Ten Arrows of Iron, page 68
Again.
Shockgrasp howled, jerking steel to steel, metal to flesh.
Again.
Hoarfrost painted skin, froze faces into agony.
Again. And again. Until there was nothing to her world but the smell of smoke and the flashes of flame from the Cacophony’s muzzle and the bodies falling. Again, until she didn’t even see who was dying, what she was hitting, where she was firing. Again. Again.
Until she pulled the trigger and heard only a click.
She reached into her satchel and found only leather.
And that’s how it would end, she realized. Not with noise or drama. But empty leather and empty brass.
“Sal.”
And a bloodstained blade.
Velline stood before her. Her face was empty and covered in blood. Her hands were stained with the lives of many. And her blade was raised.
“Velline,” she said. “I thought—”
“No.” Velline adjusted her stance. “No more.” The song of her magic rose. Her eyes flashed violet. “And never again.”
Sal wanted better last words than that. A better ending. A happier ending. Or at least, one where she’d saved some of that wine. They’d never sing songs about how Sal the Cacophony had died, flat on her ass, at the hands of a woman who very badly wanted to kill her.
But they didn’t matter. None of them—the Imperium, the Revolution, the heavy names on her list—mattered. The only thing on this black earth worth saving had already fled.
She let that comfort her as she closed her eyes and waited.
The wind rushed. The earth trembled beneath her. A blade struck flesh.
“Madam.”
A voice, familiar and comforting, bid her to open her eyes.
The flames and blood couldn’t touch her. Even as her coat hung off her in tatters, even as the horrors of the battle painted her body, every part of her was pristine, untouched and delicate, not so much as a scratch on her.
Even as she held Velline’s sword by the blade, Agne the Hammer looked perfect.
“You really must stop getting into things like this.”
“You,” Velline gasped, struggling to pull her sword free. “You traitorous, oathbreaking piece of—”
“Apologies, my good woman,” Agne interrupted. “I’m sure that barb is very good and venomous, but unfortunately…”
She swung her arm in a limp swat. Her empty palm struck Velline’s shoulder. And the Quickmage went flying, screaming as she was struck away by four perfectly manicured fingers.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Sal gaped as Agne walked toward her, plucking her up with one hand and making a vain attempt to brush debris from her clothing.
“Agne,” Sal whispered, breathless. “I didn’t—”
“If the end of that sentence is ‘put any thought into this before shooting everything and hoping for the best,’ I quite agree. Unless, of course, those three sparkly shells you hurled into the sky were for my benefit.”
“I didn’t think you were alive,” Sal said, “much less that you would come.”
“I am, I did,” Agne replied. “Once again, I’m in the midst of a poorly plotted, pathetically excused quarrel because of your—”
Sal collapsed forward, wrapping her arms around Agne. She hadn’t meant to do that. Nor had she meant to let out a gasping, choking breath that sounded almost like a sob. And she certainly hadn’t meant for Agne to place a comforting hand atop her head, pull her closer, and smile gently.
But she was glad she did.
“Really, now, Madam Cacophony,” Agne cooed through the sounds of battle. “Whatever will they say if they see you like this?”
“The wagon,” Sal said. “There’s a wagon. My friends, my…” She smacked her lips. “We have to get to it.”
“A wagon?” Agne glanced over her shoulder. “All this is because of a wagon?”
“I was trying to keep the Imperium and the Revolution busy until it could escape.”
Agne twitched as a Sparkmage’s bolt struck her shoulder. She turned around and glared before plucking up a fallen gunpike and hurling it, driving it through the offender’s chest.
“Well done, in that case,” she muttered.
Sal furrowed her brow. How had Agne merely flinched at that bolt? How had she survived? How had—
“Your magic,” Sal whispered. “You used too much Barter. You can’t use that for—”
“I assure you I can,” Agne interrupted. “And I did. For you.” She smiled, patted Sal’s cheek. “Apologies. I’m sure you had some delightful guilty soliloquy ready, but I suppose I prefer living without a few feelings than I do without you.”
Sal swallowed hard, a bitter bile mixed with tears and guilt, and smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re fucking dreaming if you think a few pleasant words are going to make this up to me.” Agne turned and scowled over the battlefield. “But before we can start discussing how much wine you’re going to buy me, we need to get out of here.”
“We can’t,” she said. “I drew them both here. I didn’t plan for an escape.”
“Lucky for us,” Agne said, glancing skyward, “that not everyone is as shortsighted as you.”
He came plummeting out of the gray. Wounded, bloodied, wheezing, but alive. Tenka the Nightmare almost collapsed as he landed in front of Agne, steadying himself as she reached out for him. His breath was ragged and worn, the painful Barter the Lady extracted from her Skymages having left him close to asphyxiation.
“Easy,” Agne whispered, holding him up. “Breathe slowly.”
“Trying…” Tenka struggled to speak. “The ships… they’re close.”
“And the twins?” Agne pressed.
“Almost.”
“Wait, the twins?” Sal asked. “What are you—”
“And yourself, you dear little man?” Agne asked the Skymage, pointedly ignoring Sal.
“Can’t fly,” Tenka rasped. “Not anymore. Too much magic… too little… too little…”
He fell. Agne let him. With one powerful arm, she scooped him up, holding him like a child as he struggled to regain his breath.
“There, there,” she whispered, stroking his hair gently. “I’ll handle the rest.”
The rest of what?
The thought had just begun to form on Sal’s lips when it happened.
Snow erupted. The earth groaned. Around the battlefield that had once been Littlebarrow, great sheets of stone and earth rose up. Solid and unyielding, they ripped across the blood-soaked snow, herding the savagery into isolated pens of carnage.
“Fuck me, that wasn’t worth it.”
A voice. Footsteps behind her. Sal whirled and saw Yria and Urda staggering toward her. His hands were stained with ink, frayed writing quills stuck in his belt. Her arm hung limp at her side, paralyzed.
“We did like you said,” Urda said to Agne, breathless. “Of course, with a little more time and proper planning, we could have accomplished more than a few flimsy barriers. Furthermore, if anyone asks, I want it clarified that this was not my best work and—”
“How long, Urda?” Agne asked.
“A few minutes maybe,” he answered. “But they’ll break through them before long.” He paused and offered a smile and wave. “Hi, Sal! We’re not dead! Isn’t that great?”
“No thanks to fucking you,” Yria snarled, glaring at Sal. “You got any idea how fucking hard it is to jump around a battle full of magic-asshole-lickers?” She shook her deadened limb. “NOT FUCKING EASY, IF YOU WERE WONDERING.”
“Your arm,” Sal gasped. “You used your magic, too. For… for…”
“That’s right, for you, Princess Poutypuss.” Yria glanced down toward her arm, rubbed it a little. “Gonna be a little nerve damage, maybe a few fingers lost, but… fuck, we’ve lost the job, lost everything else, so I guess…”
“What she’s trying to say,” Urda chimed in helpfully. “We’re all we’ve got left.” He smiled at his sister. “Right?”
She grinned at him. “Aw, you’re gonna make me cry if you don’t slam that sentimental shit right up your dickhole.”
“You all…” The words just tumbled from her mouth, dumb and insensate and heavy. “You all came back… for me?”
“The fact that you’re surprised by this suggests you’ve got some issues to work out.” Agne shuddered as an explosion shook the earth. “Which you’ll have to do on your own time, I’m afraid.”
Agne glanced to the twins, nodded. The twins offered her a smirk. All eyes turned to Sal, the killer, the murderer, the oathbreaker they’d come back for. Urda appeared at her left, Yria at her right—they draped her arms over their shoulders.
And everything ached a little less.
“Shall we?” Agne asked.
A cold, deep breath. A rush of wind. And they ran.
Earth shuddered, groaned, burst beneath their feet as spells and cannons tore frozen chunks of soil free. They kept running. The sky bled with flashes of lightning and volleys of autobow bolts and the hateful wails of Skymages. And they kept running. People fought and bled and died and killed around them, screamed for mercies and screamed back curses until it was all a maelstrom of noise, hundreds of people screaming as loud as they could until things made sense.
Sal didn’t hear it. Didn’t feel it. Didn’t feel the numb pump of her legs or the cold air raking her lungs. She had left everything on the soil when she had been ready to die—every ounce of fight and anger, save for one small part of herself that she had hoped to carry to the black table with her. And now that part was all she could feel, all she could hear, all she clung to.
She had to see Liette again.
She had to pay Meret back.
She had to live.
Through the melee, as Urda’s walls came down and the battle was joined. Through the carnage, as Agne charged through throngs of battle and sent foes flying. Through the smoke and cold and hate as Yria cursed, trying to keep Sal aloft. They kept running. They had to live.
She didn’t realize until she drew in a breath without the tinge of smoke that they’d done it. Even when she looked over her shoulder and saw Littlebarrow, its houses crumbling and its streets paved with bodies, growing smaller, she didn’t believe that they’d made it. She wouldn’t believe it. Not until they were free. Not until—
“Oathbreakers.”
Of course.
Agne skidded to a halt in front of them. The twins and Sal collided with her back. Ahead of them, pristine in his uniform, a man stood, the bony plate jutting from his forehead painting his face into a severe scowl. Dalthoros, blade in hand and a quartet of mages at his back, stood between them and the vast plain of snow.
A rearguard. Of course. Why the fuck wouldn’t have Velline left a rearguard?
“Such strange vermin that crawl across this land.” His words came accompanied by the Lady’s song. Across his flesh, his wounds began to close, along with the wounds of his soldiers. “You shun the light, cringe from the warmth of civilization, living every second of every day of your miserable lives searching for carrion to glut yourselves on. And now that you behold a feast of carnage, so thick with decay and blood as to make yourselves burst, you scurry away.”
He stepped forward. He raised his blade. His mages called magic to hands and eyes as they, behind him, stood tall, whole, and ready to kill.
“Nature abhors a hypocrite, Vagrants,” Dalthoros said. “Grant me the honor of soothing her.”
Sal blinked.
Now that was opera.
She knew he was about to kill her, of course, and that was certainly bad, but she couldn’t pretend that wasn’t a properly dramatic insult, rife with metaphor and poetry. It was the sort of thing you’d see onstage in Cathama, the audience breathless, moments before the great duel.
It was not the sort of thing you’d imagine seeing a giant bird at, but Sal was thrilled all the same when one showed up.
With a shriek and a dark rush of feathers, she came charging out of the snow to take down Dalthoros in a tackle. His scream was lost beneath the tearing of flesh and thrashing of claws as a savage beak tore at him and giant talons rent him.
When Congeniality did deign to look up, her eyes were bright and her beak was painted. Flecks of red flew from her maw as she raised a head and squawked triumphantly over the bloodied body of Dalthoros.
The other mages looked astonished. Sal couldn’t blame them. How often do you get to see something like that? Just like she couldn’t blame them when Agne seized the opportunity to rush forward, snapping one of their necks with a well-placed chop and sending the others vanishing into the snow as they tore Dalthoros’s body from Congeniality’s claws.
The great bird snapped as them as they did and made a move to give chase, but a hand on her neck stayed her.
“Good bird,” Sal said, stroking the flabby skin of her throat before forcing her body onto the saddle. “Good fucking bird.”
“Fucking finally,” Yria sighed, rolling out her shoulder. “Not enough that I lose my fucking arm coming back for you, you gotta pull my fucking shoulder out. Your fucking bird can carry your tight little ass from here on out.”
Sal glanced over Yria’s head to the battle in Littlebarrow. “We’ve got until one of them kills the other one to get out of here. Easier to do that apart. There’s a wagon farther up the road with Liette. Rally there.” She looked down at the Doormage. “Thanks for saying my ass was tight, also.”
“There’s wisdom in that,” Agne said as she adjusted Tenka on her shoulder. “We’ll find each other again.” She winked at Sal. “You still owe me some wine.”
“Suits me just fucking fine.” Yria pulled out a piece of chalk, cleared a small patch of snow, and hastily drew a portal. “Don’t fuckin’ think I’m going to be satisfied with wine, though. You’re going to be polishing my taint before I call us even.”
“What she means is—” Urda tried to offer helpfully.
“I know what she meant,” Sal interrupted. “And thank you. Both of you.”
The twins exchanged a look. “See?” Urda said. “I told you she’d be glad to see us.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Yria snapped her fingers. A note rang out. A portal opened. She took her brother’s hand and leapt. “See you later, asslords.”
They vanished. Agne glanced toward Sal.
“This woman,” Agne said, “Liette. Was she… worth all this?”
Sal looked back at her as a cut bled into the corner of her mouth. It seeped past her lips as they curled up into a smile. The taste was foul, coppery, alive.
“We’re all we’ve got left.”
Agne didn’t look convinced as she turned and tore off into the snow with her burden. Who would, really? But that didn’t matter. Nothing else did.
She had made it.
She was alive.
And all it took…
All it took…
In the distance, Littlebarrow shuddered. A house—something simple, suitable for a small family that she never knew—trembled and collapsed, vanishing into the melee. Another corpse to be buried there, another relic of another war, to be drowned beneath the snow and the earth and the blood until they were all gone.
And no one would even remember it.
All it took, the thought came bitter and bleak, was everything.
The crack of guns and magic disappeared. Carried faintly on the wind, a horn blew a desperate chorus—the Imperials? The Revolutionaries? She didn’t know. Nor did she know to which side the dark shapes that went fleeing suddenly from Littlebarrow’s ruin belonged.
But the sound that followed—the song of iron and oil that drew her eyes to the sky, the droning melancholy and rumbling echo of metal—she knew that.
She knew the sound of locust wings.
An airship descended from the clouds, wings black against the clouds and propellers scattering the snow as if doffing a cape of white and gray. For the first time, Sal saw it as it was meant to be seen, as every poor fucker who’d ever seen it. Huge. Impossible. A black shadow across the sky.
Raining fire.
Cannons burst. Fire fell from its railings. Littlebarrow vanished in clouds of smoke and plumes of flame. Graves were dug from shrapnel and soil. The gray was painted with a hundred red wounds, a hundred blazes of brilliant flame, falling like stars.
Sal spurred her mount. With a shriek and a spray of snow, they were off. Yet even as the smoldering devastation shrank behind her, the cloud of red and black rose ever higher.
There, over the town where once lived a small collection of people who would never know why this had happened to them, the cloud of smoke settled. From on high, it stared down at her through eyes of cinders.
Dispassionate and baleful, its stare followed her.
Long after she had fled from it.
Until she disappeared.
FIFTY-SEVEN
THE VALLEY
It was worth it.
They had begun as a salve, those words. Whether they were true or a lie, it didn’t matter—she needed them. She repeated them until her lips were numb and then continued in her own head. She balmed herself with them, applying them to her wounds and her aching muscles, until they could keep her on her feet and walking.
They didn’t soothe her as she trudged through the snow, Congeniality’s reins in her hand. White cloaks and gray scarves whipped around her, snow and wind swirling and becoming an ocean around her, drowning sound and sight and sun. The cold plucked at her skin, pulled at her hair, bit at her scars, problem children pestering her with a question she would never be able to answer to their satisfaction.
Or to hers.
It was worth it.
They became a cloak, those words. Something she wrapped around herself, so tight she could barely breathe for how they crowded her thoughts. They didn’t keep her warm. They never could. But she didn’t need them to do that.
She needed them to smother the sounds.
Through the wind, she could hear them, but never see them. There were shouts, panicked and desperate, that came through—wagon leaders trying to keep track of their charges, families searching for each other through the blinding white, sometimes just desperate pleas to whoever might listen. But she saw no shadows of people on the other side of the snows and she would not seek them out.
