“Protect the Holy Mother!”
He sprinted toward the tent, heard the warhounds baying within. A dozen warriors reached the tent before him, charging into the dark, now thick with screaming. Not just Hana, but the guttural, choking cries of men meeting their deaths—a bubbling choir of battlefields and slaughter Aleksandar had heard a hundred times before. A corpse flew back through the canvas wall, knocking him down, the body torn near in half. Thunder rolled, the tent collapsed, roof bending inward as the crunch of snapping timbers rose above pitched screams. Soldiers cried out in alarm, hundreds more charging the tent now, hammers and swords drawn.
Another thunderclap, the roar of a typhoon and shriek of tearing sails. A white silhouette burst through the tent roof, thick canvas shredding as if it were silk. The gryfon tore into the sky with Hana astride it, the pair painted in blood. She had a Zryachniye blade clutched in one hand, daubed red, the beast roaring in outrage as arrows rained around them.
Katya was stalking toward him, bloodied knife in hand as he pulled himself free of the sundered corpse.
“Katya, what in the Goddess’ name is happening?”
The woman pushed past him into the tent, not saying a word. As Aleksandar stepped into the ruins, she started keening, stumbling to the firepit’s edge, falling to her knees beside the corpse laying amidst a mound of others. Warriors of House Ostrovska, Goraya, Dmitriyev, Zubkov, soldiers of the Imperatritsa, all. But their loss was nothing, nothing compared to that of the woman lying dead by the smoldering coals—Mother Natassja, savaged to death by the warhounds lying dead all around her. Two dogs remained, blinking and comatose in a corner, muzzles smeared in gore.
“What did she do?” Katya moaned, rocking back and forth. “Goddess, what did she do?”
“What did you do?” Aleksandar demanded. “You killed Akihito! What—”
The Sister whirled on him, eyes catching the lightning above. “You dare speak his name to me? One who defiled a daughter of the Goddess?”
Aleksandar swallowed. “He…”
“We are betrayed, Aleksandar. Your niece is despoiled. Plucked by the hands of man.”
“The girl is still my blood. She is still—”
“She has slain the Holy Mother!”
“You slew her lover! By the Dark, what did you think would—”
“Aleksandar Mostovoi!”
The bellow cut through the red haze clouding Aleksandar’s eyes. He turned and saw Marshal Sergei standing in the tent flap, horror and rage scrawled across his face. “What in the name of the Living Goddess happened here?”
“We are betrayed, Marshal,” Katya said. “The Mostovoi girl and her beast have slain Mother Natassja.”
“After Sister Katya slew her lover,” Aleksandar growled.
“Lover?” Ostrovska frowned. “No Goddess-touched may—”
“The girl has lost her flower,” Katya hissed. “Left unattended by her fool uncle in a den of bastards and liars. She can no longer bear the Goddess’ blessings. All is come to ruin. The tie binding us to the Shimans is undone.”
Aleksandar turned to his commander, begging for calm, “Marshal, she is still born of both our lands, she is still—”
“Order your troops to attack, Marshal,” Katya spat. “Rally your men and destroy every one of those filthy slaver pigs.”
“And what of the iron behemoth?” Aleksandar demanded. “How shall we topple it? With prayers? I beg pardon, Sister, but you are not a strategist, and not a soldier.”
“I am Zryachniye!” Katya stepped up to Aleksandar, shouting into his face. “I am the Imperatritsa’s word made flesh now Mother Natassja is dead, and I say attack!”
Aleksandar shook his head, stared at the Marshal. Sergei licked his lips, spat hard. In the background, they could hear the chaos of battle, engines, shuriken fire and screams. The slavers were tearing each other to pieces. A barrage of thunderclaps sounded overheard, a multitude of roars filling the skies. Aleksandar squinted westward through the torn roof, spying a dozen black and white shapes descending from the clouds, sowing slaughter and flame. Shiman ships were dropping from the skies, fire reaching up to kiss the lightning.
The gryfons had arrived. Their stormdancer, Yukiko.
What price will we pay for the murder of her friend?
Sergei sighed, gave Katya a small bow.
Aleksandar’s heart sank down to his toes.
“As the Imperatritsa wills,” the Marshal said.
And turning to Aleksandar, he gave the order to attack.
*
“I can feel them, you realize.”
The First Bloom lifted one clawed hand, tapping his brow. “Up here.”
Daichi scanned the dark, taking in the figures of a dozen other Inquisitors around the chamber, silent and black as shadows. He kept his breathing steady, stance relaxed. Though he was unarmed, there was a time when his punches could smash cedar boards, his kicks crush brick. Just because he had no weapons didn’t mean he was weaponless …