Ioth, City of Lights

by D P Woolliscroft

  The street they ran down opened into a small square and Trypp skidded to a halt. Ahead of them, Pyrfew soldiers attacked commoners and Ioth Guard alike. She could see their swords flashing up and down as people screamed for help, unknowing what they had done to deserve this. Trypp turned a sharp right, guiding them to the closest street out of the square. She tried to keep to the shadows, but one of the Pyrfew soldiers looked up and yelled something.

  They ran again. Away from the lit square and down a dark alley. She really hoped he knew where he was going. At the end of the alley Trypp jumped, sailing over a narrow canal, maybe six feet wide. The others followed him without breaking stride but Alana faltered and stopped, looking across the gap to her friends. They called out and beckoned for her to jump. She watched as another fiery bomb crashed into the rooftops of a house nearby. Flames shot out, running to the edge of the steepled roof and people called out in alarm through open windows. That was all the incentive she needed.

  Alana ran back the way she had come, turned quickly and sprinted back to the edge of the canal, jumping for all she was worth. Florian caught her in his sure grip and she breathed a sigh of relief. His hair was slick with blood but still he flashed her a smile. Then from ahead, a dozen Pyrfew soldiers appeared around the corner, blocking their way. Motega, Dolph and the Ravens charged. Florian a step or two behind them, drawing his swords once he had made sure she was on her feet. Fin was nowhere to be seen. Probably up there too. Not wanting to be alone, Alana ran after them to meet the arsons of Ioth.

  She screamed as she ran. All her rage, her pointless impotent rage, coming out in a battle cry that she knew Florian would not approve of. She screamed as she ran past Midnight. Her cry was full throated as she blocked a clumsy attack from one soldier with her dented shield, and she channeled her pain as she drove the rapier, straight and with all her strength, into the chain-mailed torso of the man in front. She was lucky and the point slid into the gap of a link, piercing the man and sending him to the floor.

  Five.

  Alana looked around but all the soldiers were down. She panted as she tried to regain her breath, but Fin’s hand appeared around her upper arm and pulled her back into a run as another bomb exploded behind her.

  The streets blended into one. Alana ran unthinkingly, her chest ached and her feet had been cut somewhere along the way. She could feel grit inside an open wound on the sole of one of her feet with each step. Suddenly, she recognized where they were; back on the main promenade, crossing over the bridge to the Isle of Brass. A balloon ahead of them dropped a sack of the explosive mixture onto a building below it and they stopped their mad dash for a moment as they waited for the flames that had splashed down onto the streets below to die down. The floating bird, this one green with golden eyes—could there have been more of a giveaway? — passed serenely overhead, its grace at odds with the carnage it unleashed below. Trypp led them forward once again when, without warning, there was a deafening boom from behind her.

  Alana couldn’t help but turn and look.

  Cobblestones flew up into the air in all directions from an explosion and she watched as fist-sized stones arced toward her. But she couldn’t move, so transfixed was she. For the explosion was not isolated. Smaller bursts of fire erupted from the ground in a line that stretched in both directions along the promenade, each of the cast iron street lamps shattering in a line as the fire traveled.

  And then suddenly she was upside down, flung over what appeared to be Florian’s shoulder. Her body went limp but she still craned her neck to see the paving land where she had just been standing. Florian put her back on her feet.

  “It hit the gas pipe,” he shouted over the cavalcade of cracks and bangs.

  She meant to say thank you, but over Florian’s shoulder she could see the yellow bird glowing in the night sky. Between her and it, the Sanctum burned with an orange light, as if Arloth himself was laying waste to his own church. But the balloon had continued its journey on the gentle evening breeze, over the waters on the other side of the island to the Ladders. The tall towers, home of the poor and destitute of Ioth, received their unrequited fiery gifts, the explosions quickly spreading into a blaze that zigzagged across the buildings, lighting the wooden scaffolding around each tower. Tiny flecks leaped from gantries in the sky.

  Florian looked. “Bastards.”

  Everyone stared in disbelief, imagining the horrors unleashed on the people inside their tiny homes, when another crack like a thunderclap sounded behind them.

  “That’s the beacon going up,” said Morris, looking in the other direction at the blazing fire where the great torches that welcomed visitors to Ioth had once been. “Come on. This place is going to shit.”

  Alana didn’t realize for a few moments that she was running again. This part of the city seemed familiar, the foreign quarter. They kept to the wide street until Trypp called that he spotted more Pyrfew soldiers up ahead. They cut into more alleyways, still lit sporadically by the yellow lamps. She was tired and she stumbled often as she ran, and she wasn’t the only one. The night’s exertions were taking a toll on everyone. But she couldn’t stop. She was sure she could hear people behind them, but whenever she looked over her shoulder, she only saw the last corner they had turned.

  Finally, there was the open sea before her. A row of ships was moored against the dockside, a long line of unmanned lifeboats for the sinking ship that was Ioth. Trypp encouraged them from the front to run harder, that they were close to the vessel that awaited them, that they could be out of there soon.

  But the fates had one more cruel hand to play.

  An arrow or crossbow bolt, she didn’t know which, hit the street next to her and skittered across the ground, followed by more, all missing their targets until one hit Joe, running ahead of her, in the center of his chest. He went down, but with a sob she kept on running. Running until she nearly careered in to the Raven in front of her as everyone skidded to a halt. Then she saw them, a squad of Pyrfew soldiers emerging from an alleyway ahead of them. Maybe they were the ones she had heard behind them and they had taken another route, or maybe this was a different group altogether.

  It didn’t matter.

  What mattered was that even though she saw someone waving from a longboat in the water, just fifty strides or so away, they would have to move toward the soldiers armed with crossbows to get there. They were out in the open with nowhere to hide. And she didn’t know about the others but she was too damn tired to fight anymore.

  Suddenly Florian was wrenching the small round shield from her grasp, shouting, “Keep going!”

  “No!” Motega called. “Come back!”

  But Florian was already charging at the soldiers, probably a score of them, shield raised in front of his body. Motega moved to follow him, but Sergeant Morris grabbed him and fiercely whispered something that Alana couldn’t hear. Motega squirmed and struggled in his grasp.

  “Get the fuck off me,” he bellowed, but the Sergeant kept a tight grip. Trypp hopped up and down on his feet, looking unsure what to do; help his friend or continue their flight. Instead he tried to push the sergeant away from Motega. Midnight and Forest stepped in to intervene and for a moment Alana feared they would do Pyrfew’s work for them. But Motega stopped moving, staring at his disappearing friend, silently mouthing another denial. Morris took charge.

  “Ravens! Line up in front! Now, everyone. Move!”

  Fin guided her forward, reminding her legs how to move, as the Ravens stalked ahead of her. Morris had Motega in an arm lock, pushing him along. Alana couldn’t help but gaze fearfully at where Florian was running, drawing the attention of the Pyrfew soldiers lined up in ranks, their crossbows leveled.

  They fired at her brave friend charging toward them. But they fired too early. By the light of the gas lamps she saw many of the bolts miss their target, sailing harmlessly wide of their mark. Others Florian stopped with the shield, and she was sure—in fact years later she would swear—that Florian knocke
d one bolt out of the air with his blade. Maybe some hit him, but she couldn’t tell because he didn’t stop. He just called out one word, that she didn’t know the meaning of until much later when she was able to talk to Sergeant Morris about it.

  “Aiola!”

  Florian crashed into the soldiers as she stumbled forward, her vision streaked with tears. His blade impossible to see in the dim light, but the succession of fallen soldiers traced his path. The tiny shield bashed into the faces of those who tried to flank him. Four. Five. Six soldiers went down. Motega voiced what her own hopeless mind was thinking.

  “He’s going to do it.”

  “Finally learnt how to use a shield,” muttered the Sergeant.

  They were only ten strides from the boat now, the occupant calling for them to hurry, when there was a crack like thunder as Florian’s shield was split. Or maybe it was his arm breaking—but the Pyrfew man who had done it didn’t have time to gloat. Alana saw his head leave his shoulders, Florian turning to fight another.

  Forest, in the lead line of Ravens, turned to look desperately at his Sergeant. “Can’t we help him now?”

  “Hold your position! Get everyone on the boat first!”

  Four more went down around Florian and she could see he was finding it difficult to stand—perhaps they had landed some blows after all. Then he was all alone, looking around for his next target. The remaining soldiers had fallen back, one amongst them taking charge, and they showed no inclination to engage. No, they didn’t want to fight this whirlwind, this force of nature who had ripped them apart.

  She saw them fumble with the devices in their hands, backing off slowly as Florian stumbled forward, mirroring her own actions as she reached their means of escape. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the fight, even though the man in the boat was becoming frantic. Florian threw down the broken shield and drew his other sword, the one he always held in his left hand. Closest to his heart. The blade he told her had come from his father. And Florian, best swordsman she had ever seen, her teacher, her savior in that alley in Kingshold and countless other times, leapt into the air toward his foes.

  The volley of crossbow bolts hit and he fell to the ground, feet from those bastards in the green and gold, and the world became a tiny bit dimmer.

  Motega cried, twisting and turning to escape Sergeant Morris’ clutches. The veteran shouted an order and Forest punched Motega on the side of his head with one of his massive fists. Motega slumped in the Sergeant’s arms. Morris threw the man over his shoulder and pointed at Trypp.

  “Get in the boat! Or we do the same to you.”

  Trypp shot him a glare, his eyes wet with tears, but he didn’t say anything. He just did as he was told.

  But Alana couldn’t move. Her feet were like lead, her heart heavier still. Dolph picked her up, oblivious to the weight of the world that she was carrying within her. She could see the glow of the fires rising up over the city—a funeral pyre for her friend—and the evil soldiers heading in their direction. She was lowered down into the arms of someone in the longboat. Oars creaked in their housings as the boat pushed away.

  Fin sat beside her on the bench where she had been numbly deposited, holding Alana’s hand in her own. The Pyrfew soldiers made it to the dock they had just departed, their crossbow strings ringing as they shot, but they could not see the longboat in the pitch black of night. Alana thought of Florian, of the Ravens who had died, of the Saint on the floor of the Sanctum, his life trickling out, and she wished her pain would end. But there was no answering arrow from the dark. Arloth was uncaring. For her, for Motega unconscious at her feet, or for Trypp, who sat curled up in a ball at the stern of the boat, his chest heaving with sobs.

  Alana didn't know how the boatman was able to find the Darting Seal in the bay a mile or so off Ioth. The ship was unlit, and the only guide was a lamp that was unshuttered every minute. But thankfully, they had been able to find it without attracting the attention of the many Pyrfew vessels that surrounded the city, their lit portholes making them easily avoided. With a burning hatred, Alana imagined the crew members that were probably crowding their decks to watch what they had collectively done to this ancient city.

  She'd held Fin’s hand all the way to the Darting Seal. By the time she needed to climb the rope ladder up to the deck of the ship she had at least recovered enough physical strength to do it herself, but she couldn't bring herself to speak.

  As she climbed over the railing and set foot on the deck, she remembered the practice sessions she used to have with Florian right there. Her eyes welled with tears. She saw Admiral Crews waiting not too far away, alarmed by their appearance.

  “I expected you some hours ago. I feared you would not come. The fire—”

  Alana held a hand to his face to shut him up. She turned and walked down to her cabin, swinging the door closed behind her. She'd let someone else provide the explanations.

  She was filthy and tattered, and the wounds she'd picked up across her body were making themselves known. She stripped, ripping the clothes from her body and, tossing them into the corner, wished she could discard her memories so easily. She found a pitcher of water and a bowl on the table that someone had prepared for her. Soaking a cloth, she furiously scrubbed the dirt and blood from her.

  It took a while. And though she tried to stay focused on the task, she kept seeing Florian falling to the earth, the crossbow bolts hitting home. It wasn't right.

  He was a mountain. And mountains didn't fall.

  She dressed again in the traveling clothes she had left behind, that Jill had told her she wouldn't need when she was playing Ambassador. But it wasn't Jill, it was Fin, and she only just realized that she had not come down.

  Alana left the room a little gingerly—though her feet were now booted they were raw—and ascended up to the main deck. She looked around, ignoring the crew at their labors, until on the starboard side she saw Fin, leaning against the railing. In the distance was Ioth, engulfed in an inferno. She looked for the towers of the Ladders but then realized how quickly they had probably fallen.

  Standing next to her she matched the direction of Fin’s gaze. “I'm sorry, Fin. Your family.”

  “Yes,” she sniffed, her voice barely audible. “Really, it’s just my father.”

  “He might be alright…”

  “Maybe.” She turned and looked at Alana. “But probably not. You know, I had to give up my family when I became a partner in the Syndicate. It's required. It had been easy then, to say the words. Say that my father didn't matter…” A sob of grief and snot blurted out from Fin, before she quickly controlled it. “He knew that I would have to do it. He helped me get admitted to the school and encouraged me to do well, his only daughter, knowing that I would have to say I had no family.” Her chin quivered. “I should have gone and found him.”

  “I'm so sorry,” was all Alana could say. “So sorry for everything.”

  Alana reached out to rest her hand on top of Fin’s. The young woman, former pretend-servant and formidable assassin, rested her head on Alana's shoulder as they watched Ioth retreat to the horizon.

  Epilogue

  An Empty Place

  The hammock swung with the gentle rocking of the ship, and though he wished it would lull him into a deep and uninterrupted sleep, Motega was wide awake. They’d been on board The Darting Seal for a week and still there was an empty void in his heart and in his days. A Florian-shaped hole that wouldn’t be filled again.

  But at least it was better than when he dozed off and saw his best friend in his dreams, calling out his name at the last, crying for help but Motega unable to move, held in place by flaming hands attached to the beacons of Arloth.

  They had escaped through the embargo that encircled Ioth in the dark of night; Crews and his team had done a remarkable job to do so undetected, and though he was heading home, Motega couldn’t bear the thought of life going on.

  Trypp was not taking it well either. In the past, when they we
re onboard ship like this, they would often have split up and gone about their own different activities. Motega hiding out below deck because he really did not care for sea passage. Trypp making friends with the crew in the hopes of winning a few coins at dice. And Florian would always find a quiet place on deck to sit down and sharpen those bloody swords of his.

  But Trypp hadn’t left Motega’s side the whole journey.

  Motega hadn’t seen much of the others. He knew that Morris had told Crews what had happened when they boarded, but he waved away attempts from the Admiral to talk with him. He’d passed a few words with the Sergeant; Morris said that he was proud of Florian, that the man had been a real hero. Motega couldn’t bring himself to thank the man for probably saving his life. Morris had been the only one thinking. It was only afterward that Motega had noticed that Morris had called Florian by his real name, not Twins. He guessed he’d finally won that battle, though it felt incredibly hollow.

  That had made him think about Florian’s sister. Aiola. The final word that he’d heard his friend cry. Florian never spoke much about his twin, except when he drank gin and it made him melancholy. It was strange for Motega to think that Florian always had her on his mind. Did he call her name to dedicate his stupidity in her honor, or was it that he’d never gone back home to see her?

  Motega figured he and Trypp would have to go and find whatever crappy little village he came from and pass on the news. Sometimes thinking about that made him angry. Having to be the one to inform Florian’s family. But mostly his anger was because of Florian’s unthinking in doing what he did.

  They could have taken them if they’d have worked together. Surely?

  Maybe that first volley would have taken a bunch of them down, but they’d faced worse odds before.

  He sighed, because he knew he was wrong. They’d have stood no fucking chance. It was all the more bitter that Florian had been right, someone had to try to stop the Pyrfew soldiers to let the others get away. He just wished that he had been the one to do it.