Slick hands clutched Roan’s throat, and the Fhrey said something she didn’t understand. She didn’t need to. She’d heard the words before. She’d felt those fingers, too. All of it came back. Roan wasn’t in a shattered smithy in an elven fortress; she was in a small roundhouse in Dahl Rhen. But this Iver was wearing armor: a dented, blood-soaked bronze breastplate.
Roan had invented the pocket because she hated not having things within easy reach when she needed them. The panic bag was the next evolutionary step, but upon becoming chief smith of Alon Rhist, neither had been good enough. Out of necessity, Roan had created a tool belt that she wore under her apron. Hanging from it were a small pair of tongs, tin-snips, her gloves, her hammer, and three metal punches. Each had a different purpose. The one she used for detail work was the size of her longest finger. The second was about the size of her hand. The last, which she used to punch holes in iron sheets, was a foot long and sharp as a needle. She’d used these tools every day for almost a year. Each had become an extension of her body, and as with any job that needed doing, Roan’s hands found the appropriate tools without having to be told. As darkness began to close in from the edges of her sight, she placed the point of the metal punch on the neat little dent in the Fhrey’s breastplate. One strike from Banger the Heavy sent the spike through the armor.
After the first swing, the pressure on her throat eased.
After the second strike, it disappeared altogether.
* * *
—
Suri saw a Fhrey grab Roan and throttle her like a doll, only to collapse, unmoving, a second later. All around, people fought in a blur of movement and muffled sounds. Frost landed a blow with a hammer, shattering a Fhrey leg. Flood was hit and fell beside the forge. Rain put the point of his pick through the back of the Fhrey that had attacked Tressa. Bodies, both human and Fhrey, filled the courtyard, soft twisted lumps of cloth and flesh amidst the broken stone and splintered wood. Farther out, the city burned. Smoke, black and sooty, swirled in gusts, rising toward a pale sky. Morning was creeping in unannounced behind dark clouds.
The big dome had collapsed. The corbel bridge was still there, but the top of the Kype was gone. The Gilarabrywn was digging into it like a bear into a beehive. As she watched, people were tossed out, but these bees didn’t have wings, and the bodies plummeted. Suri was too far away to see if the Gilarabrywn was being careful. She had no idea if that rain was human, friendly Fhrey, or enemy elf.
She hadn’t given specific orders to it other than to fight in defense of the fortress. She trusted that, like the one born of Minna, this new Gilarabrywn possessed understanding and a good degree of self-determination. The fact that it flew straight to the Kype and Persephone suggested it had that and maybe something more.
A flood of Fhrey spilled out the door at the bottom of the Kype. They retreated across the damaged corbel bridge. The Gilarabrywn dove from its perch on a corner of the Kype’s ruined roof and a blast of fire shot from its mouth. The spray of flames created animated torches, some of whom jumped off the bridge, leaving bright streaks of light in their wake.
Like fireflies, she thought.
Suri was still staring in shock when Tressa seized her by the arm and jerked her up. “Get off the damn floor and do something!”
Suri didn’t have to do anything. As the Fhrey closed in, she instinctively tugged on the leash. She hadn’t realized there was one—a static connection between her and the Gilarabrywn—until that moment. She realized then that she’d performed a similar tug in Neith when the raow had grabbed her. She and her creations were linked, and her need became its concern.
The Gilarabrywn fanned out its great wings and took flight. One thrump and it dove.
As it did, Suri closed her eyes and repeated in her head, Don’t kill us all!
* * *
—
“What in Ferrol’s name is that?” the fane asked.
He sat in the big chair they had brought from Estramnadon. Made of gold and velvet, his portable throne was mounted on a wooden base that had been anchored into the ground with spikes to ensure the several-hundred-pound seat didn’t tilt.
“Is that…is that a dragon?” The fane directed his question to the Spiders. The three Fhrey had returned to working in tandem, humming softly and rocking in a synchronized motion. At the question, they stopped just in time to see it breathe fire.
“That’s not possible,” Onya said. At least Mawyndul? thought that was her name. She’d been just one of the many Miralyith faces seen on the trip, but after the first day’s disaster, she had risen in stature.
Up to that point, everything had been going well. The bridges had been completed without incident, and the fane had sent one of the remaining four Spiders across them with Rigarus, Haderas, and half of the remaining Shahdi. This left father and son on the hill in front of the big tent with Sile and Synne, three Spiders, and Taraneh with his twelve ornately dressed members of the Lion Corps. Mawyndul? was certain most positions in the corps were filled according to political favor rather than martial prowess, and he doubted the Lions could be relied on for anything more than staking tents.