The dogs eyed the Saint, who stood there unmoving, before they turned and bounded over to the church knights who had been defending themselves admirably against the Pyrfew soldiers. One of the dogs grabbed the rear leg of one guard at the shin, ripping him off his feet, before the poor sod’s limb came away at the knee. The Pyrfew soldier who had been facing him put him out of his misery. The other dog had leapt at a different guard, knocking him onto his back and landing on his chest. It mauled his face.
“We have to help them,” urged Alana, who had picked herself up and was watching alongside Motega. She waved the toothpick in her hand. “Let’s go.” Florian and Fin were a step behind her, but it was Alana who led the charge. That girl. What was she thinking? Whatever it was, Motega was proud of her.
Instead of charging in with his axes, he pulled out his bow and stepped up on to the altar to get a good view of what was happening. He pulled an arrow and loosed it immediately into the side of one of the dogs who tore at a new victim. It whelped as the arrow stuck into its flank, but it turned its big head to reach around and bit off the end of the shaft. He fired another and this time the missile passed through the dog’s throat. The demon beast turned to see where the arrow had come from. Motega knew it was going to come at him. Knew that it wanted to stop the one who was sticking it with pointy things. But there was a whistle from one of the twins, and without any concern for the length wood that had passed through its neck, it resumed its attack on the church knights.
Thankfully Alana had not ran toward the dogs, she had gone to help the guards who were nearest her. Dolph by her side, along with Midnight and Crabs. Fin had cunningly slipped through the combat line and was attacking the rear of the Pyrfew soldiers as if she was their own shadow turned murderer. Motega pulled another arrow and fired it at a green and gold attacker who was getting too close to Alana. It took him in the eye and he went down, out of sight. Good shot, good luck, or just chalk another one up for the bow; Motega didn’t care.
Florian, Morris and the rest of the Ravens had gone to where the dogs had almost broken the line of the knights. Now the Pyrfew soldiers were overloading that area, quickly taking down the guard that faced them. Motega shot again, and again. Taking his targets down, never missing. But there were too many of them.
A score of soldiers broke through and rushed forward. A few at the front peeled away from the main group and attacked Florian and those standing with him, stopping them from blocking the breach. Motega took one down, the arrow slamming through the back of a green helm and falling at Florian’s feet. His friend instantly turned his attention to another.
The other soldiers rushed toward the Saint and the Archimandrite. The wizened old turd was closest to the green and gold deluge; he finally woke up from his shocked trance and backed away, his hands in the air. Motega could see tears streaking his face. Shame at what he had brought on the church he supposedly loved or fear for his own life, it didn’t matter, as one of the soldier’s swords flashed. The Archimandrite’s head left his shoulders to strike the floor and roll to the feet of the Saint.
The child looked at the severed head staring up at him as the soldiers reached him. The lead two had swords raised above their heads and Motega screamed to get the kid’s attention as they came down. His arrow took one in the chest, punching through the soldier’s chainmail. But he couldn’t fire two arrows at once. The other sword came down and Motega cried out in frustration and horror. But as the blade was about to make contact, the child flared in a brilliant golden light. It arced to the soldier and he became a brief, impossibly bright candle, before falling away into ash.
Now the Saint looked up, still an incandescent beacon, his arms raising into the air. The boy screamed, and a gout of white flame shot forward engulfing all before him. The Pyrfew soldiers who had broken the line, Molely who had fought his way to the rear of the group, and a handful of church knights who had been trying to get to come to the Saint’s aid, were all consumed.
The flare was brief but all that remained was the smell of burnt hair and flesh, and the ash that floated on the hot air.
Fuck.
On the one hand Motega was glad that the kid had woken up—they might stand a chance now—but he needed to be able to tell friend from foe. Motega didn’t want to end up in a dustpan once this was all done.
Motega wasn’t sure what to do. On the left, by Alana and Dolph, the church knights were pushing the Pyrfew soldiers back. Fin seemed to be popping up all over the place, moving too fast for the armored men to deal with. And Motega could see that the one the Archimandrite had called Eryrlaw was still standing far from the chaos. He couldn’t be sure what he was doing at this distance but he was confident he could still stick him with an arrow. What would the rest of them do if the boss had gone?
Motega reached for his quiver to find just the one arrow remaining. He knocked it and drew the string back, sighting his target, when he heard another a pair of whistles. Before he released, he looked over to the right, and he saw the mad twins strolling forward through the drifting ash, where the Saint, his face screwed up in rage, looked at what he had done. The dogs came to heel next to their masters and they walked toward the Saint, each of them holding long matching knives.
Florian dispatched the soldier who was facing him, and now Motega finally saw Trypp, just behind his big friend and holding his ribs with some concern. Florian moved to intercept the twins but the dogs headed him off, muzzles red with blood, growling and tensing to jump. Motega was entranced by the twins. They seemed unconcerned as they came into the line of sight of the boy Saint.
The white light erupted from the Saint again; the heat was immense, even from where Motega stood, as it enveloped the twins. The marble floor buckled and cracked. The fire disappeared as quickly as it had manifested and the twins were still there. Laughing. Walking forward and laughing. They waved their hands in the air that jingled with rings and bracelets, appearing even more absurd. What did they have that protected them from the Saint’s magic? Motega didn’t have time to think about that. He switched his target to the left most twin and fired.
The arrow flew true, but again he knew it couldn’t take them both—so as soon it was loosed, he jumped from the alter and dashed toward the Saint, afraid he would still be too late. Then, for the first time in a long time, he missed. Or rather, he didn’t hit his target. A great streak of brown came down from the sky and caught the arrow in its outstretched talons.
The fucking eagle.
It shrieked in victory as it beat its wings to fly high toward the vaulted ceiling. The twin he had targeted laughed again, the high-pitched giggle reverberating in Motega’s skull. The other one whistled. The twins looked straight at Motega, long thin cruel smiles on their faces, like red gashes on a white belly. Moving as one, they drove their knives into the body of the boy.
The golden light that enveloped the Saint died and he fell to the floor.
“No!” cried Motega, still running toward the twins, suddenly aware of the bow still foolishly gripped in his hand. What use would that be? Well, he could at least try to bash their faces in with it. Stop that insane laughter.
From the corner of his eye he saw the open mouth of the demon dog flying toward his head, and all thought of the giggling duo disappeared. Without thinking he shoved the bow forward, jamming it into the dog’s maw. His arrow was still sticking through its throat. It caught against its gullet but the bow did not break, the momentum of the dog ripping it from Motega’s grasp as he flung himself to the floor.
He grabbed hold of one of his axes as the dog came to attack him again. It attempted to bite his outstretched legs as he scuttled back on his arse, swinging his axe wildly in front of him. Per flew down at the dog’s eyes, raking them with his claws before flying out of the way again.
Those precious few seconds of distraction allowed Motega enough time to get to his feet. He ran forward and struck the dog, slicing away a chuck of muscle. It growled again, but paused its advance. Motega
circled it warily, glancing up to see the twins climbing the dais toward the reliquary of Arloth.
A black clothed arm darted in from behind the dog, slicing into its stomach. Foul green tubes dangled from the wound, but no blood came out. The dog turned, faster than he thought possible, and latched onto the arm of the person that had attacked it. Fin screamed as the long teeth teared into her flesh.
Motega jumped forward, his axe above his head. He landed knees first on the beast, pinning its legs under it, keeping those sharp talons away from him. He brought the axe down, again and again into the neck. The third strike severed the demon dog’s head and finally Fin was able to pull her arm free. The black cloth was torn and Motega winced as he saw the blood flowing from deep gouges.
Alana rushed over panting, her dress tattered and covered in blood. The shield that Florian had given her was dented and split on one side. “Fin. You’re hurt!”
The assassin shook her head with gritted teeth but gripped her wounded forearm with her other hand.
“The Saint...?” asked Alana.
Motega looked back to where the boy had fallen, wondering if he was getting back to his feet in a show of godly glory. But he lay there still, white robes turning red in the pool of blood. The twins passed the boy, carrying the golden reliquary of Arloth between them. The one at the rear gave the boy a kick and they picked up the pace to a trot. Pyrfew soldiers broke away from their fights to form a rear guard as they made their way back to the Birdman.
Florian and Morris had been fighting the other dog, and Motega saw his friend slice the dog in two as it attacked his old sergeant. Florian looked up to see that the Pyrfew soldiers were backing away from the remaining church knights and Ravens. Florian charged, but not toward the gaudily dressed twins carrying their prize, but toward Eryrlaw, unmindful of the Pyrfew soldiers who were between him and their leader.
“Stop,” called Motega, but he knew Florian wouldn’t listen. He was already running to help his friend as the words left his mouth. The soldiers didn’t seem keen to meet Florian; they backed off, and suddenly the eagle was back.
Appearing out of nowhere it flew into Florian’s face, talons scraping and raptor beak tearing. It stopped Florian’s momentum completely, he couldn’t attack it with his swords and so he threw them to the ground and tried to grab hold of the eagle by the great wings that beat and flapped at his ears.
Motega reached Florian and grabbed the bird by the scruff of its neck, pulling it away from his friend. The bastard thing’s head bit down at his hand, ripping through his leather glove and raking his flesh beneath. Motega threw it down against the ground as hard as he could. A booted heel came down and crushed its chest. Breathing hard Motega looked up at Florian, his face cut in multiple places, blood dripping off his brow from where a piece of skin had been ripped away from his forehead.
“Fucking bird,” said Florian, choosing to ignore the look of horror on Motega’s face. “Thanks.”
“Marlth’s hairy tits, Florian. You look even uglier now. What were you thinking?”
“They’re getting away,” was all he said. Motega looked at the departing form of the Pyrfew soldiers, maybe only a score left, Aebur hobbling along behind, and then back at the scene in the Sanctum. Bodies littered the floor, red blood on the white tiles looking like rose petals on pristine snow.
Alana was still with Fin, Dolph there too now. He counted five more of the black-armored figures of the Ravens still on their feet—just Midnight, Forest, Cherry, Syd and Joe—and what looked like Trypp holding on to the shoulder of Morris. Trypp’s other arm held his ribs but Motega sighed in relief that he was at least still on his feet. A dozen or so church knights had assembled and seemed to be considering what to do next. A blur of movement to his right caught his attention, something dashing in to the Sanctum from outside. It was a boy, running toward the apse.
He and Florian stumbled back to their comrades, Motega grabbing up Jyuth’s gift from the floor and securing it on his back. The boy was kneeling by the Saint, holding the dead child’s head in his hands.
“You need to get out of here,” called Motega. The boy looked up, dirty cheeks streaked with tears. Motega recognized him as from the Devoted, the one they had followed to the Ladders.
“Leave me alone!” the boy shouted back.
So he did.
There were more important things to do. Pyrfew had come for the reliquary; the body of a god. This must have been what Neenahwi had suspected. He looked at his friends, his wounded and tired companions.
“We can’t let those bastards get away.”
Chapter 45
The Mountain
Two more.
Two more people she had killed to add to the assassins at the ball. And she’d still failed to save the Saint. Whatever was to become of her soul now? She didn’t know what to say. To Sergeant Morris who had lost good men. To Florian whose face had been pecked apart. To Fin as she bandaged her arm with the tatters of Alana’s own dress. They had wanted to go home, but she had been the one to say that they should go to the Sanctum.
And they hadn’t even made a difference.
She looked up at the grim-faced Motega. “We can’t let those bastards get away,” he said. All around her, the others nodded. Her brain wanted her to argue with them, tell them it was time to cut their losses, but her gut told her something else. She didn’t want to be a failure.
“Good!” said Motega. “Let’s go.”
They all ran after him. Past the bodies littered on the ground; past the doors, scorched and buckled, blown from their hinges. Out into the deserted plaza and the cool crisp night. Alana saw more bodies out there illuminated in the yellow light from the gas lamps, revelers and the pious, cut down by the Pyrfew soldiers as they had made their entrance.
And yet above her was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. Thousands of paper lanterns, lit from within, glowing like souls of the fallen rising to heaven, floated up into the inky blue sky. Some of them moved in clusters, and others bobbed along, alone in the night. Greater than all the lanterns were five enormous balloons, shaped like birds, baskets hanging underneath the fire that kept them afloat.
This was the sight she had been excited to see when she first knew she would be going to Ioth during Wintertide. It was famous throughout the Jeweled Continent. The City of Lights. Now forever tainted by what had just happened.
“Come on!” called a voice, and Alana realized that she had stopped dead in her tracks on the Sanctum steps. Her shield and rapier hung down at her sides. It was Fin calling, and Alana realized she was in danger of losing the others who had kept walking and were where they had left their boat. She spurted after them.
“Fuck!” screamed Motega as she drew near. “No more bastard arrows.”
She tracked their looks of anguish and saw four boats disappearing into the dark, a golden glow casting dark shadows of its passengers in one of them.
“Let’s get after them,” she said pushing her way to where they had left their boat.
“They scuttled it,” said Sergeant Morris a moment before her eyes told her the same thing. “We have to go. Now. Get to the ship.”
Nobody argued with the sentiment, but nobody turned to leave either. They all watched, united in their collective shame, as Pyrfew got away with the spoils.
Overhead a balloon drifted. The great wings of the inflated bird glowed a bright yellow through its silk. What looked like sandbags hung down all around the outside of the basket. She wondered if people were inside; witnesses to all that had happened in the square, watching on helplessly, unable to do anything.
The balloon drifted past them and she saw a shadowed figure lean out over the side, a blazing torch in their hand. They touched it to a rope near a weighted bag; it quickly began to burn. All of a sudden, the bag fell to the ground, the balloon jerking upward a few feet at the release of ballast, the burning rope a streak of yellow as it plummeted. The bag hit the stone plaza, one moment exploding in a shower
of dark liquid, and then as the lit rope hit the spill, erupting into a ball of flame.
She shielded her eyes from the bright glare, turning her head at the same time to see the person in the balloon light another rope.
“Now!” repeated Sergeant Morris as he pushed them bodily toward the bridge off the Isle of the Sanctum.
Alana ran as fast as she could, bare feet slapping on the cobblestones of the bridge, her shoes lost in the fight before, unmindful of the shocks that reverberated up her legs. Another explosion came behind her but she did not look back. Now she was aware of the other balloons, spread out over the city like vultures circling over easy meat.
Tears stung her eyes, and she found herself muttering a prayer to Arloth to please let it be just the one glowing bird that had come to feast on Ioth that night. Please let them not be running toward another of those things. But he was not listening that night, or his power in the world had gone with the Saint. Or he had never been listening at all, just another indication that her parents had lost their lives for no reason.
The fiery trail of another released load from a balloon that floated over the Fan. Another from the one over the old city. She didn’t hear the explosions, just the cessation of music and the sounds of celebration. People didn’t know what was happening. They had no idea that the object of their festivities was lying lifeless in the Sanctum. Their screams carried in the chill night air.
Clutching his chest, Trypp led the way through the maze of streets in the old city. The route back to the foreign quarter was straight as a die by boat, but the villas that lined the grand canal caused the pavement to end unexpectedly and they had to negotiate their way through the narrow passages and over the smaller canals.
She had no idea where they were. The gas lamps lit the streets but she’d never been there before, so cloistered and contained had she been as the Ambassador of Edland. She could only hope that Trypp knew where he was going.
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