Shattered Sunlight (Book Five of the Storm Below), page 54
Ary had one chance to live. He swung his left arm out to strike the Gezitziz’s shin and discharge his Lightning. Please, Riasruo, do not let him have the Blessing of Lightning. His hand crackled with electricity.
The Gezitziz jerked his foot back. Ary’s hand missed by inches. Chaylene’s face filled Ary’s mind as death swung down at him.
Chapter Fifty
“I was wrong, Estan,” Esty told her husband as she peered down at the chaos below. Wrackthar and Ethinski died in the struggle, their blood the same shade of red spilling across the white paving stones of the square.
“What?” Estan asked, cradling his thunderbuss. He leaned out over the prow, watching. The Varele hovered higher over the square, having risen after dropping off the Wrackthar. The only ones onboard were the archers, searching for targets in the press.
“I thought being in a battle was the worst,” she said. “Watching is.”
Estan took her hand with his left. The simple gesture strengthened her knees and spine, like her flesh absorbed something intangible from his touch. She studied her husband, his face smeared with blood from the gash.
That needs bandaging.
She sighed; the sailors were too busy treating the badly wounded archers. She looked back down at the melee.
She jumped as a loud clap echoed from below. The Gezitziz at the front stumbled forward, hit by a grenade from behind. Ary appeared, sweeping into them, followed by the armored Wrackthar. Esty swallowed, watching him, helpless to do anything.
“I know,” Estan said. “I want to be down there with him. If I was whole . . .”
“We’d both be down there.” The sight sickened her. It was all so pointless. These poor Ethinski fought in Riasruo’s name, not realizing that their Church had betrayed the Sun Goddess to keep Iiwroa’s secret.
“It feels like everyone is moving so slowly,” Estan said. “I can watch the weapons fall and know one of our allies is about to die. I have one charge. One blast of Lightning. Who do I save, Esty?”
Pain crossed his face. His hand squeezed her hard. She squeezed back. It was her turn to give him something, to help strengthen his knees and back. She didn’t have to do anything but love him, be there for him. It was so simple, so easy, and so profound.
“Theisseg’s tail feathers,” he shouted, wrenching his arm away, his weapon coming up.
“What?” she shouted, looking over the side.
Ary was on his back. His leg looked mangled, twisted. Before him, a Tezlian Guard raised its club overhead. Her stomach twisted in fear. The weapon slammed down to kill Ary.
“Ary!” she screamed.
Lightning exploded from her husband’s thunderbuss.
*
Love you, Lena.
Ary clutched onto the memory of his wife’s smiling expression, the joy he’d witnessed the day he married her, her blonde curls spilling about her face, gray eyes wide, loving. He wanted to carry that beauty to beyond where his parents and his younger sister Srias waited. Guts, Velegrin, Ahneil, the Sergeant-Major, the crew of the Dauntless, Captain Dhar, everyone he knew from home. They would all be there.
Would they greet him?
The bolt of lightning struck the Gezitziz in the chest. Sparks showered across Ary as the hulk fell forward. His club still slammed down but struck the paving stones by Ary’s head before the lizardman fell across his body.
He screamed as the broken shards of his thighbone ground together. Agony shot through him. He struggled to breathe against the weight. The corpse lay stiff, still, slain by Estan’s thunderbolt crashing from above. Ary had to heave the beast off of him, but the pain stabbed through him. He sobbed and shuddered, struggling to focus his will.
The corpse rolled off of him.
Yeiss knelt over him. The older man pulled off his helmet. Blood splattered the polished metal of his breastplate and dripped from a gauntlet. Ary groaned and clasped Yeiss’s hand, gripping the metal as another wave of agony shot through him.
“Your leg’s broken.”
“I rusting know that!” Ary snarled. He drew in a deep breath against the pain. “Sorry.”
Yeiss nodded. “I have to set the bone so you can heal faster.”
“The enemy?”
“Retreated. Or dead.” Yeiss’s mailed hands grabbed Ary’s thigh above and below the break. “Brace yourself.”
Ary nodded, his breath coming in thick pants. He clenched his teeth and—
CRACK!
Ary howled through his teeth as his broken leg was yanked taunt. The splintered ends of his thighbone came together, torture shooting up his marrow. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His Fleshknitting burned, attacking the break. He had to heal fast.
Heat soothed the agony.
“Thanks,” Ary grunted.
Yeiss nodded. “Rusted iron, they’re tough.”
“How many did we kill?” Ary asked.
“Twenty of them. Seven more retreated.”
“We can’t stay here. We need to secure the weapon.”
“You need to sit down and heal.”
Ary shook his head, extending his hand. “I’ll heal as we head in. It’s already knitting. I think I can put weight on it.”
“Only a fool doesn’t let the weld cool before using his tool,” Yeiss grunted as he took Ary’s hand.
Ary groaned as he stood with Yeiss’s help, putting all his weight on his left foot. His thigh throbbed despite the soothing heat. Ary winced, sucking in a sharp breath when he tested his leg. The pain was there, but he could withstand it. He had to.
“Let’s move,” Ary said, voice thick. “Come on, guppies.”
“Guppies?” asked Yeiss, arching his eyebrow. “What are those? Something dangerous?”
Ary laughed. “Yeah, they’re dangerous. Like wolves.”
“Wolves.” Yeiss nodded. “Come on, guppies! Let’s go. We rehearsed this. Split up, tear the palace apart, and find our way up!”
Ary grunted, surveying the Wrackthar. The wounded and dead numbered two dozen, a quarter of their numbers. Those with the least severe wounds were attending to the worst, pulling off armor to expose broken limbs or swollen sides, black and blue from bruising impacts.
“You’re with my team,” Yeiss grunted, seizing Ary’s shoulder. “Come on. Rusting iron, I don’t have the strength to carry your bulk, so you better be able to walk.”
Ary grinned and took a step. It hurt. Badly. “I can walk.”
Limping, he charged into the palace with the other warriors. They split into their assault teams. They broke off into groups of fifteen as they spilled through the open halls of the palace, metal echoing as they shouted. Frightened Luastria, dressed in yellow or orange robes, squawked and darted away.
Everything was red, orange, and yellow inside the Great Temple. Columns carved with dancing flames rose around them, forming a forest stretching out in all directions. The open nature of the buildings allowed natural light to flood through it. Everything looked the same to Ary. At times he felt like he should be roasting, burning in the center of Riasruo’s sun. Other times he felt the wind knifing through the building, the cold gusts of winter. Theisseg’s grip strangled what was supposed to be the heart of Riasruo’s worship in the skies.
Ary growled at that lie.
The Bishriarch and the Archbishopresses maintained the deception when they’d inherited the truth from the last Dawn Empress in Exile. They had perpetrated the fraud to clutch power in their talons, using their assassins to kill any who might expose the truth. Anger surged through Ary. He boiled in the center of the artificial sun. The very hens who’d ordered his death were here. Wriavia had killed eleven souls aboard the Dauntless with the choking plague. If not for Riasruo’s Blessings, far more would have died, Chaylene included.
He wanted to lash out. He wanted to slam his fist into the columns and destroy the entire monument of lies. The skies deserved to know the truth of the Church’s deception. Every praise to Riasruo, thanking Her for their lives above the Storm, flattered the Storm Goddess’s ego.
It. Would. End.
A javelin crashed into the armor of a Wrackthar soldier. He reeled back, his breastplate ringing. A huge dent creased it. A female Wrackthar caught him, steadying the injured soldier. Then two Tezlian Guards burst into their midst, swinging clubs.
They should not have been able to hide in the open structure, but did, ambushing them. A woman screamed, brought down by a crushing blow before the two Ethinski were hacked apart by Wrackthar greatswords.
Ary limped to the woman, his leg throbbing. It hurt less, but still felt weak, his thighbone a wobbling support column cracked and ready to collapse at any moment. Ary grunted as he touched the woman’s hand.
He sent heat into her.
It was rebuffed. Her eyes stared sightless. The blow had caved in the front of her breastplate. Blood and viscera oozed between her armor’s joints. Her insides had ruptured. Ary swallowed and closed her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered
“She believed in this fight,” Yeiss said, gauntleted hand clasping Ary’s shoulder.
“Stormender,” another guard said, nodding to Ary, his sword dripping with a dead Ethinski’s gore.
“Stormender,” the others nodded.
Ary stared at their faces, humbled. He hadn’t sought praise or glory when he’d ended the Storm. He did it for pity’s sake. No one deserved to be imprisoned and tortured. But he couldn’t help but feel buoyed by their regard, their respect. They were Wrackthar—Stormriders—men and women he’d grown up fearing.
And they’d grown up hating him.
No longer. Circumstances had forged new relationships. The old couldn’t be sustained. A new future had to be welded out of skyers and Stormriders. One free of both Goddesses’ meddling, a place where mortals could make their own mistakes and find their own triumphs.
He stared down at the dead woman, her face pale, serene. She was here fighting for her people, her family, her friends. “I will save them,” Ary whispered, wondering if her soul could hear him, or if she’d already moved beyond. “I promise.”
He rose, groaning on his mending leg.
Other ambushes struck them as they surged through the palace. The Tezlian Guard knew the confusing maze of open corridors and pointless rooms. They used blind spots to lie in wait, bursting out and killing more of Ary’s forces.
The agony faded in his leg as they moved higher into the palace, climbing every stair they could find. Battle echoed through the corridors, the other teams encountering their own ambushes as they struggled to unravel the layout of the palace. Luastria engineering was so alien to Ary’s thoughts, it hurt trying to understand it.
A loud boom shook the tiles followed by a sharp crack that was almost like thunder. It echoed through the open halls. Ary stumbled and caught himself on Yeiss’s shoulder.
Ary, through flaring pain, asked, “What was that?”
“Explosion?” Yeiss supplied.
Ary shook his head. “Explosions are deeper, they rumble more. I don’t know what that was.”
“Stormender?” a nervous voice asked.
No fear. Always be confident in front of the soldiers. “Doesn’t matter what it is. It wasn’t near us. We move on!”
His bravado worked. The young man nodded, fear melting from his pale features, certainty replacing it. Ary limped ahead, his thoughts focused on the sound. It was almost the crack of thunder, but it was too deep.
Like a lightning bomb?
Surprises were never good in combat. You wanted your enemy to act predictably. When they didn’t, that was when things went wrong. Ary rubbed his left thumb over his stump as they hurried through the palace. He was certain that loud clap was a weapon, an engine the Theocracy possessed that they never shared outside their boundaries. Perhaps something unique to the Tezlian Guard. Through their next skirmish with a lone lizardman, the worry remained in the forefront of his thoughts.
“Stairs!” a female Wrackthar shouted after the fight. “Almost missed them in all these rusting columns.”
“Good,” Ary grunted. “Keep a sharp eye out for any ambushes.” The Wrackthar clattered behind Ary. There was no stealth moving with them. The entire palace had to know where they were.
The stairs weren’t like normal stairs Humans would make. They had broad runners, twice as thick as Ary was used to. Sometimes he had to take two steps on one before reaching the next. They were built for big feet. The Luastria probably flew up the stairs. He had seen a few priestesses fly away in terror, ghosting through the columns on their wings. His leg throbbed with each step. It felt more solid, not as fragile and ready to break. He could pivot on it without the stresses re-snapping the bone. But the throbbing ache remained. They reached the top of the stairs, spilling into a large galley. Ahead, a tighter set of stairs spiraled upward.
“That has to be it,” Ary shouted, dashing forward, excited.
To his right, a phalanx of red scales flashed. He turned his head and groaned. Ten Tezlian Guards marched forward in a tight pack. The one at the front clutched a strange device in his hand. It had a clay shaped funnel thrusting from the body of darkly polished wood. The funnel opened to the width of both of Ary’s feet and reminded him of an ear trumpet the elderly sometimes fashioned to aid their hearing.
The weapon! Ary’s instincts screamed.
“Form up on me!” Yeiss commanded. “Let’s butcher them!”
“Wait!” Ary shouted as the ten remaining Wrackthar, Yeiss at the lead, charged the Tezlians.
The enemy didn’t counter charge. They stayed in their tight formation. The leader aimed his weapon at the charging Wrackthar. Ary shoved his left hand into his pouch and grabbed the second grenade, holding it pinched to his palm with his thumb. He sent the charge sparking through it as he hurtled the gem.
The amethyst tumbled through the air over the Wrackthar, arcing straight at the Ethinski. Everything moved slowly. The gem caught a gleam of light as it began its descent. The lead lizardman’s tongue flicked out. Yeiss raised his sword in both hands, bellowing. Ary raised his sabre and rushed forward, grunting as the pain flared in his leg.
Sound erupted from the Gezitziz’s strange weapon. A great boom followed by the crack of thunder louder than Ary had ever heard. The sound pressed inward. Pain exploded in both his ears. The world suddenly spun. Up and down reversed. Ary’s stomach heaved as he stumbled and collapsed on the polished floor.
Around him, Wrackthar fell in a clatter of metal.
The grenade detonated in the midst of the Ethinski as Ary heaved out the contents of his stomach. The world spun around him. His ears rang like he had been in the midst of a tolling bell. He clutched at the floor, trying not to fall towards the ceiling.
*
Estan took a deep breath. His wife was right; watching a battle was terrible. Now he couldn’t even see the battle. He paced back and forth on the bow between the two flamethrowers. Flocks of Luastria, mostly priestesses and acolytes, flew out from every direction. The occasional clash of sounds and once, a strange boom, came from the palace.
“What do you think is going on in there?” Esty asked.
“They are fighting,” Estan said. “That much is obvious. They are scaring all the functionaries and servants out of the palace.”
Another flight of squawking Luastria hens in the orange robes of acolytes burst out of the western side. They let out more chirps of fear, spotted the Varele, and banked sharply away, flapping for all their worth.
“But what is going on in there?” Esty asked. She leaned against the prow, her beaded braids clinking and clacking.
“I would give anything to see through the palace.” Estan sighed. “But we would need a series of mirrors to reflect light to us from our vantage point.”
“A series of mirrors?” asked Esty, frowning.
“Yes. If we placed an angled mirror down there on the steps so it bounced its light up to us, and then other mirrors arranged throughout the palace, precisely set up to channel their reflections back to that one mirror, we could see deep into the palace. Though it would be horribly impractical.”
“So, a mirror like that?” Esty asked, concentrating.
A small mirror appeared. It was angled and flashed with red. Estan squinted. “I fear we are too high up for one so small.”
“Oh, it’s easy to make it bigger,” Esty said. “It’s just a flat plane.”
“So your illusions are limited by surface area?” Estan asked, a sudden surge of excitement banishing worry. “A two-dimensional object has less surface area than a three-dimensional one.”
“Hmm, yes,” Esty nodded. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Her mirror blossomed below, growing larger and larger, almost covering the square and reaching halfway to the ship.
“Is that as tall as the mast on the Varele?” Estan asked.
Esty nodded. “Close. If I narrowed the mirror, I could definitely make it taller than the ship’s height from stern to keel.”
“Remarkable.” Estan stared at the reflection. He could see into the palace, a forest of red, yellow, and orange columns. Dead Ethinski and Wrackthar lay scattered on the sandstone floor.
“I don’t see anything useful,” Esty sighed. “They’re far deeper into the palace.”
“It was still a remarkable experiment.” Estan grinned at her. “It’s good to know the limits of your illusions.”
“I’ve gotten a lot more comfortable at them.” Her smile twisted, the brightness dimming in her eyes. “Pretending to be Breche helped a lot to expand my use.”
“Practice improves one skill in any endeavor.”
Esty sighed. Her mirror vanished. “Maybe we can find another place to peer into the palace.”
Estan glanced at the rising structure. It had may levels and layers, all stacked atop each other as it climbed the hills it was built on, reaching towards the pinnacle where the Sun Lance lay. Everything was open. He thought he spotted movement on the fourth layer while his mind worked out the optimal placement for Esty’s mirror.
“Estan.” Esty’s voice was tight.
