Commander indicated the road to Whitewater City. “Silver Squad, move out. We have brothers and sisters to save.”
*
Milo stepped into the infirmary first, squinting in the shadows. The few staff who remained were clearly stretched thin in their efforts both to keep the garrison running and tend to the sick sentinels. The lanterns here were either burned to nothing or had never been lit. The hearth was dark, though embers smoldered beneath a thick layer of ash. Milo could see his breath in the torch that Flint had grabbed as they’d raced through the corridors.
He found a mortar and pestle on one of the tables, next to a slow-breathing Gray. “Where are they?” he said to Flint.
“Beacon’s here,” she replied from across the room, holding up her torch. “Shit, Mi. I think… I think we’re too late.”
“No!” Milo slipped between beds and stepped over pallets—every one full—and knelt beside his twin as he dug a hematite vial from his belt pouch. Beacon had not risen from where he’d slumped against one of the infirmary walls. The mender’s face was ashen and his mouth was slack; even his coppery hair seemed dull in the torchlight. But his chest rose and fell—weakly—and his eyes flickered behind closed lids.
“Thank Mara,” Milo murmured. He willed his hands to be steady as he poured half the vial’s contents into the mortar. Tiny hematite chips fell into the stone bowl with a soft clink. Thank Tor, he didn’t spill any. He handed the vial to Flint, who stuck the cork back inside and secured it in her belt.
“I’ll find Rook,” she said.
Milo gripped the pestle, and for a few moments, the only sound was the low grinding of granite against hematite and Flint’s soft footfalls as she searched the room. Gods above and beyond, for a room so packed with sentinels, it was quiet. If Milo concentrated, he could make out intermittent, labored breathing. So many sentinels. He didn’t have enough hematite to save them all. The scent of sick and body odor clung to his nostrils, and his stomach twisted. Would anyone burn those that died, or would they just rot away here? Where was the honor in this kind of sacrifice?
His gut lurched again and he didn’t dare look up from his task until the hematite was ground into powder. When he reached for his waterskin, he found nothing, and silently swore.
“Flint,” he said, not looking around. “I need water. You got any?”
“Aye.” She was at his side in a moment, passing him both her waterskin and a ceramic mug she must have found nearby. “Rook’s in the common room,” she added. “Alive, but barely.”
“She’s next.” Carefully, Milo tipped the powder into the cup, and then poured in a few splashes of water. He swirled the cup to blend the two, and then offered the mixture to Flint. “I’ll lift him if you pour.”
Milo knelt beside Beacon and hefted the other man upright, trying not to notice how frail and cold the mender felt. Once Beacon was secure, Milo tapped his cheek to rouse him, wishing for once he was snoring. “Beak,” he murmured when the other man did not stir. “Beacon, wake up. Look at me, Beacon.”
No response.
Still holding the cup with the hematite mixture, Flint pulled off one of her gloves with her teeth, and slapped the mender’s cheek. “Wake up you stupid, sodding frip! Wake up, or I’ll kick your arse back to Redfern, where you belong.”
Beacon groaned. His eyes fluttered and blinked, and then focused on Flint. “What’d you call me, burnie?” he mumbled.
Thank you, Mara. Milo shifted to ensure that Beacon’s head was upright, and then nodded to his sister, who held the cup to the mender’s lips.
“Here,” she said. “It’s just a half-dose, but it should…”
She trailed off as the mender took a single swallow, closed his eyes again, and then gulped the rest of the mixture down. The effect was immediate. Beacon’s head lolled back as he sucked in great breaths of air; he groaned, but the sound was not entirely painful. Spots of color bloomed on his pale cheeks and his hands opened and closed.
At last he regarded Flint with a dazed grin. “Knew it,” he croaked. “I knew you loved me.”
Flint scoffed and set the cup aside. “You sodding wish.”
Beacon chuckled weakly and twisted around to look at Milo. “Help me up?”
> Despite his bulky gear, Milo rose fluidly and pulled the mender to his feet. Beacon swayed a little, but already his color was returning to normal. He glanced around the infirmary with a grim expression and then looked back at the twins. “How much do you have?”
“I haven’t heard a ‘thank you,’ yet,” Flint replied.
Milo hurried to answer before they could start bickering again. “Enough for now, and a little for the future. Not much more.”
Nodding, Beacon scrubbed his face and hair. “We knew it might come to this,” he murmured. “You gave me a half-dose, right?”
“Aye, and we’ve another for Rook,” Flint said, pointing toward the infirmary door.
“And Stonewall,” Milo added. “We have to hurry.”
Beacon gave Milo a look he recognized too-well and spoke with his mender’s I’ve-got-bad-news-for-you voice. “Stonewall’s probably gone by now. You should prepare yourselves.”
“Fine,” Flint snapped as she grabbed the cup, mortar, and pestle. “But for now, we have to help Rook. Come on.”
They hustled down the corridor, boots clattering on the floor, and rushed into the common room, where they found Mica on the floor beside one of the pallets. At the others’ entrance, the mender jerked awake, blinking. “Beak?”
“Be still,” Beacon replied as he passed his fellow mender. “I’ll be right back.”
But Mica only watched the three of them slip past and make a beeline for Rook, curled upon one of the pallets in the back. “What’re you doing?” Mica asked.
“Hush,” Beacon said, his mouth a thin line.
Beacon shot Milo a questioning glance, and Milo nodded. “After Rook and Stonewall.”
Flint was already at Rook’s side, kneeling to better prop her upright. Milo knelt beside them both, holding out an arm in a silent offer. Flint hesitated, but nodded and allowed him to take Rook in his arms. Sweet Mara’s mercy, she was so little and frail, like a porcelain teacup. He held her as gently as he could lest he shatter her bones. Beacon ground the hematite with deft, sure movements. Once the mixture was ready, the mender glanced up at Flint. “Help me.”
“Right.” She had not left Rook’s side.
Together, Flint and Beacon carefully opened Rook’s mouth, tilted her head back, and tipped the cup’s contents down her throat. She coughed at first, and then drank deeply, gasping once she’d finished. When her eyes opened, they darted wildly around before resting on Flint’s face. She smiled. “You’re all a sight for weary eyes.”
Flint smiled as well, no small amount of relief in the expression. “Well, you look like shit.”
“But I’m alive,” Rook murmured. She frowned at Beacon. “Right?”
“We all are,” he said, rising as he began to mix another half-dose of hematite.
While he went to Mica, Milo helped Rook to her feet. She swayed a bit at first, but soon found her footing, pressing a hand to her head, face contorted as if with effort. Before Milo could ask what was wrong, her eyes widened and she looked between the twins. “Argent’s coming,” she whispered. “If we’re going to survive, we must leave before he arrives.”
Flint and Milo exchanged glances. “Aye, he’s coming to bring more hematite,” Milo said, frowning. “At least, that’s the rumor I heard.”
“How do you know?” Flint asked Rook, one brow raised. “Not like there’s much gossip down here.”
Rook frowned at her. “I heard the same rumor.”
There was little time to investigate. Milo glanced up at Beacon, who was helping Mica to his feet. “Beak.”
“I know.” The mender rubbed Mica’s back, murmuring whatever it was that healers said to their patients to set them at ease. Milo only caught snatches, but he made out the High Commander’s name. Hearing this, Mica’s face fell as he nodded, and he gave Beacon a look filled with sorrow.
“Brother in service,” Mica said quietly.
Beacon embraced the other mender. “Brother in sacrifice.”
With that, he rejoined the twins and Rook, and the four of them hurried out of the common room, toward the officers’ quarters. They passed no one on their way.
They came to Stonewall’s door, but found it locked. The keys jingled in Milo’s trembling hands, but none of them fit into the brass lock. Flint swore and kicked at the door, and Rook cleared her throat. “I can try to pick it…”
Heart hammering, Milo looked at the door, assessing its height and construction, measuring its strength against his own. “No time.” He stepped backward and braced himself. “We’ll have to make our own way.”
Twenty-Eight
Stonewall was only aware of two things: the darkness that filled his vision, and the cold that had seeped into his bones; a chill so deep it could never be banished. At least his pain had all but disappeared. He did not know if it was nighttime or if his eyes had failed him at last. He tried to recall sun-warmed, sugar-soft sand between his toes, but the conjured memory was little more than a whisper in the empty chamber of his mind. He tried to remember the sun itself, but saw only shadows.
He tried to picture Kali’s face, but she, too, had faded from his mind, although he could not say if she was truly gone or he was. Either way, he’d failed. Her bright spirit would be lost to the Fata that had taken hold of her heart. And he was so cold.
Tor, he formed the thought with effort, help her.
His squad’s faces swam before his mind’s eye. Were they any better off than he was, right now? Tor, protect them. His eyes stung, but he had no more tears to give. Tor, please help me too, if you can.
All sense of time had vanished, like mist upon ocean waves burned away by the sun. Stonewall’s next moment of awareness brought the feeling of warm breath upon his forehead. The sensation was so strange and so sudden, his body jerked involuntarily, sending him off the edge of his pallet and onto the floor. He should have at least tried to get up, but he did not have the strength to do more than turn his head to press his cheek against the icy flagstones. He blinked, trying to clear the shadows from his eyes, but the darkness did not recede. Another exhale feathered against his ear.
Stonewall’s breath caught and he curled his hands around his midsection to shield himself. The voice that left his throat was not his own: rasping and hoarse. “Who’s there?”
Do not fear, my son. The speaker was male, with an accent Stonewall could not place. That hardly mattered, though, for the words echoed within his mind in that same silent speech from his dream of Kali. A sensation of calm slipped over him, as if some loving hand had laid a soft blanket across his body.
Wrong. This feeling was strange and foreign, and thus surely dangerous. Stonewall’s heart began to race again and he tried to push himself upright, but his arms buckled and dropped him jaw-first to the stone floor.
“What’s going on?” he managed as his chin throbbed.
Be still.
Exhaustion darkened his vision, but he marked the movement of something in the shadows, something close, something at least the size of a man, that came silently across the stone floor to stand beside his pallet. When Stonewall caught sight of two gold, glowing eyes, he gasped aloud. A thrall! Here? But how? He had probably been in and out of consciousness for a while. Had the monster slipped into the room while he slept? Did that mean that the garrison had fallen to the demons? Or the city? Sweet Mara’s mercy… Had the whole province been conquered?
Stonewall gritted his teeth and tried to get up again. If he was going to die, he’d do so standing. But his weak, aching body betrayed him, and he could manage no more than to roll back onto his side.
As he struggled, the thrall watched him with gold, unblinking eyes. They glowed, not quite as bright as other thralls’, but the sight was enough to set Stonewall further on edge. What was the monster doing just watching him? Stonewall shot the thrall the best glare he could manage. “Either kill me or leave, demon.”
The soft-blanket feeling descended again, but Stonewall pushed it away. He would find his own cal
m. Heart pounding, he focused his energy on another attempt to rise. Don’t talk to it, he told himself as he groped for the chest at the foot of his sleeping pallet. Don’t engage. Just try to get up.
There it was again, that strange voice in his mind. I am no demon, my son. I am here because of you.
Despite his assertations, Stonewall said, “Me?”
You summoned me.
This froze Stonewall in place, leaning on his side, body propped upon his elbow. Summoned? Too confused for caution, he said, “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
The golden eyes did not waver. You know who I am, Elan.
And all at once, he did, although surely the understanding was akin to madness. That, or he was dead. That must be it, Stonewall thought. He’d stepped from one life and now hovered between it and the next. “Where is the river?” he heard himself ask, like a fool, like a child.
A low chuckle filtered through Stonewall’s mind as Tor replied in that sacred, silent speech. You will cross – in the fullness of time.
So he was dead. He thought of Kali and his eyes burned. He would never see her again in this life. Would the gods allow a mage to pass into another life? He opened his mouth to ask, but before he could, the golden eyes shifted their gaze to the door. A few seconds later, Stonewall caught the sound of footsteps and muffled voices, and the harried, desperate shape of his own name.
The god’s golden eyes met his again and came closer. Come, my son, Tor said. You hurt too much. It’s time I took you home.
But Stonewall was only listening with part of his mind, for now he recognized the voices just outside.
“I can try to pick it…”
“No time.”
These voices were no ghostly echoes in his mind. These voices were real and accompanied by pounding against the wooden door to Stonewall’s quarters. His stomach knotted. He tried to call out to his brothers and sisters in service, but couldn’t manage more than a groan.
Storm Page 35